by M. E. Carter
Behind closed doors.
In public, she’s prim and proper and demure.
I guess that’s where I get my ability to smile on the outside, even if I’m dying on the inside.
“Well, then,” I redirect, “how were the kids tonight? Good for you?”
Her face lights up as she starts telling me about her night as babysitter. Turns out, the same little shits that run me ragged at bedtime were perfect angels for her. They’re no dummies. They know who buys all the presents.
“Did Fiona get all her homework done?”
“She did. Oh! And did you sign her up for gymnastics yet? She asked me about it again.”
I rub my eyes and groan. “I keep forgetting. It’s on my list.”
“Elena. You are crushing that poor girl’s soul every time you tell her you haven’t made it a priority.”
“Really, mother,” I deadpan. “I crush her soul? Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”
She smiles at me playfully and shrugs. “I’m the grandmother. I’m allowed to be dramatic.” She taps her finger to her lips like she’s thinking. “I may need to sign her up myself.”
She knows she’s got me now. “Please don’t do that,” I beg. “You’ll sign her up for the wrong day and time, and it’ll screw up our whole schedule.”
“Well then I guess you better make it a priority.”
“You’re right. When I take Max to the mommy-and-me class tomorrow, I’ll ask about it. I don’t think they have classes for her age since they focus on the younger kids. I may have to take her somewhere else. I don’t know.”
She nods once. Apparently, my answer is acceptable. “Did you have fun with Callie? Did you buy anything?”
“I did. I bought a sundress that I think I’m going to wear to the birthday party.”
“You’re not dressing up for that jackhole, right?”
“Mother!”
My mother, who has never said a naughty word in her life, has been known to throw around a few cusswords here and there since my divorce. It’s a bit jarring since I literally had never heard one dirty word grace her lips until I was thirty-seven years old. But to say she doesn’t like James anymore would be the understatement of the year.
“Don’t ‘mother’ me. That’s what he is and you know it.”
“I know, but can you at least not say it when you’re around the kids?”
She waves her hand around like she’s presenting the room. “Do you see the kids anywhere? They’re asleep.”
I sigh and give up. “Ok, fine. He’s a jackhole. And no, I didn’t buy the dress for him. I bought it for me. I’m tired of feeling frumpy. I want to feel pretty for the party.”
“You’re pretty all the time.”
“You have to say that. You’re my mother.”
“Regardless. Don’t dress up for him.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t dress up for her.”
And there it is. She nails it.
I didn’t use to care about how I look. And for the most part, I guess I still don’t unless his new wife Keri is around. She’s young. She’s tiny. She’s beautiful. And next to her, I just feel… less. So when I know we’re going to be in the same room together, it helps to have something new to wear. It boosts my confidence a tiny bit.
Not that I have anything to really worry about. She already took what she wanted (my husband and his paycheck) and left the rest for me. “The rest” turned out to be a significant amount.
When we first started the divorce process, James was adamant that I didn’t deserve anything more than child support. He argued that I hadn’t worked once the girls were born, and I had no financial right over any of our assets. At first, I was worried I’d end up with nothing and we’d have to move in with my mom.
Then he started bringing Keri to all the hearings. And Keri doesn’t know how to sit quietly with things that aren’t her business. The mediator finally got fed up with her butting her nose into everything and making her opinion known. He threatened to go to the judge with his own recommendations if they didn’t shut up and sign off on a more-than-fair split.
I got the house so the kids wouldn’t be homeless, the legal amount of child support every month, and half of all the accounts. Checking, savings, retirement… you name it, I got half. James got the other half and a raging Keri who was pissed off that those accounts she was eyeing suddenly shed a little bit of weight.
Fortunately, it’s enough money that if I stick to my budget, I have at least a few years to stay home and figure out what I want to do with my life. Because I have no idea. I quit college before I graduated to become a flight attendant, which I loved, but jet setting around the world isn’t a good career for a single mom of littles. Now I’m stuck trying to figure out what skills I have that can translate into the work force, while trying to raise a seven-year old, five-year-old, and almost three-year-old. It’s one more thing I’m trying to figure out, and I’m not making much progress.
“I’m not dressing up for her, Ma,” I finally respond. “I’m dressing up for me. It’s time I take more care of myself.”
She pats my arm and turns back to the TV. “You and the kids come first in this house. You and the kids. Even if that little wench is in your home.”
“Speaking of, the party starts at three. Think you can come early to help me set up? Maybe at about two?”
“Sure yeah. I’ll be here at two.” She doesn’t look away from the TV, so I know she has no idea what she just responded to.
“Ma.”
“Shhhh.” She waves me off. “Look, there’s Bruce as a man.”
I roll my eyes and get up from the couch. “I’ll let you enjoy watching Bruce Jenner. I’m going to get ready for bed.”
“Ok, babe. I’ll let myself out.”
I’ve got to hand it to my mother. She may have very strong opinions, but they never distract her from a good Kardashian plot twist.
“Remember to let your children explore their environment!” the instructor yells over all the noise. “It might look like they’re only playing, but that’s how they learn.”
Looking around the gym, I see parents and children working together at the different stations. One mom is chasing her son as they crawl through a tunnel. A dad is teaching his daughter how to do a handstand. There’s even a mom helping her child do a forward roll on the high beam. And they’re only toddlers.
Max, however (that’s my kid), Max is laying head-down on one of the mats shaped like a cheese wedge. I have no idea why. Every time I try to engage her in something, or even move her out of the way, she screams like I’m shoving bamboo shoots through her fingernails.
However, Christopher, Callie’s son, hasn’t stopped moving since we got here.
“What exactly is he learning?”
Callie looks at me from behind her camera and shoots me a dirty look. “He’s learning cause and effect.”
“It looks more to me like he’s not absorbing the lesson,” I tease back.
For a good five minutes, he’s been jumping on the bar, swinging out as far as he can, and letting go so he lands on his back. It’s not a thick, fluffy mat he’s landing on. It’s a thin one, and he makes a thunk every time he lands. And every time he whines about how it hurts. Then he runs to the bar and does it again.
“He’s just determined to do it right.” Callie counters, the click of the camera practically a constant hum with as many pictures as she’s taking. She’s got probably a hundred times more shots of her one child than I do of my three. I must hand it to her, she won’t forget a moment of this kid’s life. “He can’t help that he keeps falling.”
“He’s letting go, Callie.”
“I prefer the term ‘dismount’.”
“Well his dismount is terrible.”
“So was Mary Lou Retton’s when she was three.”
“Touché,” I finally cave, and she smiles at having won that round of battle of the wits. Sarcasm is our favorite
form of communication. Sure, we can be serious when there are things to be serious about. But for the most part, we like seeing the joy in everyday life. Even if it means poking fun at ourselves.
As Christopher goes to jump for the bar again, Callie looks to the ceiling, yelling, “Oh come on, now!” and grabs her phone out of her pocket. Somehow, that one forceful statement distracts Christopher, and off he goes, running in circles around the tumbling floor until he falls over.
I look back over at Callie, texting frantically. “What now?”
The irritation is etched all over her face. “I swear to god, Elena, this man’s sole purpose in life is to irritate the ever-loving hell out of me.”
“Don’t say h-e-double hockey sticks in front of other people’s kids,” I remind her. In front of hers? Fine. In front of mine? I don’t care. But not in front of anyone else’s. We’ve gotten way too many dirty looks in public, and a few Bible tracts, because of her mouth. “What’s he doing this time?”
“He’s mad because I won’t go to four different stores to find some random brand of organic, GMO-free, additive-preservative-flavor-free rice cake he says he needs for his new diet.”
“New diet? Another one?”
“I swear, Elena, it’s never ending. Last time, it was the chicken-only diet. This time, its paleo or some shi… thing like that.” I smile because she finally caught herself before we got another stern talking to by the instructor about the use of kid-friendly words. “And I already know what’s going to happen. He’s going to throw his body into starvation mode, eat everything in the house, gain forty additional pounds when he finally gives up, and blame me because I didn’t encourage him enough by doing it with him.”
Max finally decides she’s done with her very expensive rest time on the cheese and grabs my hands to help her walk on the low beam. The very low beam. Actually, it’s pretty much a rectangular log on the floor. But the kids think it’s exciting.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit theatrical?”
“Uh, no,” she says as she looks around until she spots Christopher, who is now spinning in circles until he hits the wall and knocks himself over. What can I say… the kid is weird. “It is exactly what happened the last time he went on a diet and the time before that.”
“And it’s all your fault he’s not successful?”
“Yep.”
“Never mind the fact that you don’t buy junk food and that he’s the one that brings it into the house.”
“Yep.”
I gasp. With sarcasm, of course. “How dare you bring healthy foods into the household!”
“I know. I’m terrible. And how dare I not drive forty-five minutes to the one store in town where he can find this damn rice cake, or whatever it is.”
“I hate the way he treats you,” I throw out there, knowing it’s not going to change anything.
“I know. But I can’t leave, because of that, right there.” She points at Christopher as he begins running towards us. “I refuse to let him have weekend visitation. You know how much he engages when he’s at home. I’d be terrified Christopher would get hurt if I wasn’t there.”
Before the words even leave her mouth, he barrels into Max and I, knocking her over and yelling “Mine!” as he wrestles with her on the ground.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say as I watch the match on the floor in front of me. Max may be small, but she’s scrappy and she’s used to Christopher’s games. She quickly gets the upper-hand. “It seems like pain isn’t a huge deterrent to him.”
“You know what I mean,” she grumbles, as we pull the toddlers away from each other. Christopher has been the stereotypical “all-boy” from the beginning, so tackling Max is nothing new. The first time he did it, I was scared he had hurt her, and Callie was mortified. Very quickly we learned it’s just the way they play. Now we monitor it when it happens, which is at least once during our mommy-and-me class every week, and make sure no one else’s kid accidentally gets involved.
We’ve had that “talking to” as well.
As we untangle arms and legs, an unwitting victim toddles up and is promptly knocked over by some flailing limbs. I let go of Max, who immediately body slams Christopher back down on the ground.
Oh well. He started it.
“Are you ok, baby girl?” I ask gently, reaching out for the random tot. She’s at least a few months younger than Max with dark ringlets of hair. She almost looks like a mini Shirley Temple, except cuter. She seems a little stunned by the wrestling match in front of her, but she’s not crying.
“She’s ok,” a deep voice says next to me. I look up to see who this little girl belongs to and… oh my.
He’s tall, like over six feet tall with blond hair. Not like mine which straddles the line between dirty blond and mousy brown. But true, blond. His eyes are a dark blue and he has a beard.
I’m not one of those women who enjoys beards, the longer the better. I can handle scruff. But full-on beards don’t turn me on and to be perfectly blunt, I find them unsanitary. But this guy, well, it works for this guy. A lot.
He’s giving me an amused look and suddenly I feel really self-conscious about having worn yoga pants and a T-shirt to class. Way to be prepared for anything, Elena. The thought is fleeting, though, when I remember his child just got knocked over by the Tasmanian Devil twins.
“I’m sorry they knocked her over,” I gush, as he picks up the little girl and she throws her arms around him. “We were trying to break it up before anyone got hurt.”
“I saw. You have your hands full.” He gently pats the little girl’s back and she lays her head on his shoulder. Thirty-minutes of exercise can drain these kiddos quick.
“It was mostly her kid’s fault.” I gesture to Callie with my thumb and vaguely register a “Hey!” from her in response.
The man chuckles. “You never can trust those boys,” he says with a smile.
Is he… flirting with me?
I realize how ridiculous my thoughts sound, even though I’m the only one that can hear them. We are in a parent-child gymnastics class and chances are, this man is married. Still, it’s kind of nice to have the attention of a man. Even if it’s only because your child dragged his child into a WWE match.
“Well, I’m glad she’s ok. They can be kind of rough and tumble.”
“Speaking of,” Callie says behind me, dragging both kids with her, “why don’t you give me a hand here and take yours.”
I lift Max up into my arms and reprimand her gently. “Max, we don’t tackle our friends. That was too rough.”
“Too wuf, mommy?” Her eyes are wide as she waits for my response.
“Yes, baby. That was too rough.”
“She’s fine,” Callie cuts in, as Christopher tries to pry her hand off his arm. It’s not working and you can tell he’s getting frustrated. “This one, on the other hand…” she trails off and gestures her head towards our new friends, “Is she ok?”
The man smiles at Callie, but somehow, it doesn’t seem the same as when he smiles at me. Am I making that up in my head? I must be. I guess I’ve been lonely for too darn long.
“She really is ok. It’s good for her to get knocked down every once in a while. That way she can figure out how to get back up.”
Callie turns and raises an eyebrow at me. “Hmm. Handsome and wise. He’s going to be fun to have in class.”
Pretty sure I turn bright red when she says that, and I’m positive my laughter gives away my nerves. But ever the strong one, Callie turns back to the stranger and keeps going.
“Are you guys new here? We haven’t seen you in class before.”
“We’re new to the class, but not new to the area.” Callie is the one that asked the question, but he’s addressing us both. “She’s still really young, so instead of getting my court-ordered Thursday night dinners, I’m doing Thursday morning gymnastics classes instead.”
Court-ordered Thursday night dinners? Did he throw that in there so we’d know h
e was single? Ok, I really am making up stories in my head now.
“Aw. That’s fun! I’m Callie.” She starts to put her hand out to shake, but loses her grip on Christopher instead. “Shit. I’ll be back.” She takes off after him, leaving me alone to continue this conversation with a man I have no business being attracted to.
“Is he always that wild?” he questions, as we watch Christopher dodge Callie’s grasp multiple times.
“Always,” I laugh. “I’m Elena, by the way. And this is Max.”
“Greg,” he responds. “And this is Peyton.”
“How old is she, anyway? I was worried because she’s so much smaller than our kiddos.”
“Nah. She’s really fine,” he says dismissively. “She’s almost two and a half.”
“Ah, that explains it. Max is almost three.”
“Then answer me a question,” he says conspiratorially. “Do the terrible two’s get any better?”
“Uh, no,” I laugh. “And if you think two is bad, just wait. It gets worse.”
“Until they’re how old?”
“About twenty-five.”
He smiles at me and I smile at him and we’re smiling at each other when Callie strolls back up, Christopher dangling like he just flopped backward when she picked him up.
“Ok, I think it may be in my best interest to get Christopher out of the room and away from all small children walking on the balance beam. Anyone want to join us for McDonald’s?”
Max yells, “McDonow!” in response. Even Peyton sits straight up in her dad’s arms at the offer.
“I guess we’re going for lunch,” I say and look over at Greg. “Care to join us?”
“Where did you get the name Max from? That’s unusual for a girl.” Greg pops a couple of Peyton’s fries in his mouth. We tried getting the kids to sit down and eat, but they outlasted us with their tantrums so we finally let them go try their hand at the indoor playground.
