Getting a Grip: A #MyNewLife Romantic Comedy

by M. E. Carter

  Callie laughs under her breath, knowing full well how my child’s name came about.

  “Her full name is Maxine.” I take a sip of my Dr. Pepper and wipe my greasy hands on a napkin. The food seems greasier than normal today. Or I’m more acutely aware that an attractive single man is sitting at the table with us while I shovel a zillion calories in my mouth. “We named her after my grandfather’s wife.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Greg says.

  “Yes,” Callie interjects. “It was really nice to name her poor daughter after a total witch.”

  Greg’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

  I roll my eyes and throw a napkin at her. “She’s not that bad.”

  “Didn’t you call her a gold-digging whore when they got married?”

  “I mean, yes.” I ignore Callie as she smirks. “But in her defense, she doesn’t know she’s a gold-digging whore. She thinks she’s, um….” I wave my hand trying to come up with the right word to describe my step-grandmother.

  “Snobby?” Callie offers.

  “No.”

  “Uppity?”

  “No.”

  “A gold-digger.”

  “Ok, fine.” I give up and start boxing up nuggets to take home for when the kids finally get hungry. “She was looking for a sugar daddy and she found one. But she gives really good presents and she recommended a really good divorce attorney.”

  “I’ll give you that one.” Callie shoves the last bite of her burger into her mouth and starts throwing trash in the bags.

  “Besides,” I continue, “you don’t have any room to talk about naming your kid. You named yours after a movie star.”

  She points a finger at me. “Christopher Reeve is not just a movie star. He is Superman.”

  Greg chuckles.

  “What are you laughing at, bucko?” she asks, turning her playful wrath on him.

  He throws his hands up in defense, smile still on his face. “Hey, Superman was my favorite. And with as much as that kid throws his muscle around, I think it’s perfect.”

  We all look over to see Christopher tumbling down the slide. And by tumbling, I mean rolling head-over-butt down the enclosed slide until he ends up in a heap on the plastic floor.

  “Or maybe not,” he retorts.

  I laugh as Callie pretends to be offended, which we all know she’s not. “Ok, funny guy. Where did the name Peyton come from?”

  He smirks. “My ex-wife’s favorite show was One Tree Hill. She’s a total superfan. Used to go to conventions and all that crap. I guess someone on the show is named Peyton. So there ya go.”

  Callie snorts. “You are full of crap.”

  “What?” He tries to keep a straight face, but a smile keeps playing on his lips.

  She leans over the table, staring him down. “You’re telling me you let your daughter be named after a character on a TV show?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Nope. Tell us why you really didn’t put up a fight and before you do, let me remind you that I noticed the Indianapolis Colts bumper sticker on the back of your car.”

  Greg gives up trying to keep a straight face and starts laughing. It’s a deep, throaty laugh. The kind of laugh that makes me happy hearing it, even if I don’t know why he’s actually doing it.

  “Fine. You caught me,” he admits. “My ex hated sports so she never put together that Peyton Manning was the quarterback for the Colts for so long.”

  All three of us laugh at his admission. I forgot what it was like to enjoy the company of a man. He’s funny. He’s easy going. He’s really sweet with his daughter. I like him.

  Looking at Callie, I can see she likes him, too. But by the way she cocks an eyebrow at me every once in a while, I can see the gears turning in her brain about what this new friendship could mean for me.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Max rushes towards me and lays her head on my leg. “Mama, I want my ba.”

  “Does she still use that thing?” Callie asks, as I pick Max up and rub her back. Her thumb immediately goes to her mouth.

  “She hasn’t had a bottle in a long time,” I reply. “It’s her way of saying she’s tired.”

  “Yeah, I think Pey is on her way out, too,” Greg remarks. We glance over at where he’s looking and sure enough, she’s standing on the bottom step of the playscape with her head resting on the next step up and her eyes are closing.

  Christopher, on the other hand, is staring out the window roaring at every car that drives by.

  “I miss naps,” Callie sighs with defeat. I just giggle. She got the short end of the stick with her child’s sleeping habits.

  “Come on, Pey,” Greg calls. “Let’s get ready to go bye-bye.”

  We clear all our trash off the table and Greg insists I take Peyton’s left overs, since he’s about to drop her back off with her grandmother anyway.

  “Thanks again for inviting me to lunch,” he says while holding the door for all of us. “Get back here, Superman.” He grabs Christopher by the collar when he takes off running for the parking lot. “Stay with your mama.”

  “Thanks.” Callie picks him up and oofs again, as he becomes deadweight. “We’ll see you next week at gymnastics?”

  “Sure will.” He looks at me and smiles. “Looking forward to it.” Then he turns away and walks to his car.

  A single laugh comes out of Callie’s mouth. “Oh, he so has the hots for you.”

  I snap my head over to look at her. “He does not.”

  She nods again with a smirk on her face. “Oh yeah, he does. And I approve my friend. And I want details when you finally get in those pants.”

  “Ohmygod, you’re ridiculous.” I laugh and head towards my own car.

  I would never admit it, but I kind of hope she’s right.

  There it is. The one-eyed monster shaped like a box on the floor of my bathroom. Where that eyeball looks will determine how I feel about myself today.

  I hate that thing, but it’s a necessary evil, right?

  Blowing out the last of the air in my body because surely it’ll make a difference, I step up on the scale.

  155, 163, 158…. I quickly close my eyes as it swings back and forth to its destination. I can’t look anymore.

  “Mama?” Maura meanders into the room, pushing her blond ringlets out of her face.

  “Hi baby. No don’t stand up here with me, honey.” I gently push her backward off the scale while I take a gander at the results this morning.

  Well, it’s not good. But I guess it could be worse.

  “What are you doing, Mama?” Maura watches closely as the scale resets itself, now that I’ve stepped off.

  “I’m weighing myself.”

  “Why?” She stands up on it and starts bouncing up and down, excited that it keeps adjusting over and over again.

  “Because I need to see how much more baby fat I need to lose,” I answer absentmindedly, grabbing my new dress out of the closet.

  “Why?”

  I grit my teeth before answering. It’s Maura’s newest favorite game. Sometimes the “why” game can be funny. Usually, though, she waits until the least opportune times to play it. Getting ready for my ex-husband and his new wife to come over for a birthday party is one of those times.

  “Because I’m tired of being fat.”

  “Why?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but realize, I don’t have an answer for her. Why am I tired of being fat? Looking over, I see Maura has pulled her shirt up and is pinching the skin of her tummy.

  That stops me cold.

  I hate how my body looks now. I hate that it has lumps and bumps and cellulite. I hate that I’ll never wear a bikini and feel confident about it again. And I hate that my husband used my body’s changes as an excuse to cheat on me.

  But that little girl right there, the one twisting her body so she can look at her rear, like I do when I’m looking at myself in the mirror, she doesn’t need me to start her down the rabbit hole of body image regrets. She’ll get
enough of that from everyday peer pressure.

  I don’t know if it’s seeing the big 4-0 looming in the distance, but it’s like I got smacked over the head with some wisdom. Well, shit. Looks like I need to figure out how to make peace with these lumps and bumps if I’m going to raise mentally and emotionally healthy girls.

  I hate it when I’m a good mom sometimes!

  “You know what, baby?” She untwists her body and looks over at me, big brown eyes full of trust. “Hop down. We don’t need this thing anymore.”

  “How come?” She swings her arms back as far as she can so she can jump the three inches to the floor. This is why kids stay skinny. They overexaggerate all their movements. Every time. I should try that.

  Once her feet hit the tile, I pick up the scale and turn to throw it away. “Because it doesn’t matter if I’m fat or skinny. It matters if I’m healthy. And this one-eyed monster here isn’t going to help with that.”

  I toss it onto the trashcan. Of course, it won’t fit because bathroom trashcans are too small. And because of its bulk, it knocks the trashcan off balance and everything clatters to the floor.

  Maura purses her lips and looks up at me. “It doesn’t fit, Mama.”

  “Nope. It sure doesn’t.”

  “Max is taking a nap, Mama.”

  “Not anymore she’s not,” I respond.

  Sure enough, within seconds, I hear the birthday girl raising holy hell in her bedroom.

  Again, this is what I get for being a good mom sometimes.

  I throw the dress over my head as I walk down the hallway to her room. Sure enough, snotty face McGee is screaming like her fingers are being cut off. As soon as she sees me, though, the crying stops completely and she smiles.

  “Uh huh.” I grab her new big-girl panties and rip the sleepy time diaper off. “I’m onto you, you little twerp. You’re not actually hysterical, you just know I get here faster when you sound hysterical, right? Am I right?” I coo at her and tickle her tummy, making her giggle. I love that sound.

  A quick glance over at the clock on the nightstand… shit.

  1:55

  Mom and Callie are going to be here any minute, and I’m still not ready to go.

  We race back to the master bathroom, Max content to use the toilet scrubber to clean the bathtub. Not well, mind you. She’s only turning three. But that one spot, the spot she scrubs every time she’s in here, is starting to look really good.

  A swipe of mascara and lip gloss, and some eyebrows painted on because otherwise you can’t see them. And now for my signature hair style…

  A low messy bun in the back. It’s the only “updo” I know how to do when leaving my hair down isn’t an option. I don’t have time to flat iron. I don’t know how to use a curling iron. Scrunchie sprays don’t seem to work with my hair anymore. This is the best I’ve got.

  I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror. Not for the first time, I can understand how James could trade me in for a newer model. The exterior package is looking ragged lately.

  How did I get here? How did I go from being a pretty woman in my twenties to flat out frumpy and pushing forty?

  A knock and the sound of the front door opening pulls me away from the pity party. I’ve got a different kind of party to focus on now.

  Thank goodness my mom and Callie enjoy entertaining because I hate all the planning that goes with birthday parties. I have never been good at throwing parties. I never will be. I would much rather toss some money at Chuck-E-Cheese and let them do it all than implement one myself. And that says a lot because I loathe Chuck-E-Cheese.

  Yet somehow, I was convinced that my own backyard would be perfect for a birthday barbeque for all our closest family and friends. That it would be cheaper or more intimate or something like that. Who knows. As long as they spearhead it all, I don’t really care.

  “Oooh! You look pretty,” Callie’s carrying a giant cake box through the front door and heads straight for the kitchen. There’s no telling what’s in that box and I’ll admit, I’m almost a little scared.

  “You look lovely, honey,” my mom reiterates, giving me a kiss on the cheek and carrying several bags of presents. “Is that your new dress? It’s really pretty.”

  I smooth invisible wrinkles out of the front of my outfit. “Yeah. It’s not too short, is it? I don’t usually show this much leg.”

  “Not at all. But what shoes are you going to wear?”

  “I got your shoes, Mama!” Maura yells as she comes barreling down the stairs, the red Jessica Simpson stilettos that we lovingly refer to as “ketchup shoes” in her hand. Maura started calling them that the first time I wore them because of their color. I didn’t notice when I bought them, but they really are the exact shade of ketchup. Now I get hungry for French fries every time I wear them.

  My mother shoots me an amused glance. We both know the heels are way too high for this short of a dress. They’re going to make me look like a hooker. But the huge smile and look of delight on Maura’s face makes it impossible for me to wear anything else.

  “Thank you, baby,” I coo, as I take the shoes from her. “They’re perfect.”

  By the look of delight on her face as she scampers away, I know I made the right decision.

  “You are never going to last through the whole party wearing those shoes.” My best friend, folks. Always the realist.

  “Shut up,” I say, as I stumble a bit, trying to balance on one foot to put the opposite on. Fortunately, my mother catches me and I hold onto her shoulder from that point on. Well, while I’m putting my shoes on, anyway. “And don’t give me any shit. You seem to have forgotten about last year’s Christmas card and the macaroni necklace you wore in the photo. What was the designer’s name again? Christoph? Christy-….”

  “Christopher. And yeah, yeah, I get your point,” she acquiesces, and begins hanging pink streamers around my living room.

  “What’s in the giant cake box, anyway? You didn’t go overboard did you?”

  My mom laughs as she pulls a giant pink Happy Birthday sign out of her shopping bag.

  I know that laugh. It means she did exactly the opposite of what I asked. “Oh no. What did you do?”

  Callie has the audacity to look offended. “Why do you automatically think I did something?”

  I point at my mother. “Because I know that snort laugh, and it means you went overboard.”

  “It’s true,” Mom agrees. “It’s situation specific laugh.”

  “You two are weird. It’s just a cake, Elena.”

  “A two-tiered cake with bright pink fondant and a limited-edition Barbie sitting on top,” Mom declares.

  I throw my hands in the air. “Callie!”

  “What? She needed a kick-ass cake,” Callie argues.

  “When she’s three?” I argue back. “Maybe when she’s sixteen. I’m gonna have leftovers for weeks.”

  She waves me off like my concerns are ridiculous. “Whatever. Pass me those streamers?” She points to a purple roll that I pick up and hand to her while she continues to squabble with me. “You’ve got a lot of people coming to this party and most of them are adults. I guarantee you’ll need it.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “We’ll see, friend. We’ll see.”

  Sure enough, two hours and two dozen people later, it seems she was right about the cake. It’s been devoured with almost nothing left over.

  I hate when she’s right about these things.

  The shindig is still in full swing as I try to get things a little more organized. If I thought my mother and Callie overdid it on the food, again, I was wrong. These people can eat! I’ve already refilled all the trays of food more than once, but they’re empty again.

  Kids are running around outside, playing on the swing set and shooting squirt guns at each other. James and Ben are manning the grill, which is why Callie and I are avoiding that area. Random neighbors are standing around conversing. It’s low-key. It’s relaxing. Max is happy she has presents. I got t
o eat a couple of my beloved hot dogs, which are my favorite. So far, there are no complaints from me.

  Except that Keri is here.

  She’s spending most of her time touching James. Rubbing his back while he grills, putting her arm around his waist while he carries on conversations, demanding kisses no matter what’s happening and who is watching, the way an insecure high schooler might do. And if I hear her talking about how much she loves my kids one more time, I might deck her.

  Ok, that’s not true. I’ve never punched someone in my life. But I might seriously visualize it. Max has never even spent the night with them. I had it written up in the court order… no weekend visits until she turns three.

  And now she’s three. That means Max’s first weekend away from me in the last three years and nine months will be this coming weekend. And she’ll be staying with her father and Keri. If that little reminder, who keeps shooting ugly stares at me, isn’t enough to make me crazy, nothing is. So I avoid coming in close contact with them as much as I can.

  For the last year and a half, I’ve tried really hard to not put the girls in the middle of this divorce, even when my own heart was being shredded to pieces. I’ve not spoken an ill-word about him in front of them, even if he deserves it. I’ve not discouraged Fiona and Maura from their visits, even if a little part of me dies each time they walk out the door. I’ve always tried to make them think I’m excited about them spending time with their dad so they never feel like they have to choose alliances. It’s the right thing to do for the girls. But it also means at family events I get to watch Step Monster Barbie play the role of loving stepmother, a title she only gets by default. It can wear on a person after a couple hours.

  Now, I’m bustling around the kitchen, refilling bowls with chips and cleaning out the remnants of dip, trying to regroup.

  No such luck on that. Keri walks in.

  “Do you need any help?” Her eyes are wide and she’s smiling sweetly at me. If I didn’t already know what a home-wrecking whore she was, I would think she was genuine. No wonder my husband, ex-husband fell for her shit. It’s probably the same pure innocent act she used on him.