Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  “I’d love to but have you seen the size of my feet lately? I’m hoping the extra support of tied shoes will keep them from spreading further. You know, a moderate form of foot binding?”

  He takes a good look and gasps, “They’re huge! What happened?”

  I’m too realistic to be offended by his reaction. So I simply answer, “Sophie happened. Apparently it’s not uncommon for feet to grow a full size when pregnant. I think mine might be on the way to two sizes.”

  With a smile, he responds, “The good news is Edith Bunker looks positively petite in comparison.”

  His words hold truth. My bunion does look like a shadow of her former self. Of course there’s a lot more foot to support the load now that I’m a size ten instead of a nine. I give Elliot a kiss goodbye and heave myself off the couch. “I’m on my way to pick up Ginger and meet Renée at the new house to choose paint colors. Are you sure you want to trust me on this?”

  “Of course, my love, you’ve done a wonderful job decorating our little house here. I’m sure you and your sisters will do a bang up job with our new home. Plus, I have a phone interview with In Style magazine this morning. I’ve put it off twice already so I should really get it over with.”

  The closest I’ve ever come to In Style magazine is reading it at the hair dressers. Now my husband is going to be featured in an article within its hallowed pages. This is one crazy, crazy life.

  On the way to pick up Ginger, I’m overcome with a craving for French fries. So I let my little red Honda take me to Burger City. I order four large fries, as I have every intention of sharing them, and low-fat milk. Gone are my Diet Coke days and I miss them tremendously. Alas, caffeine and fake sugar aren’t on my pregnancy plan.

  I hoover down one order of fries on my way to Ginger’s in hopes of quelling my mad desire for them. My sister is waiting in her driveway when I pull up. She gets into the car with as much ease as a forty month pregnant woman can. Seriously, she’s huge. The first words out of her mouth are, “You have fries!” She digs through the bag and inquires, “Three orders?”

  I smile, “I thought we’d bring one for Renée.”

  Ginger snorts, “Don’t be ridiculous. She won’t eat them. We’ll just have to split them ourselves.” Which is how I came to eat enough French fries to feed an entire kindergarten class.

  My new address is 1492 Magnolia Lane. As we pull through the gates, I let out a sigh of wonder. “I cannot believe I get to live here.”

  Ginger smiles, “It sounds like you’ve come to terms with being lady of the manor.”

  I reply, “Not at all! I mean I love this house but I’m still totally overwhelmed by it.”

  My sister laughs, “I think it might be even bigger than Renée’s.”

  I’m sure she’s right. And speaking of Renée, she’s already arrived and is sitting by the front door with a couple of boxes at her feet.

  My oldest sister jumps up and helps Ginger out of the car. She laughs, “This looks like a joke. How many pregnant women can fit in a Civic?” She announces, “I had the boys pick up my favorite paint samples and I’ve narrowed it down to forty-eight.”

  “Forty-eight?” I gasp. “I thought we’d just pick two or three different colors and paint the whole house with those.”

  Renée rolls her eyes at me. “Mimi, don’t be ridiculous. We can pick two or three basic colors and then use different shades throughout but two or three colors alone would reduce your home to commonplace.”

  As a former super model turned designer, Renée has been wealthy a lot longer than I have and therefore I bow to her expertise. God forbid my five million dollar home be construed as common. This is the first time I’ve seen the house without the former owner’s things in it and the entry is no longer warm and comforting. It’s vast and unwelcoming.

  Renée announces, “I’m glad you decided to paint before moving in.” She indicates dark rectangles on the walls where pictures once hung blocking the paint from fading evenly. “Now in here,” she spokesmodels with a sweeping wave of her arm, “I was thinking you could keep the same earthy tones but maybe darken the color a bit to give the feeling of intimacy, something along the lines of this, Mushroom Bisque.” She opens a small plastic jar of paint and slathers some on the wall. She continues, “It’s a silvery grey, slightly hued with taupe and just the slightest mossy tinge.”

  I’m experiencing the same sensation I have when a self-proclaimed wine expert expounds upon the wonders of a particular chardonnay; a ripe melon bouquet with undertones of freshly mown grass and sunlight; great legs with a full nose of roses. Ginger lets out a giggle as I roll my eyes.

  Renée looks between us and demands, “What are you laughing at?”

  I reply, “You’re pretty poetic about a color I’d call greige, that’s all.”

  Renée huffs, “I’m a designer, for God’s sake! So shoot me for knowing my colors and being able to express subtlety and nuance.” She continues, “What do you think? Do you like it?”

  I reply, “I do, but now I want some mushroom bisque.”

  Gingers exclaims, “Me too. Why don’t we go out for lunch when we’re done here?”

  I willingly agree and it’s Renée’s turn to roll her eyes. She agrees, “Fine with me but can we try to stay focused?”

  Renée quits telling us what the paint colors are after Ginger and I get into a debate over whether we should paint the powder room Raspberry Mousse or Pistachio Cream. Neither one of us care if the room gets painted hot pink or green, we’re just focused on what we want for dessert after we have our mushroom bisque at lunch.

  But Renée’s plan backfires. Once she stops telling us the colors we start inventing them. When the eldest of our sisterhood brushes a yellowish cream on the kitchen walls, Ginger declares, “I’d call that one Crème Brulee!”

  I counter with, “No, no, I’d call it Banana Cream Pie.”

  Renée demands, “If you don’t stop and get serious about picking colors, I’m going home.”

  Her threat is enough to shake me up and get down to business. The thought of having to choose paint for the whole house is beyond daunting. In the end, I wind up picking colors with names like Chai, Pavement, Siren and Wharf. Serendipitously, the ones I decide on for Elliot’s office are called Editor’s Grey and Paperback, and I did that without even knowing their names!

  Chapter 25

  Over lunch with my sisters, I broach the subject of weird pregnancy symptoms. I don’t tell them about my claustrophobia for Sophie for fear Ginger might glom onto it. What with three buns in her oven, I run the risk of wigging her out and I don’t want to do that. So I keep things generic and ask Renée, “What’s the weirdest sensation you had when you were pregnant with Finn and Camille?”

  She thinks a moment before answering, “Hot flashes.”

  Ginger asks, “Like menopausal hot flashes?”

  Renée replies, “God, I hope not. But I’m guessing the answer is yes. I would be freezing cold one moment and the next I’d feel like I was on fire. Seriously, I would have lain naked on an iceberg if given the option.”

  Thank God I haven’t experienced that one yet. Of course the fun isn’t over. I have another thirteen weeks to go. I ask Ginger, “How ‘bout you? What’s the weirdest feeling you’ve had?”

  She exhales slowly and answers, “I have six feet, six hands, and three heads in my uterus. It’s a wonder my lungs haven’t been shoved up through my throat.”

  Curiously, I prod, “How does that make you feel?”

  Ginger looks at me like I’m an idiot, “Crowded. It makes me feel crowded. How do you think it would make me feel?”

  I venture, “Do you wonder how they feel?”

  She answers, “The babies? I assume they feel warm, cozy and pissed off they don’t have any room.”

  Aha! This is the perfect opening to come clean about my insanity, so I say, “I’ve started going to a sort of support group.”

  Renée turns her head toward me so quickly sh
e may need a neck brace for whiplash. “What kind of support group?”

  “You know, the regular kind. It’s just a group of women from Dr. Fermin’s office who are having prenatal and postnatal issues.”

  Ginger worriedly inquires, “What’s your issue?”

  I look between my sisters and answer, “I’ve recently begun to get claustrophobic.”

  Renée nods her head, “That not that uncommon, actually. I had that after Finn was born. I couldn’t close the bathroom door without feeling panicky.”

  “Well,” I start, “I’m not claustrophobic for me as much as for Sophie.”

  Ginger ponders her response before saying, “Listen Meems, I don’t want to make light of what you’re going through but Sophie is one baby inside a tall mother. She’s got enough room. Imagine what she would be feeling if she was one of three.”

  I stare at my sister and begin to breathe too rapidly. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and I become woozy. I must look a sight because Renée wets her cloth napkin in her ice water and holds it to my forehead. It helps but I’m still inhaling too quickly. So she tells me to cup my hands together and hold them over my nose. She explains, “You’re hyperventilating, Meems. You have to slow down your oxygen or you’re going to pass out.”

  I try to do what she says but I can’t get over the image of Sophie being one of three babies instead of the only one. Holy, holy, holy crap! I cannot take on panic for kids that don’t even exist, can I? What would you even call that, insanity by proxy? Finally, after several minutes of breathing into my hands and creating a small scene, I start to feel more normal.

  Renée pats me on the back and says, “Oh Meems, I’m sorry.” Then looking at both me and Ginger, she adds, “Parenthood is the craziest thing you’re ever going to experience. And I hate to tell you, but just as one thing gets easier another fun-filled adventure takes its place.”

  Ginger looks a bit alarmed, “But you love being a mother!”

  Renée smiles, “I do love it and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, but it’s a damn hard job.”

  Ginger and I both look like we want to cry. If Renée, who makes motherhood look like a walk in the park, is coming clean about how hard it is, we’re screwed. I mean, heck, Ginger will have three babies to take care of and I can’t seem to keep all of my marbles in place just being pregnant with one. Suddenly mushroom bisque doesn’t seem nearly as tempting a large sedative.

  I offer, “There are quite a few women in my group with some odd postpartum issues.”

  Ginger asks, “Really, like what?”

  “Well, there’s this one gal who seems to be on the verge of mental breakdown over fitting into her size two power suits again. She’s even had to stop breast feeding because her body doesn’t have enough fat stored to create milk.”

  Renée says, “I ate like a cow while I was breast feeding and still dropped weight. That’s the beauty of the thing. You’re giving your babies a rocking start by building a healthy brain and immune system and you get to eat burgers and lose weight at the same time.”

  Ginger laughs, “Says the supermodel. I know plenty of women who breast fed and gained weight.”

  Renée smiles, “Happily, I wasn’t one of them.” Then she asks, “What else, Meems?”

  I briefly wonder if I’m breaking any confidences by sharing these stories but justify it by the fact that my sisters don’t know these women and I’m not using their names. “Well, this one woman is afraid of terrorist attacks. She’s worried she can’t protect her kids from ISIS.”

  Ginger gasps, “In Hilldale? The chances aren’t too great of a terrorist attack here.”

  I answer, “She was supposed to take her oldest son to New York City on a class trip and told him he couldn’t go at the last minute. Apparently, he’s threatening to run away from home in retaliation.”

  Renée says, “I can’t wait until you two are done breeding so we can have these conversations over cocktails. Do me a favor though? Let’s not talk about any of this in front of Muffy. There’s no sense in worrying her about a future she isn’t even thinking of yet.”

  I respond, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m guessing Muff and Kevin might be entertaining the idea of marriage and babies.”

  My eldest sister allows, “I’m sure they are. But she’s probably not taken her day dreams so far as including the roller coaster ride of parenthood.”

  I confess, “I’m a little worried about going back to Dr. Fermin’s support group.”

  Ginger asks, “Why? It sounds like a great place to vent. In fact I might go with you sometime.”

  I answer, “You’re more than welcome to join me if I go back. The problem is I’m very susceptible. If I’m making spaghetti for dinner and then see a commercial for pizza, all of sudden I need pizza. Spaghetti be damned!”

  Renée nods, “That’s true. You’ve been like that as long as I’ve known you. Are you worried you’re going to take on other people’s worries?”

  I nod my head, “I’ve already started thinking about ISIS way more than I should.” With a smile, I add, “I’m not so worried about getting back into my size twos though.”

  Both of my sisters laugh. Being that I was in third grade the last time I was a size two, we all know that ship has sailed.

  Chapter 26

  We have five potential nannies coming by for interviews this morning. I feel terrible wasting their time but it’s the only way to keep Elliot and his rabid patrician sensibilities at bay. We’ve begun packing up the Mercer Street house so the dining room is stacked floor to ceiling with boxes. His Lordship suggested having the movers pack us but I put a stop to that nonsense. Not only do I want to go through my things and get rid of the junk in my life, but there’s only so much I’m willing to have others do for me. I have a disturbing vision of Elliot’s nanny pre-chewing all of his food so he didn’t have to wear himself out masticating.

  Elliot is currently at Parliament meeting with Jonathan about his new book release, so I’m supposed to start with the nannies until he gets home. This is totally absurd, if you ask me, because I’m the one who doesn’t want a nanny. My husband has completely mislaid his trust if he thinks I’m going to give him an honest account of these interviews.

  The first applicant to arrive is exactly what I would expect a nanny to look like. She’s wearing some kind of archaic gray uniform and her hair is short and shot through with silver strands. If I had to guess, I would peg her at fifty and hailing from some Eastern Bloc country. She’s built like a German swimmer and her name is Elka.

  When I open the door, Elka nods her head once and announces, “I am the nanny.” She says it in such an authoritative way, like it’s a done deal.

  I invite her to sit in the living room and offer her a cup of coffee or tea, but she declines. So I ask, “How long have you been a nanny?”

  She responds curtly, “Twenty-four years.”

  “And what aspects of the job do you like the most?” I’m totally winging it here, but this is something I used to ask hopefuls at Parliament who desired a future at our PR firm.

  She stares at me like I’ve just asked her what size bra she wears, before responding, “I like the order.”

  Not the answer I was expecting. One would think a prospective caregiver of young life would try to impress the parents with their love of children. Not Elka. I imagine she and Colonel Von Trapp would have hit it off like a house on fire. She could have probably taught him a couple toots on his whistle even he didn’t know.

  I’m not planning on giving Elka much time but I don’t feel right about dismissing her after only two questions, so I soldier on, “What is the longest you’ve stayed with a family?”

  “Seven and one-half months.” Responding to my look of surprise, she adds, “I find most Americans do not like order.”

  Well, then, okay. What now? I throw out of couple more inquiries before informing Elka, “We’ll let the agency know once we’ve made our decision. Thank you for y
our time.”

  Elka does not take the hint and stand up to vacate the premises. Instead, she declares, “I will speak to your husband now.”

  Excuse me, what? “I’m sorry, Elka, Mr. Fielding is at work and won’t be home for a while. Rest assured, I’ll tell him all about you.” Again she doesn’t budge, so I prompt, “We’ll let the agency know.”

  Elka demands, “I will wait.”

  I have a vision of having to physically eighty-six this battleax from my house when Elliot strolls through the front door. I turn to greet him and announce, “I’m so happy you’re home! Elka, here is refusing to leave until she speaks with you.”

  Elliot takes my tone and looks to the nanny with surprise. “Is there some reason you need to speak to me? I assure you my wife is perfectly capable of interviewing you.”

  Elka replies, “She asked me why I enjoy my job and I told her I like the order. Being a disorderly American, she did not appreciate my answer. So I wished to speak with you. You are British and therefore understand the necessity of things being kept in their proper place, children included.”

  Elliot looks surprised by her candor. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Elka, but I don’t think you’re the right fit for us.”

  At that she stands up abruptly, nods her head once and let’s herself out the front door. I shake my head at Elliot and demand, “This is the kind of person you want living in our home and taking care of our daughter?”

  He looks surprised by my anger. “Clearly not. I dismissed her. I want someone who is going to love Sophie as much as we do. After all, she’s our child, not a military campaign.”

  With that declaration, I throw myself into my husband’s arms. “Thank God! I was a bit worried Elka was exactly what you have in mind.”

  Elliot kisses me on the head and gives me a little squeeze. “Mimi, my love, my nanny’s name was Mrs. Hedgegrove and she was a sweet, lovely old gal who adored me and Pip like we were her own grandchildren. She made us tea every day, cleaned us up after rolling in the mud and made up stories about African safaris. She was a delight and I relish that she was a part of my childhood.” Then he pats me on the fanny and adds, “That’s the kind of experience I’d like Sophie to have. Not a drill sergeant who blathers on about order.”