“Wow.” I was suddenly reminded of a bit of advice I’d just read in one of the parenting magazines that littered my office. When encountering another parent who is behaving badly, you are supposed to stop and remind yourself that that person might be experiencing real hardship—like a medical trauma or job loss. Or a bad marriage.
I tapped my toe on the sunny pavement. I’d gotten better at living in the moment, but perhaps I still had a ways to go toward appreciating my good fortune. Surely it was easier to be a good neighbor when your husband still loved you and your business had been yanked from the jaws of death.
I glanced toward the grumpy mom on the other side of the sandbox, still frowning into her phone. I squinted at her hairdo. Maybe that thinness on top was due to a recent round of chemotherapy and not too many trips to an overzealous colorist at the salon.
“So I guess you probably haven’t heard Emily’s other news, then.”
I whirled around toward Bonnie. “There’s more?”
“There is.” Bonnie clearly enjoyed having the upper hand in building gossip. “She got a job at the Tudor school.”
“A job? What kind of job?”
“Teaching high school chemistry and physics. Also, Bryan can go to kindergarten there next year—at half fees.”
My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Tudor is the best school in the city.” Little Bryan could fill out his Harvard application within its ivy-coated brick walls.
A recently divorced Manhattan mom would sleep pretty soundly at night given that arrangement.
My brain, enfeebled by the sunshine and pancake syrup, scrambled to adjust to the new information. My neighbor’s news swam in a sea of fruit punch, chemistry, and flash cards—and also courage.
I leaned back against the wooden bench and stared at the blue sky. How had I missed, in Emily’s voice, the evidence of all the drama playing out right down the hall? The picture looked so much different now. Here sat Bonnie and I, two able-bodied adults looking after one two-year-old. But somewhere nearby Emily bravely soldiered through her day with the knowledge that her husband wasn’t coming home. Tonight or ever again.
At that moment, something became crystal clear. When Emily watched me blithely pass the childcare baton over to Bonnie, she probably heard exactly the same little “pop” sound that I heard whenever I saw another mother break the seal on a fruit punch drink box. The truth is that every one of us takes shortcuts. It is the only way to survive. I might have a little more fun in my life if I could just learn to accept it. My eyes fell on Wylie’s progress in the sandbox. Somewhere between the ages of two and thirty-five, I’d forgotten how to just live in the moment.
Slowly, I got up off the bench. “Bonnie, I’ve got to run. You know I’m—”
“Away tonight. I remember.”
“Thank you.” I turned to look her in the eye. But she was scrolling through text messages on her phone, without a care in the world. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bonnie.” I turned toward the sandbox but then turned back. “Wylie is coated with sand,” I warned her.
“Okay, Julia.”
I put the odds at about fifty-fifty that Bonnie would actually remember this vital bit of information before those little sneakers made it onto my rug. I knelt on the edge of the sandbox. “Bye, sweetie. Mommy has to . . .” I stopped. “I have to go to work now. Can I have a kiss?”
Wylie looked up and frowned, measuring the distance between his digging and the edge of the sandbox. Then, deciding that the risk of theft was just too great, he gathered up the two sticks and a plastic cup he’d found somewhere, pressed them safely to his belly, and wiggled over to the edge where I waited. “Bye, Mama.”
In spite of my rewarding job, where I cheerfully waged war against chicken fingers and refined sugar, this part never got easier. I leaned toward Wylie’s fuzzy head and buried my nose in his hair. He smelled of sunshine and the spring wind. I kissed his velvet cheek. “Bye, sweetie. Be a good boy for Bonnie.” Without a word, he turned back to the sandbox and recommenced mounding the sand into a pile.
I gave Bonnie a salute. Then I forced myself to walk away.
Julia's Child (9781101559741) Page 26
