Momzillas

by Jill Kargman

  I threw Violet in her red stroller and literally ran over a mile to his looming glass office building on Sixth Avenue in the fifties. There was security galore in the enormous lobby where we’d agreed to meet. I was sweating like a pig and when I called his cell, he said he was downstairs already.

  “Where are you?” he asked, seemingly peeved.

  “Right in the lobby. By some potted fern.”

  “I’m here and I don’t see you. I just see, like, some mom with a stroller.”

  I laughed. “That’s me!”

  I turned to see the preppiest-looking banker dude with a dumbfounded look approaching me holding a cell. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants and looked me over like I was an alien.

  “You’re joking,” he said, looking at Violet. “You’re the one buying my Nine Inch Nails tickets? Knock me over with a feather right now.”

  “What, you’re so edgy, Brooks Brothers?”

  “Touché.”

  I paid him the dough and we shook hands, wishing a bon voyage and bon concert extravaganza.

  Josh was in stitches from the tale of my quest. “He must have thought you were bringing Violet, as like a sacrifice to the goths.”

  “It was so funny, such a New York moment.”

  “A New York, moment, eh?” Josh smiled—he knew I was finally getting it.

  “I’ve had a lot of those lately,” I admitted. “You have to come to Vi’s class—it’s all these Broadway actors, you’ll die!”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, taking my hand in his.

  “Oh, and I had this idea, call me crazy, but I think maybe one good thing came of my museum trips with Tate Hayes: I had a lightbulb for a series of classes for moms. Normal moms. Not Momzillas who need to stare at their kids interacting as Dr. Poundschlosser takes notes; this would be something to get moms outside themselves. I figured if I could get some women, maybe eight or ten, and their kids to sign up, I could lead them through a different part of the art world each week. Galleries in Chelsea, artists’ studios in Brooklyn, museums, everything—”

  “That is such a good idea,” Josh said, putting down his brownie. “You’re really on to something. Plus, you expose the babies to art at a young age, you stimulate the moms…”

  “You think it could work?”

  “I know it will.”

  Fifty-four

  That weekend, sealed back madly in love and rock-secure in my marriage, Josh and I went with Violet to brunch at Lila’s for our “sit-down.” I was still wobbly over the cruel comments Bee had made about my not being worthy of Josh and how his mom didn’t think I was up to snuff, but Josh never took his arm from my side and made me know I was the main woman in his life.

  Lila’s staff had prepared a huge spread, which we all ate together before Watts retired to his walk-in humidor and Violet went down for a nap in our stroller. Josh and I sat with Lila on a huge overstuffed burgundy couch. And we began to speak. And we didn’t stop for a very, very long time.

  Josh said we didn’t appreciate the pop-bys. He said that it was invasion of our privacy and that while we were happy to see her, the buzz from the lobby didn’t work for us. I told her that I sensed her disapproval of my involvement or lack thereof in New York society and that I no longer wanted to be told that I dressed inappropriately or that Violet looked like a ragamuffin.

  And then I told her about Bee. Her precious, perfect Bee.

  “She would have cheated on Josh, too,” I told her. “She can’t be happy with anyone. And I may not be as put-together or wired or posh in your eyes, but Lila, I know one thing about myself: I am a damn good wife and a great mom. And that other stuff just doesn’t matter to me.”

  Lila remained very quiet, sipping tea from a porcelain gold-edged cup as she drank in my words slowly, looking to her son and back at me.

  “Are you finished?” she asked, smiling slightly.

  I paused, drawing in a breath to regain confidence after my spiel.

  “Yes. And I hope you are, too,” I said calmly. “Finished with the school pressures, and the constant monitoring, and, after what I’ve told you, with quoting of Bee Elliott as the gospel.”

  After bottling up so much with Lila for so long, it felt like an amazing release to get it all out. And all the while, Josh sat beside me, his arm around my shoulder.

  “You remind me of someone,” Lila said, softly, looking me over.

  Gee, who could that be? A stray dog? A fille des rues? A West Coast slob roller-skating on Venice Beach?

  I must confess, I was stunned by her answer.

  “Myself,” she admitted, looking down.

  “Really?” said Josh, happily. “’Cause you stood up to Grandma and Grandpa just like that when you wanted to marry Dad?”

  “Yes,” she said, wiping a tear from an eye I’d been so sure had never wept. “And because I realized then, as you’ve reminded me now, that the nest you two build together with your children is all the shield you need from the outside. I forgot that for a while.” She reached her hand to mine and held it for the first time ever. “I’m sorry.”

  Bee, the dream daughter-in-law in her eyes, was not such a dream anymore. And while I probably wasn’t suddenly now the golden child, I knew I had one thing more important than admiration for my clothes or compliments on my hair: respect. It wasn’t about the power shifting; it was that I no longer cared and was freed of my obsession to gain her approval, or the world’s for that matter. What I needed to be happy was in our newly solidified cocoon, and when I realized that, I felt free.

  Fifty-five

  As I brewed and stewed over my new idea that could in some infinitesimal way enhance the lives of some knowledge-starved Nickelodeon-glued mommies, I threw myself full force into all of Violet’s classes as fall turned officially into winter. Besides the nannies in her Milford Prescott class, I started, little by little, to bond with some of the other moms and as the weeks passed felt more and more comfortable. It was weird how at first everyone looked each other over, Mexican-standoff-style, and by the end of the semester, most of the ice in the circle had melted away just as it started to form on the trees and canopies outdoors.

  One mom, Helena, even walked a few blocks with us after school, as we talked about how nice the group was.

  “I have to confess,” Helena said smiling, “I was kind of intimidated by you at first.”

  “Me?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I’m a total loner! It’s not like I had a posse!”

  “No, but that’s it—you did your own thing and had your cool earrings and stuff.”

  I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I did know this: everyone has initial hang-ups. While our kids instantly united with toys and row-row-row-your-boats, and we had to slowly feel each other out, like high school. Part Deux.

  I don’t know at exactly what point that innocence of hugging another child just because they’re the same size fades. When does one stop getting excited over, say, seeing a monkey in the zoo? Or a circus? Or a pinwheel? I suppose there’s no way to trace that delicate crossover from naïve and innocent to “over it” and jaded, but one thing I discovered was that the more I threw myself into everything, immersing myself and making an effort and not being so worried about other people, the happier I was. I don’t know why I had been so initially plagued by Bee and her cohorts, but now that they were fully in my past—sure, I bumped into Lara and Hallie occasionally on Madison—they didn’t bother me anymore. It was small talk, then sayonara.

  Obsessed with my Broadway Babies class, I talked more and more with one really sweet mom, Tina, who asked me if I wanted to join her at a cabaret where some of the teachers performed. I happily accepted.

  Josh and I went with Tina and her husband and had a total blast—the performance was racier than the singers’ normal shiny happy two-year-old fare, but I felt so thrilled to be out and enjoying the gifts of these incredible singers and still to this day pinch myself that my daughter gets to be expos
ed to such amazing talent.

  By the time Christmas arrived, many people were solidifying their JetSet Baby plans to hit Antigua or St. Bart’s or Lyford, but we happily plopped in New York City. The skyline glistened under the snow, and the cold was chilling but comforting since we were cozy indoors as well as cozy in our lives, finally in a place where I could exhale and enjoy the fact that the raging tempests were outside my window and no longer in my life. I made arts ’n’ craftsy holiday cards and didn’t feel the least bit el-cheapo about them despite the fact I knew I’d be receiving piles upon piles of Oyster Bay Printery–engraved quadruple-ply cards; I liked mine. They were made with love. And as I sat writing the names of the recipients, I realized I had more nice people around me than I’d thought. And as I hatched my plan to start my art world tours, I felt comforted by the feeling that there were way more women in New York who were like me than like Bee. Normal, nice, non–size 2 women who just wanted to love their kids and enjoy their lives and didn’t make constant motherhood pronouncements beginning with the words “It’s all about…” Sure, there would always be jerky, insecure, competitive type-A moms—hey, this is New York after all—but they weren’t as prevalent as I once thought. Tucked between the probing questions about one of Violet’s outfits or preschool applications were exclamations of her sweetness and offers for playdates. These were women who were lower-profile than their shiny, stylish Momzilla counterparts, and that’s why they were harder for me to find. Except Maggie, who was initially in that scene, then found the calm happiness in being just plain normal, one of the more spread-out, lower-key type of moms who didn’t need their pictures in magazines to make themselves feel better. Moms who just wanted to be quiet and real, who didn’t need to have their kids vaunted in other people’s eyes, just in her own, in the way a mother reads to a child and looks into that child’s and knows how deeply connected they truly are. I hoped the women like that would join me in my quest to not only expose them to great art and reinvigorate any latent desire to learn, but also to bring the nice mellow moms together.

  Fifty-six

  It was the morning of New Year’s Eve, and the city was filled with fanny-pack-wearing tourists. I remembered how out of place I felt when we’d arrived, but now seeing people from all over wide-eyed and absorbing the flux and crunch and pulse of the city, I truly felt like a real New Yorker. Josh was worried I couldn’t handle the Nine Inch Nails concert that night because I looked slightly Kermit-green and felt flu-ish when I woke up. But I told him there was no way I would miss it and would pull myself together. I felt a pang as he went to work in his perfect man suit (never a day off still, unfortunately), fastening each cuff link, inserting the collar stays. I loved watching his dressing routine, except that I was a slob sacked out in bed with Violet. He kissed us good-bye and we each took a ticket, ready to reunite twelve hours or so later on the Madison Square Garden floor. I was happy to see that he’d left me a note on the kitchen table of new porn titles: Bi-Curious George, Snatch Point, and Girl with a Pearl Necklace.

  After two hours of lounging and zoning in front of the Nickelodeon lineup, we finally got motivated to go to the park. The weather was cold, the first truly biting day. And then, mid-walk, downy snowflakes started to fall on us. As the nipping air rouged Violet’s cheeks and the snow fell on her tongue, I felt so elated to have seasons.

  “Mommy, it’s knowing!” which was how she said “snowing.”

  “I know, isn’t it beautiful?”

  My little girl would soon sled in the park. We’d make snowmen and snow angels. I felt good, at peace, and when I saw Bee Elliott walking toward me (why she was even in town instead of St. Tropez I had no idea), I didn’t even wince. Despite everything she’d done, I didn’t hate her. Okay, I fucking loathed her, let’s be honest, but it wasn’t an active, boiling hatred. Why? Because she was so incredibly sad and pathetic. Because she didn’t even know her own kid, because she was always trying to be the Queen Bee and not just keep up with everyone but surpass them. Because she didn’t have Josh and never could, despite her efforts. Because she didn’t have real friends.

  As she got closer and closer on Madison Avenue, I felt a small pit and walked by saying nothing. I never saw her again.

  See, she wasn’t the queen of New York anymore, not because she’d fallen from grace and was a gossip’s dream scandal now that Parker had left her cheating ass, but because I realized New York didn’t have queens. Any girl who loves her life and her city can take it by storm. Her throne and court of followers vanished the day I heard how she decimated me behind my back, and the reason I didn’t actively hate her and let her drain my energy is that I just stopped caring about her at all. I had her number, and now everyone else did, too. She was like a cancerous tumor that had now been excised from New York, her power cut off, her ability to poison terminated.

  After a while in the cold air, Violet passed out in her fluffy stroller sleeping sack and I hit the drugstore to get some loot to help what was potentially ailing me. We came home and no sooner did we enter than the flakey snow turned into a blizzard, complete with biblical hail and a snowstorm that shut down the city. It reminded me of Seattle and how I took comfort in the pounding rain on my window; it always made me feel safe inside, curled up and cozy. The phone rang and it was Sheila Stone, Troy Kincaid’s associate broker, telling me that we were accepted by the board into the co-op. Hooray! I exhaled a huge breath of relief, literally feeling the weight come off my shoulders. I surveyed the Ethan Allen–filled corporate apartment. It’s been fun, but adios, I thought.

  When Amber arrived that evening, I decided to blare music pre-date psych-up-style like the old days. I put on my coolest black skirt and blouse with some jet earrings and boots, and yes, maybe I was a tad overdressed, but despite the flu feeling I felt kind of sexy. Ready to go, I showed Amber where Violet’s fish for dinner was and kissed my nugget good-bye. But as I headed for the door, something dawned on me. There was one more thing I had to do before the concert.

  I arrived at the Garden to find masses upon masses of goth kids, face-pierced peeps sleeved in tattoos, and perhaps not so shockingly, yuppies. Beaming, I made my way to my seat, turning around to anxiously scan all the ticket-rippers to see if Josh was coming. I was starting to grow stressed that maybe he was trapped at work, when I suddenly saw his boyish face emerge among the metal. He came over and hugged me just as the light went out and the crowd roared. I yelled that we got into our building as the masses cheered, and Josh’s thrilled shout added to their euphoric chorus.

  As heated guitars opened the show, you could feel the ecstasy of the twenty thousand fans. The energy was so intense that every single soul felt utterly high. Josh wrapped his arms around me and we listened to the music and I started to think how perfect the moment was. Instead of feeling thirty and haggish, I felt twenty-two again. I truly felt younger than I had ever felt since motherhood, and I realized two very important things. One, you can have a sexy side and a life and interests post-stork. Babies tend to eclipse that for a while, but the moment beamed me back to pre-Violet days where I was so me, strong and centered. The second thing was that all the hipsters around us may have been really edgy and supposedly cool, but I had the coolest thing of all, a daughter at home who loved us, who we cherished more than anything on the planet. I felt unique; probably no one in our parent world was also at the show, and no one at the show looked like they had little critters sacked out in cribs at home. But as with everyone you see in New York, you just never know.

  Suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I looked at Josh, worried that Amber was buzzing that something had happened to Violet. I nervously whipped out the phone to see a text message which read: “I love my wife.” Grinning, I texted back and Josh put his hand on my hair. Seconds later his phone buzzed. “I love my husband, and…” He was turning to look at me when his phone buzzed again with a new message: “I’m pregnant.” Yes, I’d found out two hours before. I peed on the stick, and saw the lit
tle plus sign. And unlike Bee, Hallie, and Lara, who would have been speed-dialing Lucky Me Under Three before they even pulled up their lace thongs, I simply exhaled happily, knowing the only person I wanted to tell was the love of my life, Josh. Ecstatic, he bear-hugged me and we kissed, knowing little Violet would be a big sis in about nine months, and I couldn’t have been in a better place to welcome the stork.

  Follow-ups

  smART MOMS: My company, smART Moms, launched the following winter and was instantly sold out. That spring, I added three more sections, all filled to capacity, with field trips visiting artists’ studios galleries and museums in all five boroughs.

  BEE ELLIOTT: Bee is still hot and heavy with Troy Kincaid, though she’ll no doubt cheat again. After finalizing their divorces, they moved to London, leaving Weston behind with Parker. Bee never was truly connected with her son anyway, but before you grieve for mommyless Weston, see Mr. and Mrs. Parker Elliott.

  CARNEGIE NURSERY SCHOOL offered Violet a place in their fall class. We passed and enrolled at the more charming Browne-Madison School. And something tells me Harvard’s not automatically counted out because of it.

  COUNT ALEXEI VON HAPSENFÜRER became so enamored of Josh’s talent, he poached him away from his firm to be his main money manager in the States, setting him up with an office two blocks away and his own hours.