I was a “sweary” mom. It was who I was, and I couldn’t change it without changing me. I’d cussed my entire life, and I’d turned out just fine. Even if it gave me grey hair and shocked the shit out of old women, the world wouldn’t end if Bas continued to swear like a mother.
We would just keep focusing on kid word alternatives.
“Let’s go home,” I called, looking at the boys in the mirror.
“That’s a great fucking idea,” Bas mumbled. “It’s hot as hell back here.”
“Bas!”
“Sorry, Mom!” He grinned.
Well, fuck.
About Carina Adams
An avid reader who loves epic and unconventional romance, Carina has an unhealthy obsession with Jason Statham, loves the sounds of Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, is the crazy friend your mom warned you about, and believes one day she will go through the stones to meet Jamie Fraser.
The author of seven novels, Carina has been writing and creating characters for as long as she can remember, allowing her to fall in love with the next man of her dreams with every new story.
None of which are anything like boring Prince Charming.
Thankfully, fate stepped in and granted her the ultimate wish - a life full of men. Carina lives in a picturesque New England town with her husband, the man who ruined the thought of all others, and two amazing sons who swear like pirates and always keep her on her toes.
Carina is currently writing Unfinished Business, a Bastards of Boston MC novel.
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Disconnected
Teresa Michaels
To Kerri, Mindy, and Kara - amazing moms and great friends.
Disconnected
I’ve never been a spur-of-the-moment kind of gal. Hell, until two weeks ago, the only spontaneous things I’d done recently was ordering takeout from Nacho Mama’s on Taco Tuesday, instead of cooking at home. Before that, there was this one time I bought a no-name brand of diapers rather than Pampers because that’s all that was available in a moment of desperation. But given that everything in my life recently swirled into a tsunami of chaos with a huge milestone approaching, a little change was in order.
Time to shake it up.
Live in the moment.
Book a two-week vacation at the tail-end of summer on a moment’s notice and ban electronics of any kind.
That’s right. For fourteen days, me, my husband Hank, and our twin five-year-old boys Parker and Logan did the unthinkable – we unplugged. Literally disconnected. No television, email or social media of any kind. We’re talking vacation Leave-it-to-Beaver style. Crazy, right?
What’s crazier is that I’ve loved every single minute…until I realized two weeks goes by pretty damn fast. Especially when you’re avoiding reality.
So, here I am. Standing on the deck of our rental house, watching the waves crash against the Wellfleet coastline, dragging my feet to return to the land of the hyper-informed. A place where I’ll be eternally tied to my laptop or company phone, attempting to manage a demanding career while also being an attentive wife and mother. An impossible feat even for an overachiever.
Kicking and screaming might be the only way to get me in the car.
“Ready to go?” Warm arms wrap around me from behind.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask, leaning back against my husband’s chest, silently begging him to stand here a little longer. Once we get on the road, there’s no going back. Tomorrow will come and my boys will begin a new journey—kindergarten. A step toward their independence and the start of my grey hair. I’m tempted to join the twins in their protest to leave and sprint down the beach buck naked chasing seagulls.
“It’s cliché but the boys are growing up so fast.”
Hank squeezes me a little tighter. “It’s going to be okay, Sam. We’ll fall into a new routine. In a few weeks, you’ll look back and laugh at how worried you were for no reason.”
Deep down I agree. The twins starting school shouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve known this day was coming since I heard their heartbeats for the first time, and I’m rational enough to accept they won’t stay little forever. Cutesy moments and complete reliance on mom have an expiration date. In some respects, it’s good. Independence, that is. I don’t want to raise the type of men who can’t take care of themselves or expects a woman to wipe their noses and asses. Still, it’s impossible getting my heart and head on the same page.
And that’s not my only concern.
No longer will my biggest problem be getting to daycare before it closes at 6pm. School age kids have homework, sports and want playdates. That I can handle. It’s all the other things…things I’ll miss that’s making me edgy. Parent’s get asked to attend school events during the day and volunteer. Those who routinely can’t get shunned by the moms who can, and end up with kids with low self-esteem. I fully plan to be as engaged as possible, but as my mentor recently pointed out, I’ll often have to choose between being a kick-ass employee and a loving mother. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all. I can barely find time during the day to pee as it is. Add these obligations on top? Failure of some kind is imminent.
So, while my wonderful husband might be right, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to pretend and put off the inevitable as long as possible. Denial is bliss.
Hank kisses the top of my head. “The longer we wait, the longer we sit in traffic.”
The man’s got a point. Finally, I cave and yell to the twins. “Come on, boys. Put your clothes back on and get in the car.”
Covered in sand, we pile into our silver minivan that felt like a parenting rite of passage when we bought it, and get on the road for the hour and a half trek home. Surprisingly, we move at a good clip, breezing through Eastham and Orleans in record time. Too soon, we’re passing a sign indicating our hometown is less than forty-two miles away. Hank laughs as I groan.
“Back to reality,” he muses. “Speaking of which, have you turned your phone back on?”
I shake my head. “I’m not ready.”
The first few days disconnected were hard. That itch to find out what was going on at work and with friends. The compulsion to post pictures of our trip in real-time. It’s addicting. After weaning myself off technology, I’m not psyched about it ruling my life again.
“Better to do it now, don’t you think?” he suggests.
Reluctantly, I power up my phone and immediately pull up my work email. Ping after ping of incoming texts has me changing course, starting with a recent message from my neighbor.
Cindy: Where are you?
Her text is accompanied by a picture, both sent just after 8 o’clock this morning. I enlarge the image and blink at it once, twice, twenty times. It’s a photo taken this morning of all the neighborhood kids—minus mine—in front of the school bus. My anxiety level shoots to def-con 500 if that’s even a thing. With my heart racing, I quickly type out a response.
Me: I hope to God that’s a joke, Cindy!
With my finger about to hit send, the low battery warning flashes and my phone dies.
“No, no, no, no, no!” I scream, smacking my phone.
“Sam?”
“Gi…g…gimme…gimme…” I stutter, lifting my head.
My husband looks at me with concern. “Babe, are you okay? You’re pale,” he says, placing his hand on my forehead. “And sticky.”
I shake my head and slap his hand away. “I need your phone. Gimme your phone.” I basically jump out of my seat, patting down his pockets. I come up short and check the cup holder. “Where is it? Where’s your phone?”
“I left it
at home, remember? I didn’t want the temptation. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Fuuuu….dge!” I course correct aloud. What I really want to yell is Motherfuckingshitballs!
Hank tries repeatedly to get my attention. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“My phone died. That’s what’s wrong!” I glance back at the kids, happily watching a movie. Blissfully unaware that their organized, always on-top-of-everything-mother has royally screwed up.
“You’re scaring me, Sam. What the hell happened?”
I turn back to my husband and suck it up. What other option do I have?
“So, uh…remember when we, um planned this trip?”
Granted, Hank had no hand in planning this vacation. He literally walked through the door one night to me in tears, and I told him we were going. He didn’t tell me I was overreacting. He didn’t object. He simply took in my emotional state, gave me a hug and rolled with it. If the curious, yet cautious side-glance he’s just given me is any indication, he’ll do the same now.
“Yeah. Sure. Why?”
Good man. I make a mental note to reward him at a later date with a guy’s weekend or a blowjob.
“Is something wrong with the security deposit for the rental? That place was spotless when we left.”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” he questions.
I swallow my pride, choking it down like shards of glass slicing my ego, and shift to face Hank.
Here goes nothing.
“IthinkIfudgedupthedatesandwemissedthefirstdayofschool.”
Silence.
Hank tilts his head to the side. “Come again.”
“IthinkIfudgedupthedatesandwemissedthefirstdayofschool.”
Hank shakes his head. “One more time. Coherently.”
“I think I fudged up the dates and we missed the first day of school.”
“What?!” He pumps the breaks as the word leaves his mouth.
I immediately go on the offensive. “It’s not totally my fault. You’re their parent, too. You didn’t have to go along with my suggestion. Could have said no. Double-checked the dates. Safety in numbers, you know?”
He mulls this over as we climb the Bourne bridge. “Okay, let’s stay calm. Start from the beginning.”
I nod. “The beginning. Okay.”
It was the day from hell. I’d arrived at work half hour late, snot crusted on my shoulder and totally unprepared for a presentation to the executive team because the boys had been sick. Instead of reviewing the presentation like I’d planned the previous night, I spent the evening cleaning up puke. And I totally botched the meeting.
A team member approached me afterward. She did her best to ease my mind with words of wisdom and encouragement. It was comforting…for about an hour. That’s when my manager—a woman in her late forties who is admittedly repulsed by children—shut the door to my office and reamed me out. She then explained that I had some changes to make if I wanted to be successful. This translated to four things. Work longer hours. Be more available off-hours and open to travel. Make work my priority.
I was so worked up and overtired that I lost it. Brain-to-mouth filter? Gone. I explained that my priority would always be my family, and that while my presentation had sucked ass, I was a good employee. I shouldn’t be penalized for having a life outside of work. My manager had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t cut out for corporate life anymore.
I. Was. Bullshit.
Without blinking, I offered my resignation, which she surprisingly refused to accept until I’d really thought it through. Mandating that I use my untouched vacation time to do some “soul searching”. I had to bite my tongue from pointing out that slackers don’t have vacation accruals left this time of year; insubordination was a mark I didn’t want in my file. If I was no longer going to be employed at the company where I’d built my career, I wanted it to be on my own terms.
Instead, I waited until she left my office and had a mini-meltdown. Not available enough? Screw her. She could shove her ideals and my company-paid cell phone up her ass. Out of spite, I planned a two-week vacation and vowed to show her what unavailable really looked like. I pulled up the calendar, noting the first day of school, and planned my time-off accordingly so that we’d return home the day before. Meaning today, not yesterday. I specifically remember thinking how weird it was for school to start on a Tuesday.
Apparently, I was wrong.
Hank patiently listens as I recount the details, ending with the text from Cindy. When I finish, he nods and looks to me, and then the road and back again. “It’s fine. We’ll call the school when we get back. No big deal.”
“No big deal?” I squeal. “This is a very—”
“Wait.” He cuts me off. “Why is your phone dead?”
Forget what I said about the blowjob.
“How does that even matter? Our boys are missing their first day of school. The bus. The chance to make new friends. Focus!”
He completely ignores me. “I saw you charge it last night after dinner.”
Is he seriously not letting this go?
“I don’t know, Hank. Must not have been fully connected.”
Eight years of marriage teaches you a lot about someone. Like when they’re lying or withholding information. In this case, that’s me.
“Were you on your phone?”
“Whaaaat?” I do my best to downplay his inquisition. Squirming doesn’t help my case.
Hank smacks the steering wheel. “You little rule breaker.”
“I have no idea—”
“Hypocrite!” he accuses. “I knew you wouldn’t last.”
I jump at the accusation that is one-hundred percent spot on, and pull my knees underneath me. “Fine. I was on my phone, okay? I couldn’t sleep last night. You were snoring and my mind was racing.”
“Whoa. What do you mean you couldn’t sleep? You said that was the best sex of your life. You passed out before I did.”
“It was and I did, but your snoring woke me up. I didn’t go online. I just read a book. I swear.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters.
“Really?” I say, my voice escalating. “Because if I had been on the internet, I would have seen the text about today being the first day of school and could have gotten us back in time for the bus.” I glance back at the boys, thankful for their headphones. “Technically, I didn’t do anything wrong. It was after midnight.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Wake me back up for round two,” he says incredulously, as if it’s the most obvious answer. “So, were you lying?”
“For God’s sake, I was not lying. It was amazing. You were amazing. Now, can we focus on the real issue here? What are we going to do about school?”
Satisfied, he grins. “Check your purse.”
“For what?”
“The charger.”
The charger, of course! This is why I keep him around. Frantically, I dig through my purse that’s more like a carryon suitcase. Lipstick. Hand sanitizer. Coloring books and crayons. Magazines. A romance novel. Extra clothes for the kids. No charger.
One by one, I put the items back, pausing when a white envelope falls from the pages of Bon Appétit and lands on my foot. I bend down to pick it up and audibly wince upon reading the recipient: Little Munchkins Afterschool Program.
Oh, come on.
I sag into the seat and bang my head against the padded headrest, feeling more destined than ever for a padded room.
Six weeks ago, I put this envelope in my purse with the intention of stopping at the post office. How could I have forgotten? Cindy was adamant that spots filled up quickly. Our small town doesn’t have many options for afterschool care, and I’m not keen on getting a nanny. Sending in an early application was my only hope of reserving slots for Logan and Parker.
I’m on a freaking role.
Hanks reassuring hand land
s on my knee. “Did you find it?”
I shake my head.
“What’s that?” he jerks his chin toward the letter in my hand.
“Nothing. I need you to go faster. I need you to get us home.”
“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” Parker groans.
I twist to face my son, doing my best to keep cool. “Honey, we’ll be home in like thirty minutes.”
“But it hurts bad,” he cries. “I gotta poop.”
“Can you hold it?” I plead.
“Sam, five minutes ago you wanted to stop for ice cream. If we’ve missed it, we’ve missed it. There’s no rush.” Hank squeezes my leg, gently putting me in my place. “We’ll stop, buddy.”
Hank pulls off the next exit, cutting off an older woman with glasses and a severe bob driving a purple pick-up truck. She flips us the bird and speeds away as we turn into an old gas station. Right about the same time an unpleasant odor fills the minivan. Parker wasn’t kidding.
I crack the window and then jump from the car, only to wait for the automatic door to glide open at a snail’s pace. Convenient my ass. I should have asked for the automatic starter instead. But the door is nothing compared to the wrestling match I’m having with Parker’s car seat.
“Here, let me get it.” Hank reaches back with one hand and easily sets Parker free.
Showoff.
We bolt inside and head straight for the snug restroom that contains two stalls. Naturally, the slightly larger one that would accommodate two or more people, has a clogged toilet. Perfect. Out of options, we wedge into the small stall that has no lock.
“Did you already go in your pants?” I ask, carefully lining the seat with strips of toilet paper. Emergency or not, the skin of my kid’s backside is not touching this thing.
“Not yet,” he whimpers.
At least there’s that.
“Last piece buddy. Are your pants down?” I turn and come face-to-face with my adorable boy’s quivering lip. I’m too late. The smell hits me right before I see the evidence hit the floor. Shit. Why does so much of parenthood revolve around shit?
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 26
