Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Good point. Rap away. Maybe we can let her hang out with Julie’s dad. I’m sure she could pick up some great new words.” Jake reached out and took her from my arms. Sara peered at him beneath her hooded robe, looking like a midget wizard.

  “Whatever. I’d rather she hung out with Julie’s dad in his trailer than with your friend Bill-Until-Two-Months-Ago-I-Still-Lived-with-My-Parents.”

  “You look like Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he whispered to her as he brought her over to the changing table. “Hey, what time are we dropping her off at your parents’ house tomorrow?” he asked.

  “For what?” I crinkled my eyes and squinted at him.

  “The wedding, remember?” he said in an exasperated tone.

  I stared blankly at him, as though he just spoke in Finnish. No comprendo.

  “Carrie and Patrick’s wedding.” Carrie, Jake’s only normal relative, is definitely getting married in two weeks. I know this because I’ve been alternately dreading and looking forward to her wedding. Because Carrie and her friends are awesome, yet my mother-in-law and sister-in-law are not.

  “That’s not tomorrow.” I shook my head firmly.

  “Yes, it is.” He nodded and took a step toward me.

  “No, it’s not. It’s next week.”

  Why can’t men ever get a date right?

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Jake,” I said, exasperated, “I’ll show you, it’s right here on the …” I walked over to the fridge and pulled off the Save the Date magnet. “Shit,” I whispered. My brain is so overloaded with details for the golf outing, topics for my column, and grocery lists that it’s like a leak sprang and information keeps seeping out.

  “Told you,” he called from the next room. “Sara, don’t throw a baby kegger at your grandparents’ house tomorrow. I don’t want to hear about any kegs of formula or you sneaking out to the baba bar, OK?” he said to her.

  I walked around the corner. “What the hell am I going to wear?”

  He shrugged, his stained San Francisco IT conference 2005 T-shirt bunching around the neck. I hate that shirt, as it is probably the geekiest shirt ever created. It has a drawing of a laptop computer holding a drink and says, “ ’Puter Party.”

  I wish I were kidding about this.

  “Nothing fits yet. Shit! Do you think I could get away with my Miss Piggy pants?” My voice squeaked out in a decibel six levels too high.

  He stared at me as he adjusted his T-shirt sleeves.

  “I guess not. I’m so screwed.” I flew to my closet and pulled out every dress I owned and yanked off my clothes. I found most of the dresses would require a serious amount of Crisco, a shoehorn, and possible removal of some internal organs to wear, thanks to the ten pounds of Sara still sitting on my midsection. With the aid of some Spanx, though, I was able to squeeze into a basic black tank dress I bought after gaining the Freshman Fifteen in college, which I reasoned I could accessorize with sparkly earrings.

  Unfortunately, the dress had a small cigarette burn toward the bottom of the hemline from when Julie dropped her cigarette on me after hearing another keg was tapped. It’s practically unnoticeable to most people. Except my mother-in-law is not most people. She will definitely notice it, comment on it, and probably point it out to others. I just hope she wears her hideous fuchsia 1987 prom dress. Because I don’t mind being insulted by someone who is dressed like Rainbow Brite.

  Saturday, April 2

  I knew it would be a torturous evening when Jake and I arrived at the church a few minutes late, due to the fact that getting out the door with Sara is about as simple as a shuttle launch. We were so late that we wound up walking in with the bride. The bridesmaids had already gone down the aisle, so the entire church was standing up and staring at the back of the church, expecting Carrie and her dad to walk down the aisle. Instead, Jake and I slunk in, red-faced and disheveled. Thankfully, Carrie is the only normal person in Jake’s family and she laughed as she saw us come in.

  Marianne did not and as soon as we sat down leaned over and hissed, “You’ve ruined the wedding. It’s so embarrassing when my own son can’t even show up on time,” while Natalie smugly smiled and patted Ash Leigh on her lap.

  “I can’t believe they brought their baby,” I whispered to Jake, and poked him in the ribs. He nodded and shrugged.

  I couldn’t reach the bar fast enough after we got to the reception. Jake and I had just taken long swigs of our ice-cold beers from frosty mugs when Marianne appeared.

  “Hello, you two. I see you didn’t waste any time ordering alcohol.” She wagged her finger in front of us.

  I took another long swig of my beer and eyed her shocking-pink taffeta dress with ruffles jutting out at odd angles, making it resemble a pseudo–Judy Jetson skirt.

  “You look lovely, Marianne,” I said sweetly.

  “Thanks.” She surveyed me up and down. “Still a few pounds to lose?”

  My face burned as I quickly adjusted my Spanx. My dress was a little too tight and I suddenly wished for my Miss Piggy pants. Or my old ass.

  “Clare looks great, Mom,” Jake said quickly.

  Marianne tittered. “Of course she does, I was just teasing.” She craned her neck around the room. “Did you see Ash Leigh with Natalie? Isn’t she getting so big?”

  I held back from saying, Who? Natalie or Ash Leigh? and said, “Yep. It’s so great that Natalie and Doug brought her. I’m so glad she didn’t cry during the ceremony.” I signaled to the bartender for another drink.

  “You know Natalie’s relationship with her own mother isn’t so strong, so Frank and I are really the only babysitters she has. She won’t allow anyone but family to watch her precious baby. Isn’t she such a good mom?”

  Her mother must be a genius. Must find way to make my relationship with Jake’s family “not so strong,” I thought as I drummed my fingers against the bar and waited for another drink.

  “Oh, there they are! Natalie! Over here.” Marianne waved them over. Natalie and Doug walked over, Ash Leigh in tow.

  “How’s it going?” Doug said, and shook Jake’s hand and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Great. Even better with a couple of nice cold beers,” Jake said.

  “Sign me up for that,” Doug said, and waved to the bartender.

  “Hi, Natalie, you look wonderful,” I said to her.

  “Thanks, Clare. So do you.” She stared at the burn mark on the bottom of my dress.

  Jake and Doug wandered off to go pillage the appetizer buffet while I was stuck in In-law Hell.

  “Hey there, Ash Leigh, you look like a little princess.” I leaned forward and stroked Ash Leigh’s hand and her face contorted and she screamed and buried her face in Natalie’s shoulder.

  “Nice going, Clare,” Natalie said.

  “When did you pierce her ears?” I said.

  “Just last week.”

  “I love little girls with pierced ears, don’t you?” Marianne chimed in.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone!” Carrie appeared next to us. “Can you believe I’m married?”

  “Congratulations! You look stunning!” I said as I drooled over her gorgeous ivory silk ball gown.

  “Thanks. Oh, beer, that sounds awesome. I’ll take one!” I handed her a beer and she took a long swig of it. “So how are you guys?”

  “We’re doing very well. I just love being a mom to my sweet little girl,” Natalie said.

  “God, she’s getting so big, Natalie!”

  Again, I had to fight the urge not to chime in, Just like her mom! I’m not one to throw stones, seeing as how losing the baby weight hasn’t been the easiest thing in the world, but Natalie falls squarely in the “morbidly obese” range.

  I’d say anywhere from 250 to 300 pounds.

  On a day when gravity isn’t so strong.

  “And how nice that you brought her,” Carrie said, her mouth twitching.

  “I just don’t trust anyone to watch her other than
family. I just couldn’t imagine leaving her with total strangers. Sorry,” Natalie said, turning to me.

  “What?” I said, totally distracted after having spotted an ice sculpture with chilled cosmopolitan running through it.

  “Did you hear that Clare and Jake use day-care?” Marianne asked Carrie. Except she mouthed the word “day-care” as though it was too terrible to vocalize.

  Carrie knew that was her signal to get the hell out rather than be stuck in the middle of another one of Marianne’s passive-aggressive tirades. “Gotta run! Lots of people to see!” She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Just drink heavily,” before she left.

  At least Jake has one splendid relative.

  “But Clare, now that Jake got his promotion, aren’t you able to stay home?” Marianne said, sticking her finger a little further into the wound.

  I smiled at her and slightly shook my head. “I like my job. It’s hard to work full-time, but I really love it.”

  Marianne’s eyes flashed before her face relaxed. “But wouldn’t you love to spend every day with Sara?”

  Yes, my brain said automatically. I wanted to tell Marianne that working is like being ripped into two clean halves every day. I wanted to say that there’s no easy, black-and-white answer like “yes” or “no.” But then the dinner bell rang and the conversation was over.

  At dinner, halfway through the goat cheese and endive salad, Doug turned to me. “So, Clare, I read your essay in The Daily Tribune. Cheers to the writer in the family.” He lifted his vodka tonic and took a sip.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Mom, did you read Clare’s column?” Jake asked Marianne.

  “Oh no, dear, did it run yet?” Marianne looked confused.

  “Yes, just this last week,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Marianne said, and furrowed her brows. Well, as much as she could furrow them thanks to Dr. Ashiel and her Joan Rivers amazing brow lift. “You know who is a very good writer? Nicholas Sparks. So romantic. Maybe you could write like him,” Marianne said.

  “I’m sure her writing is just fine,” Jake’s dad, Frank, interjected gruffly, silencing the table.

  “Clare, do you still have one of those log things?” Natalie said as she dabbed at Ash Leigh’s mouth.

  “Do you mean blog?” I said. I watched with great satisfaction as Ash Leigh clocked Natalie right across the face.

  Kids. It’s like they instinctually know who deserves a punch in the face and can completely get away with doing so.

  “Whatever, the thing on the Internet or something.” She waved her arm around dismissively, like this thing called the Internet was one of those newfangled technology whozywhatzits that the kids nowadays were a-talkin’ about.

  “Yes, I still have my blog.” I braced myself for the inevitable response.

  “You know thousands of people read it every day, right, Mom?” Jake said.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure. But I don’t really ever have time to use the computer. I’m just so busy with going out to lunch with my friends and my housekeeping. That’s nice that other people read it,” Marianne said as she waved to someone across the room.

  I zoned out after Natalie complimented Jake on “helping” me take care of Sara. As though he had a choice and should be lauded for his sacrifices and for giving me a “break.” Instead of responding, I focused on remembering all the lyrics to R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine).” As soon as dinner ended, I grabbed Jake’s arm and towed him over to the bar.

  “Your mother and Natalie are killing me,” I said.

  “I know. I’m sorry she’s driving you nuts. We’ll just hang out here, near the bar.” Jake put twenty dollars into the tip jar on the bar and nodded at the bartender, then leaned forward and kissed me.

  “Can I get a shot of you two?” The wedding photographer appeared next to us.

  We obliged and turned toward the camera and smiled.

  “OK, great. Look right here,” he said, and positioned his camera. “OK, OK, great, ready? Smile!” he said, and dropped his camera down to the level of his crotch and took the picture. “Good one,” he said, and walked away before either of us could react.

  “Did we just get our picture taken from a guy’s crotch?” Jake asked, looking confused.

  “I think so,” I said. We watched the photographer move around the room, doing the same thing to other guests, leaving them befuddled as he left.

  “What if that’s really not the photographer but just some sick guy who wants people to look at his crotch?” I said.

  “Like if he didn’t even have film in the camera?” Jake said.

  “Hey, did you guys get your picture by some guy’s penis?” Doug said from behind us.

  “Yes! What do you think the deal is with that?” I said.

  “Either some pervert or it’s a new style technique in photography,” Doug said.

  “Whatever the reason, it necessitates a glass of wine,” Jake said, and signaled the bartender again.

  I reached into my purse to grab my lip gloss and felt photographs. I pulled them out.

  “Jake, did you want to show these pictures of Sara to your great-aunt before you get too impaired? She’s been asking to see them forever.” I waved the photographs around and gestured toward Aunt Ellen’s table.

  “Oh yeah, good idea,” he said, and put down his drink.

  I grabbed a bottle of water off the bar and we walked over to Great-aunt Ellen, who was delighted to see new pictures of baby Sara. Until she came upon a picture of Jake holding Sara in the Baby Bjorn.

  “Oh no! You don’t put her in one of those, do you?” Aunt Ellen looked alarmed.

  “The Baby Bjorn? They’re totally safe, Aunt Ellen,” Jake said. “She won’t fall out.”

  “Fall out? I’m not talking about her falling out. Those things can hurt a little baby’s …” She trailed off and nodded at me, like I was supposed to know what the hell she was talking about.

  “Hurt what?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “You know, this area,” she whispered, and motioned to her lap.

  “Oh no, that’s … fine. That … isn’t hurt at all,” Jake said.

  “No! It does hurt them! She might not be able to have children! And little boys—did you know those can push their penis back inside their body?”

  That did it. I was in the middle of taking a sip of water and I nearly spit it out.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, choking.

  “Promise me you won’t use that ever again! Don’t you want to be a grandmother someday?” crazy Aunt Ellen asked me.

  “For sure, I promise!” I said enthusiastically, nodding my head. “I think your aunt is off her meds again,” I whispered to Jake as we walked back to the bar. Aunt Ellen was also off her meds at our wedding, when she asked if Jake and I had met while dancing in the circus.

  An hour later, when Marianne suggested we hold a family vote as to who was cuter—Ash Leigh or Sara?—I signaled to Jake and we left.

  In summary, I did not kill anyone or, more important, myself yesterday.

  That’s all I can really ask for when I am forced to spend time with my in-laws.

  Monday, April 14

  We had dinner tonight at my parents’ house since we missed Sunday night dinner due to my pounding headache caused by thousands of pints of ale and Marianne’s nasally voice.

  Dinner was not what I would call awesome.

  It started off business as usual as we arrived. My mom was in the kitchen, simultaneously stirring beef stew, typing an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop, and watching the news while my dad sorted through the mail.

  “Hey, you two! Come on in, dinner’s almost ready,” my mom said, and gestured for us to sit down.

  “There’s my beautiful granddaughter!” my dad said, and rushed over to Sara, still in her car seat.

  “Be careful, Dad, she’s been a beast today,” I said.

  “She probably just missed her grandparen
ts,” he said, and jiggled her little foot as my mom walked over, too.

  Sara took one look at them and started wailing.

  “She’s probably thinking, ‘Oh no, not these two again.’ ” My mom laughed.

  “She should be so lucky,” Jake said.

  “Where’s the siblings?” I asked.

  “Mark’s watching some game on TV and Sam’s upstairs on her phone. She had a really rough weekend, so give her a break,” my mom said.

  “What happened?”

  “From what I can tell, something about her best friend going out with some guy she liked. Anyway, she was sick all day yesterday and stayed home from school today.”

  Jake and I exchanged knowing looks.

  “Sick or hungover?” I asked.

  “She’s not—I don’t—hungover, probably,” my mom sighed.

  “Who’s hungover?” Sam asked as she walked into the kitchen. She had eyeliner smudged around her bloodshot eyes and her face was pasty white.

  Oh yeah, definitely a hangover.

  “You,” I said.

  Sam rolled her eyes and flicked her long, straight hair, with hundreds of dollars’ worth of products in it, over her shoulder and put her hand on her hip. “Whatevs. Why are you so annoying?”

  “Not sure,” Jake responded evenly.

  “No, seriously. You think you’re so cool, but you’re not.” Sam threw her arms over her head and her shirt lifted. I could see she had a belly button ring with a bejeweled dragonfly dangling from it.

  “Did you hear that, Jake, we ain’t cool!” I laughed as I brought my hand to my cheek.

  “Dorks,” she muttered. She leaned forward and peered at Sara. After a moment, Sam turned to my mom and asked, “Why’s her head so big?”

  I reminded myself strangling my sister in my parents’ kitchen with her iPod earphones would probably not make for a relaxing dinner. Jake rolled his eyes and went into the family room.

  “Her head’s fine, Sam,” I heard my mom say as she picked Sara up.