Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  “God, our toys used to be so much more harmless, right? My favorite toy when I was little was my Barbie Bubbling Spa, the hot tub for Barbie.” I twisted the phone cord of my office phone around my index finger.

  “Who didn’t have that?” She laughed.

  “It was also educational. It taught me patience, since my mom never let me play with it because it required full use of the entire bathroom, like three gallons of water, and fifteen towels to clean up all the excess that spilled out.”

  “Or how about Operation? That was a good one,” Reese said.

  “See? That taught self-soothing skills. Playing that game nearly caused me an anxiety attack every time I played it. I still hear that shrill buzzing noise sometimes in my nightmares.”

  “No kidding!” She paused, then continued, “So, how’s your mom?” Her tone was light.

  “She’s great, it’s the rest of us who are falling apart. But we’ll know more soon! I’m sure everything will be fine!” I tried to gather my strength and inject my words with a shred of cheer, but my efforts fell flat and sizzled around me like bacon grease.

  “You know I’m here anytime you need me,” Reese said quietly.

  “I know.” I nodded into the phone.

  “I’ll keep praying, but you’re right, she’s going to be fine.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  After I hung up with Reese, I called my mom under the guise of getting her opinion on kid toys that make noise.

  She said, “You guys are getting off easy so far. You loved this puzzle which made car noises. Except it didn’t have any batteries. It was powered by an internal nuclear power cell and would go off anytime anyone opened or closed a door in the house. Eventually, your father took it outside and banged it on the ground over and over. It didn’t work, though. It kept going off. It basically won.”

  “So, just Karma again, huh?” I said.

  “Sounds like it. Sorry!” she said.

  “So … how’s everything?” I asked.

  “Doctor’s appointment on Friday,” she said evenly. “We’ll know more then. I’ll figure out my radiation and chemo schedule and all those kinds of things.”

  “OK,” I said. I didn’t really know what else to say.

  “Clare?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Remember what I said, everything’s going to be fine.”

  My eyes welled up. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” I said with a laugh.

  “You never really stop being a mom. Even when your kids grow up. You’ll see,” she said.

  Part of me wants to post something about it on my blog, but a larger part doesn’t. Most of my readers are so supportive and I’d love to hear stories from others who have gone through the same thing. But the 1 percent of people who read my blog seemingly just to find things to blast me about, people like jen2485, it’s like they don’t deserve to know. So, I’m not going to say anything for now.

  Besides, I really don’t want wifey1025 showing up on my front doorstep wearing a pink shirt, pink breast cancer pin, and, undoubtedly, with pink handcuffs to use to restrain me while she breaks my kneecaps, à la Kathy Bates in Misery.

  Not to mention my readers have more than enough material to discuss, since I just posted about Julie’s blind date. Now there’s a heated debate happening over rodeos: Cultural Expression or Hillbilly Tradition?

  Monday, May 5

  The Gods are appeased.

  Sara’s tooth finally broke through and the non-stop screaming has ended.

  Jake is still quite cranky from the lack of sleep. Case in point: today I got home from work and found him mumbling expletives at the television.

  “Motherfucking cable … no concept of good movies … who writes this shit …”

  “Why are you muttering at the television?” I said as I dropped the diaper bag and put Sara in her Bumbo Seat on the floor. I sat down in front of her. “How’s my best girl?” I asked her.

  “Because of the stupid descriptions on the guide.”

  “Oh,” I said, totally uninterested. Let’s just say this wasn’t Jake’s first rant about our cable company. It’s become like a hobby to him. Bored? Rage about how expensive our wireless Internet is. Nothing to do? Flip out about the occasional digitizing of the TV picture.

  “Why do these idiots think they have the right to judge what’s a good movie and what’s not?” He banged the remote down on the end table.

  “OK, I give,” I said, and sighed.

  “Look!” He pressed the info button on the remote and I read the description of the movie Road House. Something about Patrick Swayze as a bouncer.

  “Yeah, so?” I said.

  “Didn’t you read it? It calls the movie ‘laughable’ and ‘poorly acted.’ Road House is a great movie.”

  “OK,” I said slowly. I turned to Sara and whispered, “Your daddy is nuts.” She giggled. Her laughter made a tiny crack of sunshine in the rain cloud that had been following me around the past few weeks. I hugged her to me, trying to absorb some of her happiness, as Jake continued his tirade.

  “I mean, who even writes this stuff? Like, is there some little old man who watches all of these movies to provide a description of them? And why does he think he’s qualified to comment on the quality of the shows and movies?” Jake snatched the remote again. “Look! It says Legally Blonde is a ‘heartwarming comedy.’ I think my IQ dropped out fifty points when you made me watch it.”

  “So, uh, what do you want for dinner?” I said in a desperate attempt to divert the truck before it fell of the cliff and I was forced to hear another retelling of The Time Our Cable Company Charged Us for HBO Even Though We Don’t Have HBO.

  “I don’t know. I’m too pissed to think about it. Whatever you want,” he said, and slumped back against the couch.

  I stood there, silently holding Sara, staring at him. He looked up at me and his expression changed. “Jesus, I’m being an ass. Sorry. I’m just …”

  “Tired, I know. Me, too,” I said to him quietly as I carried Sara into her room.

  “Let this be a lesson to you,” I said to Sara as I changed her diaper later. “For some reason, all men feel cheated by their cable companies. Don’t try to argue or reason with them. Just intercept the bill each month and pay it yourself. Trust me, this will save you countless headaches. There was one time in college when Reese’s husband Matt—the asshole I keep telling you about—went to the cable company office and played the receptionist a PowerPoint presentation on why he felt they were price-gouging.” I started laughing as I thought about him coming back to my apartment, looking defeated when he left with a five-dollar credit and a brand-new premium channel package.

  It felt good to laugh. It seemed like it had been years. It made me forget about the thoughts lingering in my head, thoughts I’ve tried so many times to ignore. Thoughts that whisper questions about what the hell I’m doing and why I’m doing it when I don’t have to.

  Sara didn’t seem to care. She gazed at a picture on the wall.

  “You’ll learn,” I whispered to her.

  Tuesday, May 13

  “Then, my rash started oozing pus everywhere. My doctor said it was the worst reaction he’s ever seen. So, they gave me a different cream and it finally cleared up. Can you believe it?”

  I listened from a safe distance in my office to Mule Face recount her allergic reaction to one of the mail-order face creams she peddles. The same face cream that she tried to sell me sixty ounces of this morning. And suggested I mention in my blog.

  Not too bright, that one.

  “Clare Finnegan,” I said distractedly as I answered my phone.

  “Hey! Are you busy?” my mom’s voice said.

  “Not really. Just listening to one of Mule—Annie’s stories.”

  “Might not want to call her Mule Face while in the office. Bad idea. Anyway,” my mom continued, “your dad and I just met with my oncologist.”

  As she said it, my heart started to po
und again, but my denial muttered in my head, Oncologist. Why does she need an oncologist? Only sick people need them. Oh, right. …

  “And?” I squeaked out as I stared at a tiny gnat landing on my desk.

  “I’m having surgery in three weeks to remove the lump. A lumpectomy. Then, I start chemo right after that and then radiation.”

  I slumped down a little in my chair.

  “Oh,” I said quietly.

  “It’s the standard course of treatment. He also said that everything is, for the most part, precautionary, since it hasn’t spread to my lymph nodes, and he expects a great outcome.”

  “That’s great, Mom,” I said meekly.

  I wanted to be positive, I wanted to congratulate her, I wanted to be strong. But I didn’t know how. I wanted my mom to tell me everything is going to be OK. Even though she is the “everything.”

  “So, listen. Your father and I had an idea. I’m going to be out of commission for a while, obviously, so … what are you guys doing this weekend?”

  “Um, laundry, scrubbing the microwave, lint-rolling the couch, and looking on the Internet to see if our neighbors are sex predators.”

  As I said it, my inner voice shouted, YOU ARE A LOSER. LO-SER. DID YOU HEAR ME? GET A LIFE, YOU DORK. HAVING A CHILD HAS TURNED YOU INTO YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW.

  “Oh, exciting. Do you think you could tear yourselves away for a trip to Lake Kilgore?”

  “You guys want to go to Lake Kilgore this weekend?” I asked.

  “Sure, why not? I’d like to get everyone together before I start feeling yucky. That is, if you guys can tear yourselves away from your exciting plans,” she said.

  “I don’t know, it would be pretty difficult … I guess we can come,” I said, and laughed.

  “… shots of steroids in my fanny …” Mule Face’s voice wafted into my office.

  “So, this weekend, let’s do it,” I said loudly, in an attempt to speak over Mule Face’s story.

  “OK, great. Your dad and I were thinking about renting the old cottage from Mrs. Sweet.”

  “You mean the one we used to rent when we were little?”

  “Wouldn’t it be cool?” my mom asked.

  “I guess so. Do you think Mrs. Sweet updated the place? I remember it being somewhat rustic, to put it nicely.”

  “Eh, who cares? It’ll be fun.”

  I immediately pictured Sam’s brain exploding when she sees that we have to share one bathroom.

  “Fun? Yes, it will be,” I said.

  Friday, May 16

  “Is it Route 4 or Route 173?” Jake asked as he clutched the steering wheel.

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I said, and Jake’s head snapped like a rubber band toward me. “Route 4,” I said quickly, and prayed I was right and we wouldn’t end up in Iowa instead of Wisconsin. “I forgot how pretty the drive is up here,” I said lightly.

  “I have no idea how pretty anything is right now. My head is pounding and none of these jerks will let me change lanes,” he said. “Thank God,” he said as he successfully wedged our car in between two others on the parking lot that was the highway.

  Apparently, every other person in the Chicagoland area decided to drive up to Lake Kilgore this weekend.

  Goody.

  Also, Sara decided that today would be a good day to let us know exactly how much she hates cars, her car seat, her new shiny Whoozit toy, and me.

  She didn’t stop screaming the entire way up to the lake.

  At some point after we passed mile marker 83, I got out of the car (on the highway, which should give an indication of how awesome the traffic was) and plopped into the backseat. I tried to shove everything from a bottle to a pacifier into her mouth, but to no avail. She wasn’t having any of it. So Jake and I drove with our screaming child in the back for the next two hours before we finally arrived in the town of Lake Kilgore.

  “Why are there so many bikers here?” Jake asked as he surveyed the motorcycles zooming by our car.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember it being a biker town. It doesn’t look that bad,” I said as I eyed the swarms of leather and bandannas. “Maybe there’s some kind of bike rally or something.”

  (For the sake of accuracy and proper reporting, it was more like, “MAYBE THERE’S … SHHH, SARA … DON’T YOU WANT YOUR PACI? … ARE YOU HUNGRY? … SOME KIND OF … WHAT’S WRONG, BABY GIRL? … BIKE RALLY … PLEASE STOP CRYING … THIS WEEKEND.”)

  “What road are we supposed to turn on?”

  “Um … Bloomfield Road,” I said as I checked the directions.

  Jake peered at every street sign as he drove ten miles an hour, which did not make the bikers very happy, so they whizzed by us and occasionally gave us the finger.

  I rolled down my window, stuck out my hand, and yelled, “RIGHT BACK AT YA!”

  “Nice,” Jake said.

  “Three hours in a car with a screaming baby and I’ve turned into Gary Busey,” I muttered.

  “Bloomfield Road!” Jake said triumphantly. At least, that’s what I think he said. All I could really make out was “B … eld … oad!” since I was still deaf from Sara’s screams, which resembled the sounds of a lamb being butchered.

  He turned the car down a gravel road, peppered with beautiful lake homes.

  “Oh! Look!” I said as I caught a glimpse of the shimmering lake. “We’re going to have such a good weekend,” I said to Sara, who responded by turning a new shade of purple.

  I opened the window a little more and stuck my face out. “The houses look like little gingerbread houses!”

  “3789 … where are you?” Jake muttered.

  I got excited when he slowed down in front of a huge, palatial beach cottage. “Is this it? I don’t remember it being so big! It’s amazing.”

  “3758, no, that’s not it. Here it is! 3789. It’s …” He trailed off.

  Not exactly what I would call a resort home. One level. White peeling paint. Plastic flamingos dotting the front yard.

  “Why is that woman with purple hair waving at us?” Jake asked, and pointed to a woman standing on the front porch.

  “Oh God. That’s Mrs. Sweet. I can’t believe she looks the same as she did twenty years ago.”

  Jake pulled the car up the long driveway and parked. “I’ll stay here with Sara, why don’t you go talk to the owner,” he said as he stretched his arms over his head.

  “Good idea,” I said as I leapt out of the car, away from my screaming child.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sweet,” I said as I walked toward her. Her expression changed to one of confusion.

  “Who are you?” she said, and furrowed her penciled-in eyebrow.

  “Clare Finnegan,” I said as I surveyed her false eyelashes.

  “Who?”

  “Clare. Finnegan. My parents rented this place this weekend. They’re coming up in an hour or two.”

  “Oh. I don’t know any Finnegans.” The poor woman looked totally confused.

  Then, I remembered.

  “Flannagan,” I said, and her face lit up.

  “Oh yes! Flannagan! Come right in,” she said, and waved me into the cottage. Even though my dad’s family rented the place every year for like twenty years or something, Mrs. Sweet still thought we were “the Flannagans.”

  “Probably looks the same as you remember it! I kept all of the original furniture,” she said proudly.

  It was not something to be proud of.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell of mildew and old, musty furniture. Clearly, cleaning or Scotchgarding the furniture hadn’t been done in, oh, a hundred years or so. The next thing I noticed was a six-foot-tall statue of a knight in a suit of armor in the kitchen.

  “That’s Charles,” Mrs. Sweet said, and jerked her thumb in the knight’s direction.

  “Um, great. And the bedrooms?” I said as I walked toward the back of the cottage.

  “Three bedrooms just back there.”

  I peeked my head into the master suite. Well, OK, “master suite.”
Towels tacked over cracked windowpanes and a king-sized bed with mattress hard enough to crack vertebrae.

  “I redecorated that second bedroom,” Mrs. Sweet called as I peeked my head into a bedroom decorated with a wolf theme. A giant mural of a wolf killing what appeared to be a rabbit hung on the wall and the twin bed was adorned with sheets depicting wolf slumber.

  I stifled a laugh and peeked my head into what would be Jake’s, Sara’s, and my bedroom. It looked somewhat normal, until I caught sight of the bed.

  “Where’s the mattress?” I said to Mrs. Sweet as I pointed to the bed, which only had a metal frame and a full-sized box spring.

  “Oh, my last renter burned it down while smoking in bed. Good thing I was able to save the box spring,” she said, and smiled at me, pumpkin orange lipstick on her teeth.

  “Good thing,” I said, and tried to decide how to break the news to Jake we would be sleeping on metal coils all weekend.

  “Oh, and you probably have one of those cell phones, right?” Mrs. Sweet asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. There’s no phone line here. Never has been.” Mrs. Sweet adjusted her purple hair a bit.

  “Oh, right, I forgot.”

  I stifled a laugh as I remembered how, in the days before cell phones, phone calls for us would go to Mrs. Sweet’s house. She would stand on the front doorstep of her house, located next door, and ring a cowbell and shout, “FLANNAGANS! YOU HAVE A PHONE CALL!” loud enough to awaken the dead three states over.

  “How old’s your little one?” she asked.

  “Four months,” I said.

  “Oh, well, there’s a swing set in the backyard.” She pointed out the window.

  I leaned forward and peered out of the dusty glass. I saw a swing set, oh, 98 or 99 percent covered in rust, with a very dangerous thorn bush planted right behind the swings.

  Since Sara isn’t up-to-date on her tetanus shots and I do not wish to spend my weekend picking thorns out of her skull, I think we’ll pass on the swing set.

  After Mrs. Sweet left, Jake and I started to unpack all of the crap we brought. Sara, thankfully, had worn herself out and passed out in her car seat. As Jake and I were unloading the travel swing we bought specially for this weekend, seeing as how Sara turns into Captain Howdy from The Exorcist whenever she doesn’t have access to a swing, we heard my parents’ car pull up the driveway.