Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  It did provide a good distraction for me, though. After I heard “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” four times, I began to wonder—just who are these obnoxious carolers wishing me a happy holiday? They’re pretending like they’re being all nice by wishing me a Merry Christmas, but in reality, they’re just in it for the “figgy pudding.” They inasmuch say so. Not to mention they become outright demanding by insisting they won’t leave until they get said pudding.

  I would be all: What is figgy pudding anyway? I promise, you don’t want any. Seriously. Just leave. Your singing is annoying me. No? You won’t leave? OK, then. How ’bout we discuss this downtown? Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge.

  And then the judge will assess them to be flight risks and remand them without bail.

  Also? I may have watched too many Law & Order reruns lately.

  Nonetheless, this song now very much disturbs me.

  Or maybe the stress has just eaten into my brain and rotted away the portion for understanding creative expression.

  Friday, December 12

  When I got home yesterday after work, Jake listened to me vent about Mule Face’s Christmas music, the traffic on the way home, the stupid blue holiday lights Psycho Bitch put around her evergreen, the guest list for my fundraiser, and the jewelry store commercial I keep seeing.

  He nodded the entire time, rubbing my back and holding my hand as I ranted and raved about the McDonald’s workers only putting two Splendas into my coffee instead of three. When I finished, I looked expectantly at him, sure he would offer some great philosophical view on why everything sucked today.

  He looked thoughtfully at me and said, “Guess what I bought today?”

  I wanted to immediately freak out and ask if he’d heard anything I’d just said, but I took a deep breath and asked, “What?”

  “This new, really awesome ice scraper for my car.”

  I stared at him for ten long seconds.

  “What?” he said, confused.

  “Seriously?” I said slowly.

  “What?” he said again.

  I opened my mouth to fillet him about his lack of interest in my superimportant topics but quickly realized I didn’t have the strength and said instead, “That’s great. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

  Sunday, December 14

  Jake and I aren’t generally the gambling sort of people. We don’t obsessively play the lottery, we stick to video poker while in Vegas, and I never let more than two days go by without cleaning the litter box.

  So that’s why it was completely out of character for us to entrust our child to the care of Sam today.

  Jake and I still needed to buy about 99 percent of our Christmas gifts, since I haven’t had any time lately thanks to work-Reese-Julie-work-work-Elise-blah-blah-blah. Which led Jake and me to be just desperate enough for a sitter that we decided to use my sister. Of course, we were only a half mile away the entire time and called about every fifteen minutes.

  But it was OK.

  Sara’s alive. And not visibly injured in any way.

  And get this—Sam actually told Sara that she missed her.

  Of course, this was before we left and the Gatorade incident happened. Sam brought a bottle of red Gatorade with her. She set it down on an end table while she took Sara’s sippy cup in the kitchen to fill with juice.

  Just as Sam returned, sippy cup in hand, she saw Sara pull herself up on the end table, eye the Gatorade bottle, pick it up, hold it in the air as though to take a sip, and dump the entire contents of the bottle all over herself.

  Deep red liquid ran down all over Sara’s head, her clothes, and our carpet.

  I’m sure the scream of, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” was heard by some Alaskans.

  Although there’s a faint pink stain still lingering on our carpet, the comedic value of the story outweighs the bottle of carpet cleaner it will cost me.

  Not to mention, apparently Psycho Bitch / Dog Poop Neighbor Woman came over and accosted Sam about borrowing some sugar. Apparently, she thought we stole her baking supplies while she was at work.

  Tuesday, December 16

  My mom made me chicken noodle soup every time I stayed home sick from school when I was little. It was the kind without any real chicken, just some broth and a few shoestring noodles and some parsley. She served it to me on a tray in bed and sat on the edge while I happily slurped away at the hot liquid. She’d ask, “Is it too hot?” and I’d shake my head no and hug Bugle Bear, my favorite worn stuffed animal, to my chest.

  She used to let me stay home from school even on days when she doubted that I was really sick. My favorite part was when I got to go back to sleep for a few hours in the morning. Then, I’d wake up and watch television and my mom would make me some soup. The worst part was when the clock inched closer to 3:00 p.m., the time I would’ve gotten out of school, the time when I’d turn into just every other kid, not a kid lying in her pajamas while everyone else was sitting behind a desk, wearing a school uniform.

  When I had the stomach flu, my mom would put a garbage can or an old stove pot next to my bed on my desk chair. She’d bring in a cool washcloth and run it over my head. She’d stay in my room until I fell asleep.

  She stayed home from work and took care of me every time I was sick from birth until age eighteen, when I went off to college and the days I felt sick were for an entirely different reason.

  And then she became sick herself.

  And there were days when I wanted to sit by her bed and make her wheat toast and tell her to eat it slowly, she didn’t know what her stomach could handle; to take tiny sips of ginger ale; not to push it. But she waved me off and told me to go back to work; she told me she was fine.

  So, I did. And now, she really is going to be fine. This is her last round of treatments. She’s almost done.

  And she’s going to be more than fine. I don’t need to make her chicken noodle soup, because she’s not going to be sick anymore. I don’t need to feel guilty about not being there every day to help her, because she’s going to be strong again. I don’t need to cry every time I look at Sara, since she’s going to know, love, and bond with her grandmother for years to come.

  I don’t need to ask why, since it doesn’t really matter anyway. All I need to do is say thanks.

  With all of this gratitude, I’m reminded that when I die my résumé isn’t going to be listed in my obituary. It will be my daughter’s name, her existence, that will be worthy enough to include in those few, short lines.

  Friday, December 19

  I know I’ve asked for a lot of favors lately and my mom’s health is the best Christmas gift ever, but could I eke out just one more favor?

  Please?

  Because today is the day.

  Today is my fundraiser with Elise.

  I couldn’t sleep much at all last night. I kept having weird dreams about forgetting to turn in my assignments for high school gym class because I was on maternity leave. I’d wake up in a panic because I missed my tennis exam, only to realize (a) I graduated from high school well over ten years ago and (b) Olivia Newton-John wasn’t my gym teacher.

  I’m excited but 100 percent freaking out.

  Part of me wants to fast-forward to tonight, when I’m snuggled up next to Jake in my red plaid pajama pants, sitting on the couch, wiped but totally proud of myself.

  8:13 P.M.

  Red plaid pants are in action.

  Wiped? Yes.

  Proud? Yes.

  Still shocked? Yes.

  I stood in front of my closet for ten minutes this morning, staring at my entire wardrobe. I’d already bought my outfit for today, but it was like my brain couldn’t yet process putting anything on, so I stared at my bridesmaid dress from Reese’s wedding for a few minutes before I forced myself to slowly start getting dressed.

  Jake took Sara to day-care this morning, to give me a few extra minutes to languish in the shower and perfect my makeup. The house was silent and cold as I pulled on my black leather boots a
nd wrapped my comforter around my shoulders, trying to calm my nerves. I took a deep breath, stood up, shrugged off the comforter, grabbed my bag, slipped on my coat and gloves, and walked out the door.

  I stopped and grabbed a gingerbread latte on my way over to the country club. I hoped the caffeine and sugar would somehow numb part of my brain and allow me to coast through the day without too much stress.

  No such luck.

  I walked into the club, and as I waited in the reception area for the event manager to appear and do a quick run-through of the event I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Ready?” Julie said behind me.

  “What are you doing here so early? The event doesn’t start for hours!”

  “Thought you might need some help. Or at least a drinking buddy if you need some liquid courage.”

  “I might take you up on that,” I said.

  “Clare, ready to do the walk-through?” Olivia, the club manager, appeared next to me.

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  An hour later, Elise arrived. I didn’t recognize her until she was almost right in front of me. She wore a gorgeous buttery leather skirt and cashmere cowl-neck sweater. But on her head she had a huge hat, society lady at the Kentucky Derby style.

  “Elise! I almost didn’t see you! You look great,” I said as I leaned forward to hug her. I turned to Julie, who was salivating to my right, “This is my friend Julie.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Elise shook Julie’s hand.

  Julie shook her hand, eyes wide. “Beautiful hat,” Julie croaked out.

  “Thanks,” Elise said.

  “Is your speech ready?” I asked her.

  “Think so. I have a surprise at the end,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.” She winked at me.

  Soon, nearly every local celebrity packed the garden room of the country club, sipping glasses of wine and munching on the passed hors d’oeuvres. Reese and my mom arrived and I rushed over to hug them while Julie flirted with the bar staff.

  “You guys look amazing,” I said.

  “Let’s talk about amazing,” Reese said, and gestured around the room with her hand. “I think everyone here has been in Chicago magazine at least twice.”

  “Except for us,” my mom said, and smiled. “Clare, I’m so proud of you. You’ve done such a great job. I can’t believe how many reporters are here,” she said as she surveyed the room.

  “Thanks. Sometimes it helps to have a blog,” I said, and smiled. I’d posted information on my blog about the fundraiser, including a link for readers to donate. I stressed about it for a long time, not wanting my readers to think I was pandering for money, but it’s not like I was pocketing the cash for a new laptop or something.

  Apparently, the URL got passed around to a few local press members, and with that coupled with my connections at The Daily Tribune, I had myself a nice little fundraiser.

  “Hey, Mama.” Julie appeared and hugged my mom. “Reese, dear, no kids equals a glass of wine. Shall we?”

  “We totally shall,” Reese said, and followed Julie over to the bar.

  “Oh God,” my mom said.

  “What?”

  She pointed over my right shoulder. I turned around and saw Marianne. “I told you she was coming,” I whispered. “And there’s Natalie behind her with—” I stopped.

  “Ash Leigh,” my mom finished.

  Christ.

  “Hello,” I said tightly as they walked over. I told Natalie like seven thousand times this wasn’t an event to which she could bring her kid.

  “I know you said no kids, Clare, but I just couldn’t leave her today.” Natalie smiled sweetly at me.

  I started to have flashbacks to my wedding reception when my cousin Yvonne brought her bratty three-year-old.

  “Lovely to see you, Marianne!” my mom said. “And Natalie, you look beautiful as always.”

  “Clare, your directions were very vague,” Marianne said, and frowned at me.

  “Are we having any normal food at this lunch?” Natalie asked, and wrinkled her nose.

  “You should probably go check on everything,” my mom said, and gave me a little push. “And I need to run to the bathroom. Please excuse me.”

  We both made clean getaways while Marianne, Natalie, and Ash Leigh sequestered themselves to a couch and glared at everyone.

  After a few drinks, everyone took their places at the tables, which looked incredible. Pink linens and pink and white rose centerpieces glimmered with the flickering of tea candles. I sat down in between Julie and my mom.

  I overheard Julie ask Natalie, “So, my coworker, who just had a baby, said you can’t really understand child abuse until you have one of your own. Is that true?”

  Natalie glowered at her.

  “I mean, does having a kid yourself kinda make you understand those whole baby microwaving incidents?” Julie continued, and pointed to Ash Leigh. I caught Julie’s eye and she smirked at me.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natalie said, and adjusted Ash Leigh on her lap.

  Elise and I made eye contact across the room and she nodded at me. She stood up and walked over to the podium. She put on her reading glasses, cleared her throat, and adjusted the microphone.

  “First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to our luncheon and thank each and every one of you for coming to support this worthy cause. We’ve all been touched by breast cancer in some way, maybe through a friend, a relative, a neighbor, or maybe even ourselves.” My mom smiled at me. “As we know, advances are happening each day, and the hope for a cure increases with every treatment we uncover. But new advances and exceptional medicine requires exceptional resources, which is why your generosity is so important and makes such a difference. So, thank you for truly making an impact and raising money for this important issue.” She paused as people lightly applauded.

  “But raising money is only one part of the impact we can have. We need to put ourselves, as leaders in this community, out in society and show how important this issue is to us as women. As some of you know, my mother passed away from breast cancer a few years ago. So, this issue is near and dear to my heart. I thought long and hard about how I could outwardly show my support for breast cancer survivors and remind people to support this cause. And I came up with this.” Elise paused and looked around the room for effect. She reached up and lifted her enormous hat off her head. A collective gasp went around the room as everyone saw Elise’s blond hair cropped short to her head, Mia Farrow style. Gone were the signature highlighted blond locks.

  “I cut my hair and donated it to an organization which makes wigs for cancer patients. I encourage each and every one of you to do the same. With your hair, your resources, or your time. My point is not to shock anyone. My point is we each have something to give.” She paused again and ran her left hand through her short hair. “In closing, I think it’s appropriate to paraphrase the message from my favorite holiday movie, It’s a Wonderful Life. In the movie, the angel Clarence remarks how each person’s life touches so many others. I think we can all learn a little from Clarence, and remember the importance of making a difference in the lives of others. Thank you.” Elise took her glasses off and set them down on the podium. She stood, her hat in hand, note cards in the other, and smiled at the crowd.

  Chairs wobbled as people stood up. The press ran up and snapped pictures, their flashes going off like Christmas lights exploding. I looked over and saw tears streaming down Reese’s flushed face.

  My mom put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “She’s really something, isn’t she?” I nodded.

  “She fucking rules,” Julie said to Marianne, who looked startled by her cursing.

  After Elise sat down, the room was still buzzing. During the fashion show, throughout lunch, all anyone spoke about was Elise and her hair.

  After people started to leave, I raced over to Elise and grabbed her arm.

  “Amazing surprise!�
� I said.

  “Thanks, thought you might like it,” she said, and picked up her wine and sipped it.

  “I can just see it now. The headline will read: ‘Elise Stansfield: Breast Cancer Hero.’ ”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get carried away.”

  “Seriously, you were amazing,” I said.

  “Elise, can I get a moment for a few quotes for my article?” a reporter from The Daily Tribune asked her.

  “Your public awaits,” I whispered to Elise as I walked back to my table.

  As I sat down and watched the reporters fawn all over Elise, snapping pictures and shouting out questions, I realized something:

  It doesn’t have to be black or white.

  Work or stay home. Give up one or the other.

  Because as I looked down at the luncheon program with coffee cup stains in front of me, I realized it was all a shade of gray. One part personal and one part professional.

  Dovetailing together.

  In an amazing way.

  Rumor has it The Tribune is doing a huge spread on our event, with multiple pictures and quotes from Elise. There’s already a link on the Web site to a few of their pictures. I’m betting it’s only a matter of time before Elise is crowned the new queen of the city.

  And with my fabulous day, a newly planted little seed began to grow in my brain. An idea watered by the knowledge that I can make things happen, not just let things happen to me. And that my professional and personal lives can play in the sandbox together.

  I’m going to find my own path; I’m just not sure what that will be yet.

  Monday, December 22

  Still on a high from the fundraiser, I didn’t mind it snowed overnight and my car was covered in an inch-thick layer of ice and snow. As I opened the front door to leave, Jake called, “Betcha wish you had my ice scraper now, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes and closed the door behind me while balancing Sara on my hip. “Your dad’s insane,” I told her. She grinned at me underneath her woolen hat, tied around her chin.

  I placed Sara in her car seat in the back and got into the driver’s side. I turned the car on to let it warm up before I started scraping the ice. I saw Jake walk outside to his car and I rolled down my window a little.