Life After Coffee (5 page)

CHAPTER 7

It’s a quarter till six. Day fourteen. Peter’s already left for HushMush. Smart guy. He knows if he’s still around when the kids wake up, he’ll never get away. I’m clinging to the side of our mattress in order to accommodate Violet’s body, currently dominating the middle of the bed in an X shape. Most of the night was spent in an unhappy H with Peter and me on the outside and Violet the horizontal line connecting our bodies. It’s not a configuration that lends itself to restful sleep.

The last few days at home have been a complete disaster. I’ve yet to unpack my backpack or find my way to the grocery store. I still haven’t had time to pick that line of Krazy Glue off my glasses. Any day my new contact lenses will arrive in the mail. Apparently, right now they are in some depot in Ohio where they’ve been for about a week. However, until the glorious day that they arrive, I’m committed to glue-obscured vision. The only positive thing I can say about the last few days is that we haven’t been to the ER, though the police have been called on us, so we didn’t totally avoid involving emergency services within the first two weeks. I don’t know who put in the noise complaint to the cops. But I have my suspicions that it was my overly wholesome next-door neighbor—Lizzie.

Lizzie thinks I am a lousy parent. She’s never said a word to that effect, but the thoughts are coming so loudly from her brain that she may as well have a permanent thought bubble over her head:
Amy O’Hara’s such a bad mother, I’m worried she’ll have a detrimental effect on my children simply by osmosis.
Quite frankly, after the last couple of weeks I’m considering donning a wooden placard around my neck: “World’s Worst Mother. Have Mercy.”

So far this week I managed to induce a massive bout of diarrhea in my firstborn when I ignored his observation that Daddy never gave him cheese and forced him to eat a cheddar sandwich. What? We’d run out of peanut butter and I thought he was just being fussy. I completely forgot that he was lactose-intolerant, probably because I’d never actually witnessed an episode before. You can be reassured that the fact is now
burned
into my memory. I had to bribe him with three new game downloads before he’d swear not to tell Peter about it. And a “fun” trip to the pool didn’t go that well either. Turns out that reports of Violet’s progress at her swimming lessons had been vastly exaggerated, and when I rather enthusiastically threw her up in the air and into the pool (
she asked me to!
), she sank to the bottom like a stone. Luckily, the seventeen-year-old lifeguard was on the ball. On the same day that I nearly drowned my daughter, I also let both kids burn to a crisp. I’d been diligently applying sunscreen to them all afternoon only to realize—after they both started turning a scorched, raw pink—that I’d been slathering them with my very expired SPF 4 self-tanner from back when I cared more about tanning than skin cancer. On top of that, I can’t seem to cook a single thing that they both like to eat. I keep forgetting to put Violet down for a nap after lunch, which means she keeps drifting off while standing up and then falling over and hitting her head. All in all, far from the whole experience finally bonding us together,
both kids
now hate me and keep asking when Daddy’s coming home. Well, Billy still hates me, Violet’s as clingy as ever—yet still manages to scorn me at the same time.

I too am wondering when Daddy is going to put in an appearance. Peter’s not saying anything about anything. Just disappearing before dawn, coming back after the kids are in bed, and then hunkering down in the office for yet more quality time with his MacBook. I am hoping that by virtue of sheer hours spent in the company of his laptop, his screenplay is being polished to a blazing shine. If questioned, he neither confirms nor denies this hope. Peter’s been pretty introverted the few moments we’ve seen him during waking hours—only opening his mouth occasionally to stop Billy and me from killing each other. It is, in fact, a complete relief to have one mouth in this house that stays more or less shut in my presence. Between the screaming, the whining, the crying, the talking, the laughing, the fake laughing, and the foot thundering, I think the decibel count alone is enough to send me running back to the workforce. Because here comes the admission, the admission that would have Peter straight to dancing the “I Told You So” jig if he and I were having in-depth communication these days: Looking after the kids all day is hard. Harder than sourcing coffee beans in countries without plumbing. So there.

“Mommy.” There’s a prod-prod on my back. Perhaps keeping my eyes closed as a sign that I’m “sleeping” will somehow cause Violet to spontaneously develop empathy skills. She’ll think,
Poor Mother must be exhausted. What a time of it she’s been having recently. I’ll entertain myself until she’s rested enough to make my breakfast.

Prod-prod. “Mommy!” As I roll over to face her, I am confronted with a small pile of sand. How? And why? But at two weeks in, I’ve stopped asking those kinds of questions. Out loud, anyway.

“I’m a baby lizard and you’re the mommy lizard.”

“Right.”

“The baby lizard wants milk.”

“No ‘please’?”

“Milk.”

I grab my glasses and go to pick at the glue.

“Miiiiiiiiilk!”

I resign myself to limited vision for life, don the glasses, and make for the kitchen. And yes, a better parent would explain to their child that unless they ask nicely, there will be no milk at all. I am not that better parent.

“Mommy! Walk like a lizard!” I’ve no idea how a lizard walks, but I do some kind of lizard waddle and that seems to satisfy her. Over the last few days I’ve learned that there’s no point in refusing to walk like a lizard/sing like a snowman/slither like a pink worm—a happy one. You just do it—without question. Or there will be big trouble.

Violet and Billy both demand caterpillar pancakes for breakfast, which apparently is a firm favorite from Peter’s range of food-art specialties. I pretend I don’t hear them and serve up jelly sandwiches cut into wonky stars. That’s as special as it gets from Mommy.

“Mommy, you’re a weirdo,” says Billy. “Sandwiches are lunch food.” Kid’s got a point, but the truth is, it’s difficult to compete with caterpillar pancakes by serving up Special K—which is about all we have left in the pantry. My other big concept is to serve scrambled eggs and put a happy face on it with ketchup, but I think I’m going to save that idea for a grand lunchtime reveal one day. Plus, we’re currently out of eggs. The domestic side of things, in general, seems to be rapidly falling apart. Peter transformed from “clean freak” to “typical male” the moment I got back from the airport, and no one appears to have stepped into the breach. The dishwasher’s permanently full, we’ve been using paper towels instead of toilet paper for about a week, the floor tiles are starting to get kind of sticky, and there’s a long smear of what could possibly be turd over the back door that’s been there since last Tuesday.

From behind me comes the sickening sound of Violet’s favorite pink cup tipping over and the milk inside spilling out over the table. This seems to happen a lot. I go to grab the paper towels, remember they’re in the bathroom, and grab The Apron instead. Turns out faux silk doesn’t absorb milk that well. Even so I do my best with it, then I ball it up and push it firmly to the bottom of the trash can. Peter’s not going to be wearing it anytime soon, and I’m certainly not donning it in his place. Bon voyage to The Apron!

Two hours later I’m persuading both kids out the front door and into the car. Things usually mellow out incrementally after I’ve dropped Billy off at preschool.

“Amy!” Awesome. It’s Lizzie. “How have you been?” The clouds haven’t burnt off to reveal the morning sunlight yet, but even so Lizzie’s skin seems to gently glow in what morning light there is. Much like Cleopatra used to bathe daily in the milk of seven hundred asses, I suspect that Lizzie takes daily baths in the juice of seven hundred pressed organic vegetables from the most local farmers’ market possible. She’s that wholesome. Her hair is geometrically perfect. She’s an ensemble of flawlessly round circles, from her round blue eyes to her rounded tiny hips. Lizzie always reminds me of a ripe coffee bean, patiently waiting to be plucked from the tree. Small, round, rosy, perfect. She looks like she put more thought into her outfit this morning than I’ve put into my entire life plan.

“You know. Working,” I say. “Hello, Odessa.” Odessa—Lizzie’s daughter—wasn’t blessed with her parents’ perfect genes. She has reedy hair, she’s shy and fearful, she picks her nose, and has been known to eat whole patches of grass from her front yard. I’ve no idea what’s with the name. Maybe the poor child was conceived in Odessa—I never asked.

“Oh yes. All that travel!” She makes a face when she says “travel” that looks like the face someone would normally use when they say “eating fecal matter for dessert.”

“Where are you guys off to?” she asks.

“We’re just dropping Billy at preschool and then . . . we’re going shopping,” I improvise. I need an excuse for the fact that I’m driving Billy to school when it’s only six and a half blocks away.

“Shopping? But you’re still in your jammies.”

“Well—that’s why I need to go shopping. I gave away all my clothes.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” That should shut her up. The average individual would clearly see that I’m being facetious—driven to it in response to her endless questions. But she opens up her mouth to talk again. “Actually, we’re running late so . . .” I poke Billy toward the car.

“I just needed a moment of your time to discuss . . . an issue.” Great. Last time we had to discuss “an issue” it was Billy peeing through a hole in their fence and right onto her husband’s leather Hush Puppies. I never did reprimand Billy about that. I was actually quite impressed he had that kind of aim, and besides, no one should be wearing Hush Puppies in the year 2016. I don’t care if they had a second coming in the nineties; they were dorky then and they’re even dorkier now. That said, most days I dress in what could only be described as “United Nations chic” and until very recently wore a leather friendship bracelet that I’d been sporting since 1998, so what do I know?

Lizzie beckons me conspiratorially to the side. “It’s Billy again, I’m afraid.” She’s talking about him as if he’s some kind of problem child.

“What is it?”

“He’s been taking sand.”

“Sand?”

“From Odessa’s sandbox.”

“How would he even get to Odessa’s sandbox?”

“Through a hole.”

“A hole?”

“That he kicked through our fence.” Okay. I’m a little shocked at this part.

“I’m sure he didn’t kick a hole through your fence, Lizzie.”

“He did. I have the footage.” Lizzie whips out her iPhone, pulls up some kind of kid spy app, and plays me the footage. It’s grainy, but clear enough to see a little foot kicking and pushing through the fence, then Billy scurrying across their backyard, shoveling sand into his pail, and hurrying back to home turf. I don’t know what to say. This explains where he’s been hiding, and it partly explains the piles of sand I’ve been finding everywhere. My firstborn is a vandal and a thief.

“Um. Wow. Sorry?” I manage.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it fixed and send the bill over.” A bill for fixing her fancy fence? That’s the last thing we need right now. I consider asking Peter to fix it, and then I remember that high-heeled Lizzie probably has more hands-on experience fixing fences than he does. Peter isn’t handy. His three brothers are. But they’re in Boston, with no plans to visit.

“Okay, fine. Send us the bill when you have it. And sorry again.” I have to force the last sentence out. I turn to leave.

“But, Amy?”

“What?”

“Why do you think he did it?”
What the fuck is it of her business?

“I don’t know—little boys kick things sometimes.”

“Do you think he could be struggling with social issues?” Seriously? Has she not met her own daughter—ever?

“Billy!” I call over. He looks up. “Lizzie wants to know if you’re struggling with any social issues. Are you?” My face goes cold. I’m starting to lose my thin grip on civility.

“I don’t know,” says Billy. “What are social issues?” Lizzie’s staring at me. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
I am a terrible mother.

“I’ll let you know when we have the bill, then,” she says.

“Fine,” I reply.

“You’ve got glue on your glasses.”

“I know.”

Sensing the atmosphere, both kids get in their car seats without a peep. Maybe this is why Peter sometimes exudes an air of grumpiness for days on end—he’s learned it’s a wonderful tool for controlling the children. And do I broach the subject of theft and wanton vandalism with my son? No. Why not? Because I have no idea how to handle it.

The golden silence lasts about thirty seconds. My sleep-deprived brain spaces out on the first part of the argument, but by the time I tune back in, it seems to have reached some kind of crescendo.

“I need you to STOP touching my body!” That’s Violet. “Mommy! Billy is touching my body!”

“Billy, stop touching your sister’s body.”

Okay, so that sounds
pretty
terrible out of context. Billy’s preschool is “progressive.” This is a fact that I normally happily forget until the teachers start talking to me about child development. It’s like they’ve got their own private language. One of their faves is that they don’t refer to the children as “you” when they want them to do something. They solely refer to their “bodies” as doing things. As in: “I need your body to take a nap” and “I need you to move your body away from Jason’s body.” It seems a little weird, doesn’t it? Peter asked them about it and turns out that asking a child to do something with their body, as opposed to just doing something, is more likely to yield a compliant response. Allegedly someone somewhere did an awful amount of research on the topic.

Billy asked me to stop “touching his body” once, when I was trying to buckle him into his car seat midtantrum. Violet saw the instant and alarmed reaction the words had on me, and she took them on as her own. She knows she’s going to get some immediate attention when she starts talking about people messing with her body. The attention is mostly based around trying to get her to shut the hell up in public. “Daddy, stop touching my body” has had us leaving restaurants before the food even arrives. The other well-used variant is “I don’t like it when you touch my body.” That’s had us cross at least one local park off the list.