Not Ready for Mom Jeans (47 page)

New Year’s Eve is so overrated. Either you spend it at a bar, with a jillion other people whom you don’t know, overpay for drinks, and then get annoyed with everyone or you spend it at someone’s house, watching Ryan Seacrest and falling asleep. I chose the second option.

I told Jake to go out with the boys and have a great time and invited Reese and her kids over to spend the night.

We went to dinner at 4:00 p.m., since Brendan goes to bed now around 7:00 p.m. We hung out with the senior citizens and ate mozzarella sticks before going home.

After the kids were in bed, Reese and I settled in to watch a fantastic double feature of
Teen Wolf
and
Teen Wolf Too
.

While I swapped out
Teen Wolf
for its sequel, I asked her, “So, how’s everything?”

“Good. I mean, hard. But good.” She fell silent as she studied the stitching on the arm of the couch. “I filed for divorce this week,” she said quietly.

“Really? Oh, honey. I’m so sorry, I mean, it’s the best thing, but I’m so sorry it didn’t work out,” I said, and placed my hand over hers.

She nodded and looked at me. Her chin quivered a little, but she cleared her throat and twisted her hair into a ponytail.

“How’s Julie? I haven’t talked to her in a while,” she said.

“Er, great!” I said quickly as I concentrated really hard on zipping up my sweatshirt.

“Clare?” Reese said as she dropped her arms down and folded them across her chest.

“What?” I said as I played with my sweatshirt’s zipper.

“Clare?” she said again.

I sighed and looked at her. “Julie’s doing great. She’s dating someone new. Trevor. She finally …” I paused and softened my eyes. “Found someone.”

Reese nodded and smiled, despite a brief moment of furrowing her brows. “That’s great. I’m so happy for her.”

I nodded, thinking how it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all.

We were all supposed to be happy. At the same time. Not piecemeal, not netting zero.

“Reese, I just want to make sure you know that I’m so proud of you and that you’ve given me the courage to find out what I want, even if it’s different from according to plan. Things didn’t go business as usual for me”—I pointed toward Sara’s room, and Reese smiled—“but I think everything will turn out fantastic. And I know it will for you, too.” I reached forward and grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I know it.” I raised our hands in a pseudo–victory pact. “To the scary-but-awesome future ahead!”

I thought she would well up thanks to my Oscar-worthy speech, but instead she appeared to be staring over my shoulder. “Clare?” she said.

“What?”

She pointed behind me. “I think a large woman is staring at us.”

“Wha?” I whipped my head around and saw Psycho Bitch, wearing a Happy New Year’s headband, glaring at us from the sidewalk as she walked down the street. “Oh.” I waved my hand around. “Her. She’s crazy. It’s fine. I mean, she might throw dog poop on my door or threaten us for stealing her baked goods, but she’s harmless. Now let’s get back to some werewolf lovin’,” I said.

Wednesday, January 7

I posted a video of Sara laughing on my blog today. It’s footage of Jake holding her above his head, like an airplane, while she giggles hysterically. Everyone seemed to like it and proclaimed her the cutest laugher ever.

It was really just a ploy, since I can’t post what I was supposed to post today. Which are professional pictures of Sara. Or should I say “professional” pictures.

A while back, one of my readers e-mailed me and said that she’s trying to get her fledging freelance photography business off the ground. And she’d love to shoot Sara and blow up a bunch of the pictures for free, as long as I’d post a couple pictures on my blog.

Normally, I decline these requests, but she seemed really nice, and she’s a mom, too, and she totally caught me during my “I Love the World Because It’s Christmas” phase. So, I agreed.

And the photo shoot looked normal enough. Until she e-mailed me the pictures five minutes ago, with a reminder to post them. Which leads me to my conundrum.

She Photoshopped half of the pictures. She added a bunch of effects, several of which make it appear as though my child is wrapped in tulle or cellophane. Or possibly in a body bag of some sort.

A few more make it appear as though she’s a constellation. I’m not kidding. It’s my daughter, standing there, on a giant background of stars. Next to the Big Dipper.

It’s like Baby’s First Acid Trip. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

I promised to recommend her, so I’ll just have to post one of the normal photos. But I cringe thinking of the hate e-mails I’m going to get when one of my readers uses her and she Photoshops the kid’s head into a collage of Easter eggs.

At least I can hope that, thanks to the distraction of toddler videos and photography, no one will ask about The Day Coming Up of Which I Am in Great Denial, a.k.a. tomorrow.

Sara’s first birthday. I’ve planned the entire party for Saturday. I’ve cleaned my house, bought presents, gift bags, and a cake. But I’ve done it all while pretending it’s someone else’s child who’s turning a year old.

Turning a year old means turning into a kid. Turning a year old means no more baby.

So, like a woman about to turn forty, Sara’s just not going to age. I’m going to tell everyone she’s eleven months old. For the next few years.

Thursday, January 8

I have a one-year-old.

When people ask me how old my daughter is, I can no longer say a number followed by the word “months.” I will have to say a number that is followed by the word “year.”

She’s practically a teenager already. She’ll be swapping clothes with Sam and flatironing her hair tomorrow.

And as though all of the ups and downs, challenges and triumphs of this past year weren’t stressful enough, I’ve made a decision.
The
decision.

I know what I’m going to do about my career.

Saturday, January 10

And on Sara’s first birthday party, the Lord said, “Let there be lots of primary-colored plastic crap.”

I stayed up late last night to finish my review of Bumbo Baby Seats for
Hip Parent
magazine. (My verdict: I worship them even more than epidurals.) Of course, as is always the case with parenting, Sara somehow knew I needed a few minutes to sleep in and woke up at the crack of dawn. I tried to tell her it was her party day, to go back to sleep and rest up for the crazy day in front of us, but she just wanted to walk around her room and pick up blocks and put them in her trash can. So, I sat in the chenille glider and watched her, my eyes half-open, the room still pitch-black.

I woke up Jake an hour later and we switched off. I figured I’d sleep for an hour or two and then wake up and start getting everything ready for the party. Well, Jake apparently lost track of time, let me sleep in, and I woke up an hour before people were supposed to arrive.

The party was great. Sara got lots and lots more toys, adding to the already-embarrassing collection from Christmas. Natalie made Sara a hideous painting. “For her room,” she explained. Apparently, she’s been taking art classes and decided she’s the next Picasso.

Which is true. If Picasso sucked at painting.

Not to mention she spelled my daughter’s name out in sequins in the middle of the painting: sarah.

Nice. She spelled my kid’s name wrong.

Then, Sam told me I probably ruined Sara’s life already by having her birthday so close to Christmas and every kid she knew whose birthday was in December or January got screwed out of birthday gifts. I pointed out her chipped nail polish and she left me alone after that. Although I did overhear her talking to one of her friends on the phone and couldn’t resist a comment.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, I’m almost done here…. Of course I was going to go…. I know, it would’ve been fun … but you know how close my sister and I are, I couldn’t not be here,” Sam said into her phone very matter-of-factly. I stood around the corner in our dining room, unsure if my eardrums deceived me. “Yeah, talk later.” I heard her snap her phone shut.

I took a deep breath and considered the options for a moment.

Screw it.

I walked around the corner and stood in front of Sam, still messing around on her phone. I smiled at her and she glanced up.

“What?” she said as she clicked on her pink phone keyboard.

“Nothing.” I smiled at her and put my hand on her arm. “Thanks for coming,” I said, and gave her forearm a little squeeze.

She looked startled and her eyes met mine. “What? Did you think I’d miss it?” Her eyes quickly narrowed and she squinted at me. “You guys always think the worst about me and—,” she started to say when I shook my head.

“Nope, just happy you’re here.” I nodded my head briefly before walking into the kitchen. I clapped my hands together and said, “Time for cake, everyone!”

We sang “Happy Birthday” and watched Sara smash cake all over her face. I swear, my daughter is Pig Pen’s long-lost sister. I think she got like two crumbs into her piehole. The rest wound up on the floor, on the cat, on the high chair, and thrown on Marianne. (I silently high-fived Sara for the last one since Marianne asked me if I’d iced the cake with store-bought icing. I said of course I did and she snorted a little and remarked that she used to make her own icing.)

Jake proposed a toast to my mom, in honor of her finishing chemo and treatments. As we all took a sip, I cleared my throat—this was as good a time as any.

“So, everyone,” I started out in a voice a few octaves too high. “I have an announcement.”

“You’re pregnant!” Natalie screeched as she threw her plate in the air, embedding cake into our carpet.

“No!” Jake said quickly as he bent down to collect the mess on the floor. Everyone turned to peer at me.

I cleared my throat again. “As you all know, I’ve been going back and forth a bit in my decision to work or continue staying home. I love my job and I’ve worked hard for all of my accomplishments, but I also miss Sara constantly. I’ve wrestled with the decision over the past several months and, after my last event, had an idea. It doesn’t have to be a black-or-white choice, and I found a way to find the gray area. Everyone,” I said as my face broke out into a wide smile, “I’m going to start my own event company.”

I looked around the room at silent faces, eyes bugging out and mouths slack jawed. I cleared my throat again. “See, I’ll be able to work at home, so I’ll see Sara more and run my own schedule, but I will still get to have the career I love. And I’ll get to choose which events to take on.” I stopped and looked around again.

Nothing.

“Hello?” Jake said as he nudged his mom next to him.

“I’m so happy for Sara! Now she doesn’t have to live with a working mom anymore!” Marianne said as she clasped her hands in front of her chest. I’m surprised my mom didn’t punch her out. But she was too busy making her own analogies.

“Like in
Baby Boom
!” my mom said triumphantly. She raised her glass in the air.

“What?” Natalie said as she screwed her lips into a scowl.

“
Baby Boom.
In the movie, Diane Keaton is torn between being a working woman and a mom and in the end decides to start her own business, to have the best of both worlds.”