Momfriends (11 page)

Lillian was cooing at Giovanni and smiled up at me. I didn’t know what to say to her. It couldn’t hurt to ask her about preschool. Maybe she had some connection. The thing to do now was network.

“So have you all started to think about preschool? I know it’s a long way out, but they say you are supposed to start around now for the following year.” Why was I telling her this when she already knew? Everyone in New York City knew the drill.

“Oh, he’s going to the 92
^nd
Street Y.” I felt my eyes widen. Were Lillian and my mother somehow in cahoots?

“I know it’s impossible to get into, but we did it.” She was totally bragging. She smiled at Giovanni proudly. “I mean obviously it’s not official and it won’t be, but my mother’s best friend works there. And she’s basically a third grandmother to Gio. So we are pretty certain.”

“That’s great,” I said. Tatiana brought Jacob out to me.

“Aye,” Jacob said.

“Hi, Jacob,” I said. I bent to give him a hug. I felt conscious of the way Lillian had hugged Giovanni. Was I loving enough with Jacob? Was he getting enough attention? He didn’t have a third grandmother, he barely saw either of the ones he had.

“Emily is still playing princesses,” Tatiana said.

“Ok, I’ll go back and get her,” I said. I walked behind the desk, holding Jacob’s hand and when we got to the stairs, I picked him up and carried him. He flung his arm around me and for a minute, I put my nose against his neck and breathed in.

Then I saw Emily in one of the rooms playing with a doll with long red hair that looked like straw. She loved this doll and called her “Princess Rosa.” My daughter had an extremely complex fantasy world. I had no idea where it came from. Maybe someday she could be a writer for soaps.

“Hey, Emily,” I said. Emily was not going to come running and unlike Jacob; she didn’t seem sweet or innocent. I didn’t ever delude myself that Emily needed me. At not even two, she could fend for herself just fine.

“Mommy,” she said. “Princess Rosa going to a party.”

“Well, we should let her go to the party, because we have to go home.”

“Nooooooo,” Emily howled. It could never be easy. After a long day at work, I didn’t know how patient I could be. Why couldn’t she for once make it easy?

“Emily, let’s go,” I said. I scooped her up in my arms. She was kicking her legs, but luckily I had my arms wrapped around her arms. I turned to Jacob. “Come on, honey.”

He followed me down the stairs, slowly. He looked as if he was going to cry too. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I grabbed his hand and hurried him with a quick good-bye to the teachers. Normally, it might take me a half hour to get them out of the facility. Often I tried to reason with them, but not today. Usually I worried that someone would judge me if I did what I wanted to do instead of what they wanted to do, but today I wanted to be home. I wanted to feed them dinner and be alone.

And that’s what I did. Outside the center, I got them both in their double stroller. Emily continued to scream for a few blocks, and for once, I didn’t bother to look at anyone’s face as they passed. Screw them if they hadn’t ever seen a crying toddler before. It happened.

By not looking at anyone, I couldn’t interpret any judgment. It felt good to walk and tune Emily out. It wasn’t that hard.

Back at home I made them mac and cheese. Quick and not particularly nutritious, but I wasn’t going to fight with them about anything green tonight. I skipped the bath and read two stories. Jacob fell asleep during the second one. And miraculously, Emily went to bed.

When I shut the door to their room, I almost collapsed against it. I went into my room and pulled off my suit and tights. It was such a relief to unhook my bra. I wanted my softest pajamas against my skin. I put on the light pink silk pajama my mother–in-law had given me as a birthday gift. I imagined that Keith could see me in them. I enjoyed the idea of that for a minute. I felt sexy. But then I went to the mirror and noticed how tired I looked. There was no way he was going to want this.

But he had definitely winked at me. Hadn’t he? And then in my office, something else had happened.

In the kitchen, I grabbed the pot of macaroni and cheese and ate a few bites. It had gotten cold and congealed a little, but I was hungry, so I ate the rest of it while looking over their daily forms. According to the report, they had a wonderful day “exploring” finger paints. I had a pretty good idea of the mess their exploration consisted of. I crumpled the sheets up and threw them in the trash. Then I felt nauseated from the pasta in my stomach.

I went into the parlor. My house was rarely this quiet. Most nights when I was done putting the kids to bed, I hopped on email, but I didn’t want to tonight.

I turned on the TV. I flipped through all our cable stations. I don’t know why we kept such an expensive cable package. We never watched TV, and now that I wanted to watch something, nothing appealed to me. I checked out our DVR list. It was full of kids’ shows and stuff that Peter had requested from the Discovery Channel.

I turned off the TV. The room was dark again. But it was what I wanted. I realized that my whole afternoon and evening had been me hurtling forward trying to get to this moment where I could be alone. I wanted to be alone so I could think about Keith.

I lay back on the couch. My days were so scheduled, so similar. This was supposed to be a day like any other day. I half expected my life to be full of days that were alike. It never bothered me. I thought I preferred it that way. But this day was different because of Keith. And I wasn’t sure what that meant for the rest of my days.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure everything was going to go along according to plan.

Chapter 7

Kirsten Cooks, Frets, Chills, and Almost Loses Her Shit

The best thing to calm a frenzied mind is making a chicken potpie.

The dish was a fairly common offering on the menu at our house. It was a crowd-pleaser, a complete meal.

Usually a premade crust would do. I never actually admitted that I went store bought to David. He was sensitive about these kinds of things, being from a family that prided itself on fresh baked goods. Sometimes it was easier to go to the supermarket and pick up a Pillsbury and hide the evidence by using the crust the day of and burying the box in the trash. I always used free-range chicken, though. I had my defense ready if I was ever questioned.

But there were times when my mind was racing, that only a fresh flaky homemade crust would do. This was one of those times.

There was nothing as simple, as calming, as perfect as rolling out dough. You could let your mind go and let your senses tell you if you were doing it right. It slowed you down. Naomi was tied in the sling on my back. She was napping. I had nursed her while the dough was cooling in the fridge. Sage was at my feet on the floor of the kitchen, playing with pots and whisks. He was wearing his sister’s ballet slippers.

I wanted to let go. I wanted to find that place where I felt like a housewife, rolling dough for my family, filled with love and generosity. This act and so many like it had fulfilled millions of women before me. There was beauty in it, beauty in the love a woman feels for her brood. The need to nurture often comforted me when I felt useless. It filled me up.

But not today. Today, no matter how well I rolled, I couldn’t shake the emptiness. It bothered me. I worried that it could take hold and pull me under. And then what? Who would keep the kids moving when I was hiding under the covers? Who would entertain Julissa and calm Sage and nurse Naomi? I couldn’t fail them.

Throughout high school, I had suffered from depression. My parents thought I was a moody, artistic type. My guidance counselor assured them I was just misunderstood and would find my footing when I got to art school. I believed that. Since I was in kindergarten, I was the kid who was known as the artist.

“Kirsten can draw,” kids said.

“Kirsten’s best subject is art,” my teachers wrote in their notes home to my parents.

“Kirsten is more of a creative type,” I heard my mother explaining almost apologetically to her siblings.

And even as I dealt with depression in high school, when I was a total misfit, the idea that I had this one talent sated me. If I could hold out until art school, if I could survive the daily humiliating walk through the halls, I would eventually be ok.

And then I got to art school. I was ready for it to be my place, to find my niche, to feel at home. But instead . . . I was completely overwhelmed. Art school was full of people like me. These people had been told the same things I had been all their lives. And when I started seeing their work, I knew that I wasn’t the only person who was capable of creating. It paralyzed me. At last I gave into the depression. Now there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I had reached the light and it filled me with doubts.

But luckily, my school was used to kids feeling this way. Artists are a volatile bunch and the mental health services at my school were prepared for my problem. I got therapy and some medication and I worked through it. I let myself create. I let myself not be the best artist in the room. It actually wasn’t something I allowed, it just was. Other people were good. They could create and that challenged me.

I kicked the depression and along with David and my children, it has been one of my greatest sources of pride. I made it through.

And now, I was feeling the persistent tug of something in the back of my head. That old familiar doubt and confusion was creeping back into my life. I doubted David’s feelings. I doubted that I was doing enough with my life. I knew it was important to raise my kids the way we were. I was confident about my mothering. But still, in spite of that, something was missing.

I had jumped back into working with both feet. In two weeks, I had eleven clients. David was thrilled. I no longer held my breath when I went to the ATM or worried that a debt collector was going to be on the other end of the phone. But as I scanned through the pictures of other people’s children, I had a glimpse, a small glimpse of the talent I used to have. I was squandering it. I hadn’t done a project that really gripped me in years.

The parents I worked for were so appreciative. I told myself that these photographs, these documents, would be with families for years. Someday years from now, my subjects’ descendents would see my work. That was amazing to think about. It was a legacy. I knew it should have made me joyful.

But it made me empty.

I also thought that by doing what David wanted he would be happier with me. To an outsider, things might seem fine. He was as involved with our kids as ever, but after the kids were in bed, in what used to be our time to hang and connect, he was on the computer in the studio. I didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t making art. In the past, I would have gone in there to work, but the few times that I did he made me feel unwelcome. It was nothing he said. It was that he didn’t really look at me. And when he did—granted my vision is hypersensitive—something was missing. I couldn’t quite figure out why I wasn’t pursuing it. We never used to have secrets from each other. Now something was hanging over us and I was running from finding out what it was.

And so I was rolling the dough out for two chicken potpies. One was for my children and another was for the new mother who lived next door to a client. It had been over a week since I had seen her. I wanted to bake this for her as soon as we met. I wanted to get her something, because the beginning is so hard.

I recognized the signs of depression creeping up. It’s a certain wild look in the eye. It’s those times when a small gesture can make all the difference, can keep you from going off the deep end and feeling completely alone.

I finished rolling the dough and constructed the pies. I had a couple of hours before I had to pick up Julissa at preschool. Naomi was still asleep. I could probably manage the transfer into the car seat without disturbing her. Sage was in a good mood, so I decided to drive over to Ruth’s without cooking the pie.

I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want Ruth to feel that she had to shower or clean the house or do anything. I was just going to pop over and give her the directions on cooking and be on my merry way. I could also stop at the supermarket since I had the car and time until I needed to get Jules.

I packed the kids up and drove over.

“Mama, whose house is this?” Sage asked as we stood on Ruth’s stoop. He looked scared. He was a little bit off since I wouldn’t let him wear the ballet slippers, but he insisted on wearing Julissa’s pink headband. I had chosen not to fight that battle. I hoped it was just a phase, but if it was, it was lasting a long time.

“Sweetheart, I told you, it’s a woman named Ruth and her baby, Abe’s house. We are going to give her some chicken potpie and say hello to the new baby. It’s a brand-new baby. Don’t you want to see the new baby?”

“I dunno,” he said skeptically. Then he became more decisive. “I don’t want to. We have to get Jules.”

“I know, honey, but we have at least an hour and a half until she gets out of preschool, so we can visit with our friends and go to the store and then get Jules. It’s going to be superduper.” I cringed from using the word that I only used with clients, but I wanted to keep the excitement level up. While Julissa went with the flow, I needed to explain things to Sage over and over. The kid did not like surprises. I heard Ruth coming to the door. I put on my most excited mom grin and said, “Here she comes, let’s get ready to say hello.”

Ruth opened the door. She still looked tired, but she was a lot more rested than she had a week earlier. Abe was sleeping in the front carrier. It seemed like Ruth had taken a shower in the past two days. That was a big accomplishment.

“Hi,” she said. She ran a hand through her reddish brown hair and pulled out an elastic, but then quickly retied it.

“Hello there,” I pushed the tin foil covered pie dish at her. “I made you a chicken pot-pie. I figured you ate meat because I saw bacon in your fridge.”