Not Ready for Mom Jeans (35 page)

“Nope, she was great. She gushed about your office and she told me how cool you are since you always let her borrow your stuff,” Keri finished, and I slowly turned around.

I walked back over to her desk and set my drink down on it with a thud. “Now I know you’re lying.”

Keri laughed. “What is it about sisters? My sister and I are the same way. I brag about her to my friends and people I meet, but we can barely be civil to each other in person.”

“No kidding. Every time Sam and I attempt to have a conversation, I sound like a senior citizen and she sounds like a seventh grader. It’s like Elizabeth Taylor talking to Dakota Fanning.”

“So it doesn’t get better, huh?” Keri said.

“At least not from where I’m standing. Hopefully someday she and I can sit down and have lunch together or something like normal people, but right now it doesn’t look good,” I said ruefully.

“It sucks. Sisterhood is never the way it is in the movies.” She said it simply, but it sounded like genius.

“No shit,” I said. I glanced down and caught sight of Keri’s shoes—a cute pair of red flats with a gold brooch on the toe. “Cute shoes, by the way!”

“Tory Burch.” She beamed. “Your sister loved them, too!”

Inspired, I walked back to my office. I had an idea I’d been toying around with for a while, so I decided to bite the bullet. I dialed Sam’s cell phone.

“Yeah?” she answered.

“Hey, Sam, sorry I missed you. I heard you got the earrings.”

“Yup. Thanks. Did you want something?” she said.

“Can’t I call you just to talk?” I sighed.

“Ummm, I’m kinda busy and stuff.”

“Fine,” I sighed. “I did actually have something to ask you.”

“What?” she said impatiently.

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in walking with me in this breast cancer fundraiser walk on the twenty-sixth. I saw it advertised and thought it could be a cool thing to do. We would walk in honor of Mom,” I finished.

There was a long pause.

“Sam?” I said.

“Ummm … yeah, yeah. OK,” she said quickly.

“Don’t you want to do it? I thought it would be something we could do together.”

“I said yes, didn’t I?” she snapped.

“I know, you just sounded … weird about it.” My shoulders slumped forward as I realized this phone call would not end the way I hoped.

“No, I didn’t. I said I want to do it.” The ice in her voice could’ve chilled a pregnant lady.

“OK, OK. So, we’ll do it. Great. I’ll sign us up,” I said, my voice still light.

“ ’K. Bye,” she said, and hung up.

I let out a breath as I hung up the phone. Well, I reasoned, at least she didn’t say no. We’re going to spend a day together, doing something for my mom. Or at least in her honor. I think if Sam and I can get through several hours alone together, gravity will cease to exist and several of the natural laws of the universe will reverse. Rain will fall from the ground up, weather patterns will move from east to west, Butterscotch will stop howling at our door for food every morning at five o’clock.

It might cause a global panic, but it’s worth a shot.

Saturday, October 4

Sara fell asleep in my arms this afternoon. It was time for her nap and she refused to go down in her crib. I’d rock her and jiggle her and her eyes would slowly flutter and close. Yet as soon as I’d place her in her crib, her eyes would snap open and she’d wail.

Part of me was secretly happy, as she’d developed some separation anxiety with her day-care workers this week. Meaning, she’d cry when I came to pick her up. Her tiny screams were like daggers of ice into my heart.

When I was on maternity leave, it was much easier to leave her in her crib for a few minutes and let her cry to see if she’d fall back asleep. I think part of it was because I was so exhausted all of the time, so beat-down mentally, I’d try anything for an opportunity to take a hot shower. Since I’ve gone back to work, I’ve become much softer. It must be my guilt monster, rearing its ugly head again. It’s harder to let her cry, even if I know she desperately needs to go to sleep. Part of me feels like every moment I have with her, if she needs me in any way, even just for some company, I’ll gladly give myself to her.

All of my baby books say I’m spoiling her and teaching her to cry whenever she wants attention. I’m sure I’ll deal with the ramifications of it when she’s two years old and wants to sleep in my bed every night, so Jake and I haven’t had sex in months, because today I gave in.

This afternoon, I snuggled into the armchair and ottoman in her room and rocked her in my arms and let her sleep against my chest. I listened to her breath and marveled over her chubby cheeks, long eyelashes, and silky hair. Like I always do, I whispered promises to give her everything under the sun.

“Women’s jobs are just as important as men’s,” I said to her. Because they are. Yet a tiny nagging thought swirled around in my brain:
Why are you doing this? You could have her every day.

Am I just working to make a point? To support a nameless/faceless sisterhood of women and to show my own daughter that women should be independent? Are there other ways to teach her those things? Most days, I’m so tired I can’t remember my ATM card’s PIN number—is that the kind of example I want to set?

But I love my job.
…

And so the carousel spun around me, not stopping to let me off at any decision, just the centrifugal force tugging me in different directions until I was nearly sick.

Tuesday, October 7

This morning, as I was working on my third cup of coffee, a notification popped up on my computer, telling me I had an e-mail on my AOL account. I maximized the window and saw an e-mail from david.castillo@hipparentmagazine. I almost moved it into my spam folder but realized the subject line read “Clare Finnegan,” not the usual spam subject line of “Cheap Viagra” or “Nekkid Babes.”

The e-mail read:

Clare,

I was given your e-mail address by Kyle Tiesdale, your editor at
The Daily Tribune
. I’m a big fan of your blog and your columns. I’m the editor-in-chief of
Hip Parent,
a national magazine publication with a very devoted readership. We’re in the process of trying to extend our reach, and I’d like to discuss the possibility of your doing some freelance work for the magazine.

Please feel free to e-mail me back or give me a call at your convenience.

Sincerely,
David Castillo

I nearly fainted at my desk. I stared at the e-mail, slack jawed, for a few moments until Mule Face walked past, stopped in front of my office.

“What’s wrong? Did you mess up something for Elise’s event?” she asked while licking the spoon of her yogurt.

“No, no. Just received a surprising e-mail, that’s all,” I said, and quickly closed my browser.

“You’d better not screw anything up for that event, you know,” she said, and slurped at her yogurt.

“Thanks, I’ve got it under control,” I said, and bent down to open my desk drawer.

“No problem. I’ve got your back,” she said, and swished down the hallway.

I opened my browser back up. I wiggled around in my chair, silently doing a victory dance before I called David Castillo.

David was great on the phone, albeit slightly brisk. He said they’re interested in having me do a monthly piece on my recommendations on the newest baby stuff. In short, a buy it or skip it piece each month. I think it’s hilarious anyone would value my opinion on baby products, seeing as how I found most of the stuff we Just Had to Buy for Sara before she was born completely useless. The most helpful baby product to date? An old sheet I cut up and made into a swaddling blanket. I doubt the readers of
Hip Parent
want me to write an article titled “Why Bouncy Seats Are Crap and Old Ripped-Up Sheets Rule,” so I’m going to have to start becoming more open to trying new things.

The pay is nothing special; I’ll be able to get one more pedicure each month and that’s about it. But I think writing for a magazine read by people from Oregon to Texas is pretty darn special.

It’s no wonder they want me to write for the magazine—they probably figure if someone like me can figure out my head from my ass while working and being a mom, I must have some kind of secret potion stored away.

I ran out of my office to Keri’s desk and blurted, “A huge magazine wants me to write for them!”

She turned away from her computer screen and said, “Holy crap! That’s amazing! What magazine is it? Like
Cosmo
or
Glamour
? You’re totally writing for
Vogue,
aren’t you?”

“Uh, no. It’s
Hip Parent
magazine.”

Her face fell a little. “Oh, that’s still cool, I guess.”

“At least it’s Hip
Parent
and not
Dorky Parent
or something.”

“How can a parent be hip?” she wondered out loud. She quickly caught herself and said, “I mean, you’re totally hip, so
of course
they’d pick you. You’re like the coolest person I know.”

I smiled at her and patted her shoulder.

I know I’m not hip anymore, at least not in her world. And that’s fine. But when thrown into the pool with other suburban parents? I think I measure up OK.

Thursday, October 9

Everyone congratulated me on my newest writing gig. Even Marianne seemed impressed, although she asked me over the phone, “Are you going to use the F word in your articles?”

“What?” I said, and rested my head against the kitchen wall.

“The F word, dear. My friend Betty found your writings on the Internet and she was quite disturbed at how much you use the F word. I myself have never read your Internet book, so I told her I didn’t know why and would ask you.” Her voice was light, but I could tell she’d been waiting forever to say this.

“First of all, it’s called a blog, not an Internet book.” I kept my voice equally light, despite everything.

“So it’s not a story?” She sounded bewildered.

“A story?” Now I was confused.

“I always assumed it was a book, a story.” The alarm began to grow in her voice.

“It’s more like a diary,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” she said. She fell silent.

“Marianne?” I said quickly.

“
Mom,
honey.”

“Sorry. Are you OK?” I said.

“Does your Internet book talk about us? I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone reading about our personal lives.” She sounded like she was clutching a strand of pearls.

“No, I never really talk about family,” I said. It’s the truth. There’s no way I’d ever mention Marianne on my blog. If I did, it would be:
Marianne is my mother-in-law. She’s Jake’s mom. She has brown hair.
Those would be pretty much the only things I could say.

“Oh, good. But you haven’t answered my question,” she insisted.

“What’s that?” I said, and stared at all of the half-packed boxes on the countertops.