Not Ready for Mom Jeans (42 page)

I’m going to call Reese and ask her what to do. She always knows this stuff.

8:35 P.M.

Reese: Wait. You’ve never used it? So you’ve never emptied it? Clare, I put one of Brendan’s diapers in there like two months ago.

Me: Aha!
That’s
where the smell has been coming from.

12:35 A.M.

Finally managed to throw together a review. After calling around to everyone I know who has kids and finding not a single person who used theirs and/or figured out how it works, can’t say I can recommend it.

My first review is done.

Golf claps for Clare.

Wednesday, December 3

My review high lasted two days.

Today was officially The Day When I Almost Had a Nervous Breakdown. And to be honest, I kind of wish I did have a nervous breakdown, because I would be in some nice mental institution right now instead of sitting behind my desk, listening to Mule Face eat Parmesan-crusted kettle chips at ten in the morning.

Sara didn’t sleep well at all last night. She probably sensed that it would be a great time to wake up every hour, since Jake is out of town until tonight at a tech conference. She woke up at 12:00 a.m., 1:30 a.m., 2:45 a.m., 3:15 a.m., and 4:46 a.m., at which point I just brought her into bed with me and prayed she’d lie down on Jake’s side of the bed and sleep.

Right.

She crawled all over my bed, under the covers, and pulled my hair a few times until I gave up, got up, and made some coffee around 5:15 a.m. As I gave her a bottle, I vaguely recalled the days when 5:15 a.m. was more of a bedtime than anything. I think it was like twenty years ago or something. I’ve almost completely forgotten what it was like to stay up past midnight, so it must’ve been decades ago.

Sara passed out for an hour after she ate, allowing me the fleeting luxury to take a shower, blow-dry my hair, and put on makeup. It was like I was on vacation. Except right after I put the last coat of mascara on and bent down to wash my hands, I felt my back wrench. Not just wrench but spasm. It convulsed so hard, I collapsed on my bathroom floor, sweating. I knew exactly what I’d done—right after I had Sara, I stood up too quickly while holding her and I pulled my back. Dr. Clarke said it was due to all the pregnancy hormones, which make joints loose, still hanging around in my body. I said it was due to God hating me.

Thankfully, I saved some of the fabulous drugs from after Sara’s delivery, so I managed to crawl over to my vanity drawer and pop a couple of narcotic painkillers. I laid on my bathroom floor and waited for them to kick in as I heard Sara babbling in her crib, giving the State of the Cradle address to her teddy bear. After fifteen minutes, my pain was more bearable, so I gingerly picked up my purse and hobbled into Sara’s room to get her ready for day-care.

Getting her out of the crib provided somewhat of a challenge, since I couldn’t fully lift her. So, I kind of slid her up the side of the crib, pressed her against the outside of it, and slid her down. It would’ve been much easier had she not been kicking, screaming, and flailing the entire time like a skydiver whose parachute never opened. After that, I tried to entice her to crawl her way to the front door by waving toys in front of her (yes, I realize I was treating her like a dog), but she sat on the floor in front of her crib and stared at me, openmouthed. So, I was forced to half-carry, half-drag her across the carpet to the front door. Cue the flailing and screaming again.

After about a half hour of sweating, cursing, and negotiating, I got her outside and into her car seat. I buckled her in, shut the door, and wobbled over to the driver’s side. I pulled the handle. It released, but the door didn’t open. Fear shot through me as I tried it again. My hands started shaking and I peered into the car. Where I saw my keys. In the ignition. Which would explain why the car was running. I also saw my purse, cell phone, and house keys. Not to mention my daughter. Brilliant move!

Panicking, I froze. My options were: walk over to Psycho Bitch’s house to use the phone and call a locksmith or walk over to my other neighbor’s house, the one whom I’ve never met and could be a serial killer. Since I’m pretty sure that Psycho Bitch stole my
US Weekly
last week, I figured I’d roll the dice and lumbered over to Serial Killer’s house.

I rang the doorbell, still half hunched over, near tears.

A young woman in her thirties with a baby on her hip answered the door.

“Yes?” She smiled at me.

“OhmyGodIlockedmykeysinmycarandmybabyisinitandmypurseandcellphoneandmyhusbandisgoneandI’mClareandIlivenextdoor,” I blurted out.

“What?” she said.

I burst into tears and tried to tell her what happened. It didn’t help I started manically laughing in the middle of the story. Finally, I got the story out, and the very nice woman with the baby, whose name is Gina, let me use her phone to call a locksmith. I stood outside in the subzero temperatures next to the car so I could make sure Sara was OK. I also formed a plan of what I could use to break the car window should Sara start choking or something.

Fifteen minutes later, the locksmith showed up and unlocked the car. I flung open the door, at least tried to fling open the door in my near-crippled state, and scooped up a sleeping Sara. She opened her eyes, looked at me like,
What?
and then laid her head back down on my shoulder and fell asleep again.

I dropped her off at day-care an hour late and lumbered into work, crouched over like a cripple. Just as I was about to click on the PDF of the breast cancer fundraiser the graphic designer sent, Mule Face walked by and called me Quasimodo. I debated calling the local police department with an anonymous tip that a very large woman wearing a velour pantsuit in my office might possibly be aiding terrorists.

I’m wondering if this is Karma’s way of saying,
Checkmate, Clare!

Thursday, December 4

Although my back is healing, this week is not getting any better.

I just got off the phone with Reese. She’s filing for divorce after Christmas. Apparently, Matt didn’t show up at her parents’ house for Thanksgiving. He told her he was working, but she suspects he already has a new girlfriend. She’s going to wait until after the holiday to file, since she says she just wants to enjoy Christmas, without worrying about lawyers and legal proceedings

I told her to go for the throat and try to get everything, but she said, “Not my style, Clare.” I know she’s not like that, but in this case I think it’s totally OK to go all crazy ex on him and demand he pay her legal fees and not be allowed to drive with the kids in the car. Or maybe I’ve just been reading too much about celebrity divorces.

Either way it’s sliced, Reese and Matt’s marriage is over. Which I’m thrilled about. Which we’re
all
thrilled about. Julie offered to throw her a “divorce shower” complete with male strippers, but I think looking at gross, greasy naked men and their penises is the last thing she needs right now. It’s just their marriage represented an idealism we all held, right out of college. We knew, just
knew
, we’d all have amazing marriages, wildly successful careers, huge mansions, and beach houses in Maui by the time we were thirty. Reese and Matt are the first casualty, the first reminder that nothing has gone the way anyone planned. My life certainly hasn’t.

But I really can’t complain about any of the curveballs I’ve handled. Although I would still like to put in a request to sleep past 7:00 a.m.

The hardest part is all of this is happening to the kindest person I know. Probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Anytime I’ve needed her, Reese has been there, encouraging me with supportive words or even just helping me to see the gentle humor in a tragedy. If anyone deserves to have the white picket fence fantasy, it’s her. I know people say life isn’t fair, but this is really unfair.

I know she’ll be great. I know the kids will be fantastic. I know she’ll be enough of a mother to them, they won’t depend on their father. I know all that. But the hole in my heart still aches for her and the kids.

And a small part of me wonders when the hell I went down the rabbit hole. I mean, Reese is getting a divorce and Julie’s dating someone who, from all available information, appears to be normal. There must be a portal to this alternate universe in Sara’s diaper bag or something.

Friday, December 5

1:20 P.M.

Can this week get any worse?

I’m sitting here in my office, trying to go over the floral design concepts of pink peonies and white roses for the breast cancer fundraiser, but I cannot concentrate because Mule Face decided everyone in the office needs to get into the Christmas spirit and is blasting holiday music. We’re going on hour number five. Christina’s on vacation, so she isn’t here to yell at Mule Face and make her turn it off.

She’s turned on a radio station that has already started playing Christmas music round the clock. Normally, I enjoy me some Bing Crosby and Tony Bennett singing carols, but after about an hour and a half the station ran out of song titles. It started recycling the old ones, playing them on a loop, so I’ve gotten the extreme pleasure of hearing each song three or four times.

I’ve also been trying to brainstorm Jake’s gift for Christmas, but my computer keeps eating my Internet Explorer. Every time I try to open the Internet, to research my Super Seekrit Christmas Gift, my hard drive decides it hates technology and shuts down.

Not to mention Mule Face has busted out her horrid Christmas sweater collection, complete with knit images of Rudolph, decorated with sequins and velvet buttons. She has also been pushing gingerbread cookies on everyone and reminding us her makeup line is a great stocking stuffer.

I think I’m—wait.

My ears are officially bleeding. It’s Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime.”
Again
.

I’m so going over there and smashing her radio against the wall.

1:38 P.M.

Stephan in Accounting beat me to it. He told her, “If you don’t turn off that godforsaken music, I’m going to strangle myself with a strand of twinkle lights.”

She laughed and tried to flirt with him, until he made fun of her cat poster. And if there’s a deal breaker for Mule Face, it’s someone who doesn’t adore photos of Mr. Kitten Star, her cat.

4:30 P.M.

Mule Face has driven the entire office to drink. We’re all going out across the street to O’Callaghan’s for a drink. Or fifty.

11:30 P.M.

Bad.

Saturday, December 6