Mommies Behaving Badly. Roz Bailey
around watching All My Children while the baby munched Cheerios. “How’d it go today?” I asked.
“Fine.” She closed her fat textbook and straightened from the couch, a marvel in cable-knit sweater and tight jeans that hugged her girlish hips. College…ah, the days of tight young butts and unlimited potential. “But the Dill-man’s not himself,” Kristen added. “We walked up to the playground, and he just about fell asleep on the swings. He didn’t eat much, either.”
“Ear infection,” I guessed.
My son was prone to them, and my mind raced ahead to the chance of catching the pediatrician and getting Dylan seen today, snagging a prescription and getting it filled, all while tending to the girls and dinner and my now-fledgling professional life.
Kristen slipped on her coat, a shiny black waist-length jacket, short enough to show off her outstanding denim form. “He tried to have fun, but he just passed out, head against his truck when we got home.”
“I wonder if I can get him an appointment.” I went into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. “Do you have plans tonight?”
“I’ve got a class.” She appeared in the doorway. “Sorry. Is Mr. Salerno still out of town?”
I nodded as I speed-dialed the pediatrician. “He’s back in two days. And thanks for everything. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure.” She said good-bye to the kids and let herself out. Just then someone answered the line and punched me on hold, which was still better than getting the answering machine. As I waited on the line, I ran through the new agenda for the evening. A visit to the doctor, if we were lucky, where I would lament to the doctor that they should give me one of those ear telescopes so that I could look inside Dylan’s ear, pronounce an infection and write him a prescription. I’d have to budget an extra half hour to circle the pharmacy since parking was so tight at that shopping center. I’d lug the three kids into the store, then I’d cave and stop at some fast-food place and stuff my children with fatty French fries and blissful crispy nuggets that came with a cheap plastic toy to boot. After that, I’d corral them into the dark house and try to move the bath-and-homework program along as quickly as possible so that I could fall into my chair in the corner of the dining room and, while talking on the phone with Jack, go over my e-mails.
The mail and laundry could wait until tomorrow.
As I locked in an appointment with the pediatrician that would have me whipping along the Cross Island Parkway to see a doctor before their office closed, I realized that this level of activity would keep me so busy that I wouldn’t have time to lament over the huge book contract I’d almost snagged this afternoon. No time to cry in my sherry, there were ear infections to cure, Christmas lists to illustrate, homework to finish. In a mommy’s world, all’s well that ends when your children pass out in bed.
Rushing to collect coats and shoes and kids and get them out the door, I passed the day’s untouched newspaper and grabbed a section to read in the doctor’s office. One headline caught my eye:
IS THE MOMMY TRACK A DEAD END?
Ha! Was this another writer telling me I couldn’t have my cake and eat it, too? Those naysayers drive me nuts, even if there is a grain of truth in their message of doom. In the big picture, I’d gotten everything I’d planned for: a fulfilling career, a thoughtful husband, a home in New York City and three adorable children. Bliss was right at my fingertips.
So why was I sponging up spilled juice, wiping my son’s nose and yelling at Scout to get her coat on?
The Mommy Track wasn’t a path at all. It was more like a tread-mill on the edge of a cliff teetering over suburbia.
3
Can Do!
“There he is!” I crowed as my husband walked in the door, looking darkly handsome in his black overcoat, his suit bag slung over one shoulder. “Daddy’s home!”
The children stopped what they were doing and ran to the door amid cries of “Daddy!” “Yay!” and, from Scout: “What did you bring me?”
With a twinge of creaky muscles I pushed myself up from the floor, where I’d been trying to build a tower of Duplos in pink and white, having to beg some blocks from my son, who claimed to need them rattling around in an old shoe box. Kids…They ask you to play with them, then they don’t want to share the damn blocks.
“Look at you all! I swear, you sprouted a few inches in the past week.” Jack kissed the crew, then pulled me close. “Hey, Rubes.” He kissed me on the lips, his gray eyes smokey. My private heaven was in his arms.
“Welcome home,” I said, loving the way I still fit into the crook of his arm. Jack’s five-day trip to visit a few affiliates had stretched out into two weeks when he’d been summoned to Corstar Headquarters in Dallas, simultaneous with Morgan turning up the heat on my getting her the complete manuscript of Chocolate and Lindsay calling to tell me they moved up the deadline for my next romance novel. My “Can Do!” attitude had nearly undone me this time, causing me to get up before dawn to write, then finish off the day at the computer in Dylan’s room, the keyboard clicking away under the dim glow of the monitor. “Am I glad to see you,” I told my husband.
“Oh, yeah?” He grinned. “Single parenting not for you?”
“Mommy lost her marbles!” Scout reported, her gray eyes sparkling studiously. “That’s what she told us. Do you have marbles, Daddy?”
He touched Scout’s shoulder and lowered his voice confidentially. “I lost mine years ago.”
The connection that flickered between them made me grin. When I’d been pregnant with Scout, Jack had come to me to confess that he worried about bonding with the new baby. “I love Becca so much, I just can’t imagine feeling that way about another kid.”
I’d promised him that he’d acquire a unique attraction for Scout, that the capacity for loving was not a finite thing. “I mean, you love a good T-bone steak, but when my mother brings us lobsters back from Maine in the summer, it doesn’t diminish your love for steak, does it?”
“Are we talking kids or entrees?” he’d asked, folding me into his arms for kisses. “You’re nuts, and I love you.”
And I’d been right. When Scout was born, Jack was through the roof with delight once again. And since Scout was a calm, sensible infant who understood the beauty of eighteen hours of sleep a day, our newly acquired parenting skills were more than sufficient. Suddenly, it became my role to school two-year-old Becca in speech and manners while Jack buddied up with Scout. At last, he had a baby of his own, and this one didn’t cry or shriek as if she had a knife in her belly. Mellow, dough-faced Scout was happy to doze off in Jack’s arms while he read the paper, happy to take a ride in the stroller, happy to cruise along with Jack while he ran out for milk or to the car wash.
Six years later, I was glad to see that their bond had only deepened.
“We’ve got your favorite,” I told Jack, who tugged on Becca’s ponytail, “chicken cutlets for dinner.” Simple, breaded chicken breasts was one of the few meals we could all eat and enjoy. Of course, Jack’s mother, Mirabel, would insist on slathering them with tomato sauce—gravy, she called it—and then melted thick slices of Parmesan cheese on the top. And, according to Jack, no one makes gravy like Mamma Mira. I think Mira is still a little horrified at my lack of old-world cooking skills.
“And we made sugar cookies for dessert,” Becca said proudly.
“Sugar cookies!” Jack ran a hand over her cinnamon-colored hair, giving a gentle yank on her loose ponytail. “You know I love those.”
“We’ll help you unpack, and you can show us all your souvenirs from Dallas.” Scout teetered on the stairs, trying to carry up his bag. “Like key chains and cowboy hats…”
“Dylan wants a hat!” He pressed his fingers to the top of his head as he fell up