Chapter 10
I kissed a boy.
Claire
WHAT??? What in the world happened?! You’re in Colorado!
I smile goofily into the phone. My childhood best friend is definitely the right person to tell.
I know.
I need details. Now.
Don’t hate me, but I can’t go into it right now.
Partly because I’m about to meet Sally. Partly because the screen on my phone has decided to act like a rebellious teenager and only work when it wants to. Composing a coherent text now takes several tries.
This is the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me, and that’s saying something since you tied my shoelaces together in the third grade.
I know. I love you.
I’m proud of you. I hope you get to kiss him again.
Claire was the first person I told when I kissed Mickey Ranger on the playground during recess in the fifth grade.
She was my first phone call after the post-homecoming kiss Eddie Watson gave me our freshman year.
Not one heartbreak has passed in my life without Claire to ground me.
It just feels right that I’d text her about my first kiss as a widow. Only . . .
I didn’t feel like a widow.
What did you feel like?
I don’t have to think before I type my answer.
A woman.
A beautiful, desired woman.
You’re torturing me. You can’t give me any details?
No. I love you.
Ten minutes later, Sally sits in the passenger seat of Harlan’s Jeep, looking at me with wide, astonished eyes.
Even if she wants to comment on my music choice, the reverberating sounds of Rush fill the space to capacity.
Harlan had to work today but let me borrow his SUV.
I’m hoping I don’t blow out the speakers.
A few blocks later, I brake at a stoplight, turn the volume down, and grin at Sally.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks through giggles.
“What?” I pull my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and wink. “Tell me you don’t feel better with this song vibrating through your body.”
Her shoulders bounce up and down with her laughter. “Okay. I might feel a little better.”
Yanking the glasses off, I grab her hand.
“Sally, listen to me. This is my last day here, and if you learn nothing else, promise me this one thing will stick.” The left-turn arrow cycles, giving me a few more seconds.
“When Toby poops all over his room and Layla is getting her two-year molars and you’ve absolutely had it with life.
When the dog days of motherhood hit and you aren’t sure why you chose to do this, or if you can even pull off this gig.
When you can’t fill anyone else’s needy requests one second longer because you are on fumes. That. That moment. Are you with me?”
“Yeeeeeesssssssssss.” She leans in and clutches my hand tighter.
“Leave the house. Farm your kids out to the closest human being. Get in your car and push play on this song.” I thrust my pointer finger at the radio. “And just start driving.”
The light turns green. I rev the engine and peel out while Sally shouts a woo-hoo.
“L-o-u-d loud music, Sally. You spend your days watching gentle cartoons and listening to the Playgroundigans.”
She leans out the window so everyone within ten feet of our car gets wind of her battle cry. “I hate the Playgroundigans!”
“Motherhood is a thousand series of just a few minutes that have the potential to make or break you. So if you need this four-minute, thirty-seven-second song to deal with life, you take it.” Our bodies rock forward as I shift gears.
“You remember how long the song is.” With a grin on her face, she shoves my shoulder. “Amazing.”
I used to listen to five different songs for this purpose. The washed-out-mommy vibes were always forgotten within the first thirty seconds of the Rush selection.
As I laugh with Sally, my heart seizes at the thought of saying goodbye to my new friends, their celebrity status not so glaring. But our worlds will never cross. What would I say? Let’s carpool to the Academy Awards?
I dipped my toe into the waters of normal life. I met new people. Hung out with children. Found small pieces of usefulness. Shared a few sweet moments with a man. And now, maybe, I’ll go home and wade a little further into the pool.
I wish I could bring these lovely people with me.
But maybe this path doesn’t have to end here.
Maneuvering us to a parking place, I take an overly dramatic breath. As I pull the brake, I shift my body toward her. “Sally, you are in the battle. You are a mother of two small children, trying to survive each day. And today, we arm you with more weapons.”
Sally’s eyes follow to where my hand points, and she gapes.
The mecca of motherhood, All Things Baby Mart.
Her face shifts to a smile and she shakes her head. “I haven’t come here since I registered for shower gifts.”
“Also, you’ve never been here with me, which I think you’ll find is a game changer.” I snag my purse and exit the Jeep. “Come on. Let’s go make your life easier.”
After I grab a cart, I throw my purse in the kid seat. My phone dings to call my attention to a new voicemail. I must not have heard the ringer over our rebel mom music mix. I sift through my purse contents. Once I find my cell, I cringe.
Stanley.
Okay, I’m officially weirded out by how persistent he’s being over “just wanting to catch up.” Typically, we talk once a month. Maybe twice. I don’t know what to make of this week’s calls.
Sally and I enter the store, and we’re greeted by a mommy-and-me clothing display. The matching Wonder Woman T-shirt and little-girl dress are perfect for Sally and Layla, and I throw them in our cart.
“Has anyone told you that you’re a dead ringer for Wonder Woman?” I ask.
“Oh.” Her face turns red. “Spence thought I should’ve auditioned for the role, but I don’t act.”
Conversations like these, where no one is joking, never cease to blow my mind. “You resemble her even after having two kids. Which I hate you for in the most loving way possible.”
While throwing her head back and laughing, Sally takes over the cart and pushes forward. “Shut up.”
I crane my neck and glance at the overhead signs to get my bearings. “Hold up there, Lynda Carter.”
She pulls the cart to a stop.
“Okay.” Grabbing her shoulders, I narrow my eyes. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind without censoring.”
Sally squares her body to me, fists on her hips. “I’m ready.”
“What thing do you secretly hate but don’t want to replace because guilt plagues you and you’re too tired to think about it? Say it.” I tap her forehead to prod her answer. “Say the thing in your mind right now.”
“My stupid portable crib.” Her mouth forms an O and she pauses. “Wow. I had no idea. You’re good.”
We head to the appropriate aisle.
“Okay, my dear. Pick your very favorite one on the entire earth.”
Sally wiggles her fingers in delight and walks straight to one decorated in psychedelic circles of pink. She pauses with her arms reaching out for the item. “Wait. Do we need to research this?”
I shake my head once. “No way. All you need to understand is this sucker is not the one you hate.”
Someday I’ll write a book about the psychology behind this process.
I don’t have credentials and my theory will be made up, but it will climb the bestseller list because tired moms across America want permission to hate their already-paid-for, perfectly usable portable crib.
Or high chair. Or bottle sterilizer. On any given day, there is one item sucking the life out of a struggling mother, and she needs the freedom to walk away.
Automatic bestseller.
After traveling a few rows over, I stop. The squeaky wheels of our cart announce Sally’s arrival, and she comes to a halt near me.
She sidles up next to me, stance broad with arms crossed, mirroring mine. “I hate sippy cups.” Her seething voice fills the space.
“Preach it,” another woman says from the end of the aisle. “I’m convinced the makers of sippy cups are evil. It’s impossible to find one cup to meet all your needs.”
“Humph.” Sally nods.
Our new friend down the way repeats her affirmation as she strolls closer to join us.
“The worst part is when you find the one that fits in your car cupholders, won’t break, doesn’t spill, is covered with your kid’s favorite character, and allows the correct liquid flow.
And your child will not drink from it. All after spending the money to try eight different cups.
No one tells you sippy cups should be a separate budget line item. ”
Spreading my arms to take command, I begin the evaluation process. “Okay, ladies. Let’s talk.” I pull down each brand of cup, and we partake in sippy cup therapy. After twenty-five minutes of debating pros and cons, we put our new choices in our respective carts.
Our new friend wanders off with her cart, muttering words about investing in the sippy cup industry.
“On to the potties.” I charge a few rows over and push the cart to a stop. “Sally, this is potty dating, a close cousin of speed dating. Answer the questions. Don’t overthink them.”
Covering her mouth with one hand, she glances around furtively, then checks out the choices in front of her. “Did you just imply we’re on a potty date?”
“Affirmative.” I don’t take my eyes off the colorful choices. “Do you want a child seat to attach to your existing potty, or a small plastic mobile one you clean out?”
She shrugs and throws a Lightning McQueen portable potty in the cart.
“Do you want to throw Toby in the backyard naked to tee tee, or use bulldozer targets in your house bathroom?”
Sally pulls the targets off the hanger. “I want these, but Spence reserves the right to throw him in the backyard.”
“Absolutely.” I balance daily, weekly, and monthly calendars across my arms. “Would you prefer a sticker chart or candy as an incentive?”
Her hands sweep over the cover of each chart. “Um, it depends. How long is potty training going to take?”