Maybe not as impressive, but it feels damn good.
“MOM? DAD?” I CAN SENSE JANE AND DYLAN ON THE OTHER side of the office door. I can see them, like X-ray vision of the heart: they are in their dad’s college T-shirts and the matching pajama pants our family gets from my mom every Christmas. They are pressed to the door, waiting for a clue about what they just heard. Are Mom and Dad fighting?
Mike projects his hearty, room-filling laugh.
“One second, guys! Your klutzy mom knocked some stuff over in here trying to clean up this dumpster. Don’t come in . . . uh, broken glass!”
Of course he’d make this about me.
“Go to bed, sweeties! I’ll be in soon for tuck-in.”
I hear them, sense them, backing away, making incredulous eye contact at each other.
For someone who is allegedly smart and successful, Mike is a fucking idiot. How hadn’t this doofus known what he was doing? How hadn’t he realized that he was playing with our family, that he could ruin everything? Or had he realized it all along, and just not cared?
I am out of my body, watching Mike on his hands and knees, gathering up files and pens and knickknacks as if this had been an accident. As if this had just been an act of my physical klutziness, and not his emotional carelessness. As if once all the glass was vacuumed up and the papers re-sorted, I’d go tuck in the kids and put in my retainer, and he’d crawl into bed next to me, warm and familiar.
THE NIGHT MIKE AND I MET, I’D PUKED ABOUT THIRTY OUNCES of half-digested Natural Light on his feet. He’d been wearing flip-flops, and while most college boys would have turned that into a story about a girl they never spoke to again, Mike had held my hand and walked me right back to my dorm room. He’d stayed with me in the kitchen until I’d downed a whole bottle of red Gatorade, and then used my hot plate to make me a cup of instant ramen. He’d been sweet, and I remember thinking to myself, This boy is special.
Mike loves our “how we met” story. He loves to be the one to tell it, to repeat it even to people who had heard it before. It’s his testament to how much he’d loved me, right away. “This girl,” he always says, “is so special I’d let her puke on my bare feet any day.”
Where had that boy gone? When and how had he turned into this kind of man? And what the hell is going to happen to my marriage? To my family?!
I roll my head, cracking my neck, and summon the internal power of every mom who had ever come before me. The redness creeping up my neck begins to cool. The tears dry from my eyes. I open the office door.
“Get the fuck out.”
* * *
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Dale
Subject: WTF do you not have wifi at home are you not getting my texts
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Dale
Subject: AMY. DUDE.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Dale
Subject: Okay. I get it. Power move.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Dale
Subject: What if this were an emergency, you’re my emergency contact
To: Amy Mitchell; Mike Mitchell
From: McKinley Soccer Club
Subject: Welcome to the team
Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell,
We are pleased to announce that your daughter Jane has earned a spot on the MSC 12 and under team. We are looking forward to a competitive season, and to bringing home the hardware this fall in our first state tournament. Please click here to accept Jane’s spot on the team, and to place your $500 deposit.
9
Principal Burr
889.
That’s the number of days I have left at McKinley before I retire. Not the days that will pass on a calendar until I retire, but the number of workdays where I am required to show up, wear a suit, and sit behind a desk I have strategically placed to ensure my computer monitor is never visible to anyone but myself.
I’ve spent twenty-three years at McKinley. Some things are always the same: the toilets on the first floor are clogged by kindergartners who require one roll of toilet paper each to wipe their butts. There’s always one inter-teacher feud that requires me to mediate an argument that could have been easily resolved by one of them not commenting on the other’s haircut or teaching style. There are always a few naughty kids. And a few parents who are much worse.
For the past seven years, that parent has been Gwendolyn James. Her husband is fine. I think. I’ve never met him, but his donation checks always clear. Gwendolyn, though, is what we used to call “a real piece of work.” Gwendolyn James is our PTA president, but she won’t call it the PTA because she has anointed herself the Queen of Everything. Gwendolyn James is why our teacher’s lounge was replaced by a “feelings room” for the kids. Now our teachers sit on a few couches in the lobby. Which Gwendolyn has renamed the foyer.
Gwendolyn canceled Valentine’s Day and Halloween but insists the children celebrate the winter solstice. Last year, she spent the entire school year developing a Study Abroad program. When I mentioned that studying abroad seems to be an inappropriate endeavor for children who can’t blow their own noses, she accused me of being a xenophobe. Me! She’s the one who insists that every classroom have a “foam in, foam out” hand sanitizer policy, as if the kids are all performing brain surgery.
Gwendolyn is why I’ve routed every email that even vaguely references Gwendolyn or her Mom Squad to land directly in my trash can.
Because if Gwendolyn really wants to run this school for free, what do I care? If she thinks we should be the first school with a space program, or wants to launch a capital campaign to start a circus school within our school for kids whose bodies learn better than their brains do? Okay! In 889 school days, I’ll be done with McKinley, and until then, I’ll be playing solitaire.
* * *
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Cathy M.
Subject: Screen time
Hi Mamas!
A gentle reminder that many of us at McKinley are practicing a screen-free lifestyle for our children. While not everyone is interested in the research (which I’ve shared before) that proves that screen time is eroding our children’s attention spans, socialization skills, and peace of mind, please do respect that not everyone places their children in front of an iPad after school and do your best to help us provide a consistent childhood experience for our children while they are at your house for a playdate.
Sincerely,
Cathy
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Brittany J.
Subject: RE: Screen time
Thanks, Cathy. Might I also add that the squad spent a lot of time preparing a screen time contract for all incoming kindergartners? A contract that we and our children signed before they entered the kindergarten room? Please be in touch if you need your copy, Gwendolyn has filed them all alphabetically according to college graduation year in our shared drive.
Best,
Britt
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Jessica C.
Subject: RE: RE: Screen time
Is this for real?
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Emily P.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Screen time
Yes, Jessica C., this is for real. It’s a for real waste of time trying to police everybody’s parenting when the group hasn’t even addressed whether or not we’re going to ban Hop on Pop from our kindergarten reading list for inciting violence against fathers!!
To: McKinley Mom Squad