Praydon is GF/DF/NF, prefers dinosaurs to LEGOs, and does not watch television of any kind.
Aubrianella is spirited and independent. She enjoys physical play and is currently working on impulse control and using her hands and words for kindness.
Both are available from 3:00 to 3:25 on the following dates: 1/15, 1/16, 2/8, 5/12, 6/27, and 8/15.
All responses will be considered. I will send a confirmation calendar when the playdate selections have been made.
Best,
Meg
To: Megan W.
From: Jenny M.
Subject: RE: Playdate
Hi Megan,
Thanks for putting this out there. Kermit’s avails are below:
1/16
6/27
Would either of your kiddos be able to spare an extra ten minutes? There’s a beautiful path at McArthur Park that Kermit and I love to forest-bathe in, but the loop takes a solid five minutes.
With Love,
Jenny
To: Sarah J.
From: Megan W.
Subject: FW: RE: Playdate
Like I’d ever let my kid go forest-bathing with her—remember in our newborn group when she told me I had a “weak aura” because my milk supply was down? Fuck all the way off, Jenny.
To: Megan W.
From: Sarah J.
Subject: RE: FW: RE: Playdate
Oh, she’s not that bad. Kidding—I don’t even go to McArthur Park anymore because last time I saw her there she tried to get me to eat a raw acorn.
To: Jenny M.
From: Megan W.
Subject: RE: RE: Playdate
Hi Jenny,
Our availability is firm at 25 minutes to ensure the kids stay on schedule. I’m sure you understand.
Best,
Megan
11
Amy
I’m dreading what I’ll say to the kids about Mike being gone. I even Googled “how to tell your kids that you think you might get a divorce because their dumb dad was having an affair with someone on the Internet?” I’ve practiced a very fair speech, where I assure them both that Mike and I will always be on their side, in their corner . . . we just won’t be living together anymore. I am ready, when the right moment arrives, but the sad truth is that the three of us hardly notice Mike is gone. Turns out Mike’s absence was the same as his presence. I took the kids to school. I went to work. I picked them up. I drove Jane to her first soccer practice, and to Mandarin classes.
In the meantime, I also solved everyone’s problems at work. It was like the Ineptitude Awards, and everyone at the office was vying for first place. Dale accidentally forgot to pay last quarter’s commission to our sales team, and I am the one who issued the apology and the checks. Tessa accidentally forwarded an email complaining about a client to the client, and I’m the one who made the phone call apologizing for her. Our Ops team realized they hadn’t accounted for the cost of storage when calculating the MSRP for our cold brew product, and I’m the one who made the red numbers turn black again.
In other words, nothing has changed. If anything, things are a little smoother, because I’m not tripping over Mike’s giant shoes, which he used to take off directly in front of the front door, as though there wasn’t a front hall closet with a shoe organizer right there next to where he left his giant shoes for the rest of us to trip over. I’m not rinsing his toothpaste crust out of the sink or picking his sopping wet towels off the bathroom floor. I’m not wondering if he’ll finally be able to step in to help with pickups or drop-offs. Mike is less of an estranged husband and more like a variable I’d removed from my daily operations.
“WHERE’S DAD AGAIN?” DYLAN ASKS THE THIRD NIGHT MIKE is gone. “Dallas or something?”
This is the moment. The moment for me to jump into my speech, to tell the kids the truth about their parents’ marriage and to quell any fears before they can take root and turn them into adults who follow jam bands on tour. I swear I was about to tell them, but Roscoe interrupts us by walking directly into the kitchen cupboards. Like, right smack into them. Now, he’s a dumb dog, but not that dumb. Our little buddy looks confused, and a little unsteady on his feet. Bam! He walks into the cupboards again.
“Is he . . . drunk?” Jane asks, and I instinctively check his water dish for beer, which Mike has been known to share with him on occasion. Nope—just water.
“Roscoe, buddy? You okay?” I ask him, because I am a person who talks to my dog like he might be a person.
Roscoe staggers a bit, and then falls.
ROSCOE IS OUR FIRST BABY. HE WAS MIKE’S FRAT DOG, A weird little mutt who wandered up to the front door of their frat house one day and never left. He was the chapter’s unofficial mascot (hence the beer), but there was never a question that when Mike graduated, Roscoe was going with him. But Roscoe’s college career was cut short when I got knocked up, and Roscoe moved from the frat house into the tiny apartment that Mike and I shared. He spent my pregnancy curled up protectively beside me, resting his head on my belly.
Roscoe and Dylan were best buddies right from the start. All the grainy digital photos we have of Baby Dylan, taken with our state-of-the-art three-megapixel camera, feature Roscoe’s scraggly mug. Roscoe cried if Dylan cried, which was cute until it was annoying. Roscoe became a living vacuum cleaner, sucking up every Cheerio, raisin, or teething cracker Dylan dropped. When Dylan didn’t like dinner, he’d tip his entire plate toward the ground, raining smooshed peas and chicken on a very happy Roscoe. Roscoe went from Mike’s dog to our dog to Dylan’s dog. But not just a dog, because Roscoe isn’t just a pet, he’s a pillar of this family. The kids and I would be fine without Mike. But without Roscoe? Hell no.
JANE AND DYLAN STAY SHOCKINGLY CALM WHILE I carry Roscoe to the car, wrapped up in his favorite blanket. Dylan even opens the door for me so I can put our little buddy in the front seat. “I love you, Roscoe,” he whispers, fastening his old bike helmet under Roscoe’s chin. It’s weird and sweet and maybe the only thing that keeps me from bursting into hysterical tears.
Roscoe looks so small and scared, even with a helmet on. Jane and Dylan wave from the porch, and I give them a weak thumbs-up and then dash off a quick text to Dale and Tessa.
Family Emergency
Will take the team call from my car
I never text and drive, but I sometimes happen to see the text messages I’m receiving while I’m driving if the phone is already screen up and unlocked and the kids aren’t in the car and I’m already running late for everything. Okay? I admit it. I looked at my phone, and I really wish I hadn’t.
We’re your family, too, Dale replied, and my shoulders shot up to my ears. As if he’d anticipated my physical reaction to his text, he quickly sent an addendum.
Hope all is okay, tho. U know I love family. A photo followed, of his godawful forearm tattoo, an illegible script that he insisted said FAMILY, but looked more like a series of loops created by someone who had never been taught to read or write cursive.
Oh no! Tessa replied. Xoxoxoxxo
The thing about team meetings is that they are completely useless. Anything that requires the presence of more than four people and lasts more than thirty minutes is guaranteed to be a waste of everyone’s time. Once, I calculated that these weekly meetings cost us about ten thousand dollars in productivity. When I brought this to Dale’s attention, he rolled his eyes, “Oh my God, Amy. That’s such an old-school way of thinking. You can’t put a price on connection.” Maybe not, but there is no connection to these meetings, unless you count everyone on their laptops iMessaging one another about their weekends or commenting on Dale’s collection of outdated ironic T-shirts. Still, I dial in to the weekly call, Roscoe whimpering next to me. Nobody notices when I dial in because nobody is ever listening at these meetings. I hear bits and pieces of conversation: someone is still hungover, someone else is still wearing the clothes from yesterday. Someone is finally watching Game of Thrones and doesn’t get what all the hype was about. That’s because, someone else pointed out, it was way overhyped. An argument breaks out, and then, apparently, Dale enters.