“Hey, everyone!” I shout. No reply.
“So,” Dale starts, “you’ll notice that Amy isn’t here today. I know, I know, it’s disappointing.”
“I’m actually HERE. I’m dialed in. I’m on my way to the vet’s off—”
“Amy’s got her reasons, I’m sure, but I just want to make sure that everyone else here at the CoCo is really here, that we’re all here to make the world a better place.”
I give up, not even trying to fill the awkward silence that has apparently filled the room. There are murmurs of agreement from around the table.
“So, that’s my update. Who’s next?”
I swear I can hear Dale’s stupid smile. This is the first semi-work-related thing he’d contributed to a meeting in ages. The past few weeks, his updates have been about renovations to his pool, or his spot on the waitlist for a solar-powered jetpack he had backed on Kickstarter.
I mute the phone while I park the car and scoop Roscoe up from the front seat. I keep it on mute while I explain the situation to the vet tech, while the vet tech takes Roscoe into another room, and while I sit in the waiting room, uh, waiting. One by one, I hear more updates that aren’t actual updates. There are a lot of words being used, but nothing being said. I hear mumbling about creating alchemy and finding equilibrium, about identifying pain points, but nothing that even remotely corresponds to the meeting agenda, which I write and distribute every week.
I unmute my phone, because I actually do have updates. And I need updates. And then I get one. My phone buzzes, and like the Pavlovian dog I am, I look down.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Gwendolyn James
Subject: Everything Okay?
Hi Amy,
Just checking in to make sure that everything is okay on your end. You’ve been noticeably absent from the Mom Squad this year, and we’re all missing your contributions! As a mompreneur, I know the challenges that come with trying to balance the professional obligations with your personal calling as a wife and mother, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.
One of my personal mottos is that when life gives you too much to handle, it’s best to open your arms even wider and say, “More, please!” By simply stating that you are capable of handling more, you will be able to handle more. The abundance mind-set will truly transform your ability to manage your time and make you a happier, healthier mother to your children.
With that in mind, I’ll see you at tonight’s meeting. The start time is promptly at 5, and the program should last no longer than 3.5 hours, accounting for social time and questions and answers. Please arrange for childcare for Dylan and Jane. I know that Mike is staying at the extended stay out by the airport right now—staycation?—but my nanny has plenty of referrals if you need any help in the interim.
All the best,
Gwendolyn James
@GwendolynJamesStyle
Download my eBook, Rich Mom, Loser Mom, here!
The sound that emerges from my body is halfway between a growl and a scream.
“Did anyone hear that?” I hear Dale ask.
The adrenaline coursing through my veins is making my hands shake. I can actually feel my heart beating. Is this what dying feels like? Is this what Roscoe feels like? Oh my God, Roscoe. I hang up the phone, suddenly very aware of my surroundings, which include a very concerned-looking vet tech standing in the doorway of the waiting room.
“Ma’am?” she says in the voice she probably uses for dogs before she euthanizes them. “Is everything okay?”
I mean to say yes, but sometimes, when I’m really upset, I can’t tell where my thoughts end and my voice starts. Was I really telling the woman who castrates dogs for a living that my husband has left me and my boss hates me and the moms at school all know that I’m a loser and that this dog is the last thing holding me together? Yes, I am. Am I really letting her take me by the hand and lead me back into an examination room so I won’t disturb the other patrons, who are starting to look concerned? Yes, absolutely. This angel of a human hands me a tiny paper cup of water and rests her hand on my shoulder.
“Okay.” She smiles. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.” Before I can panic about what the doctor will tell me, there’s a light knock on the door and the vet enters, holding Roscoe like the sweet little baby he is. I brace myself for the diagnosis. I take in Roscoe’s big, dumb eyes and his unbelievable eyelashes. I briefly wonder if it would be weird to have him taxidermied (yes).
Roscoe looks at me like he has already been briefed on the situation. His eyes are sadder than usual, which means it’s probably cancer. And this is why people buy health insurance for their pets, because when the doctor tells you that your dog needs chemotherapy and radiation you’re not going to say no, you’re going to hand over your credit card and spend many thousands of dollars to keep that little fur person alive as long as possible.
Dr. Omar takes a deep breath. “It’s vertigo,” she says, setting Roscoe on the exam table. Roscoe tips over on his side, like he’s been blown over by a stiff wind. I scream like I’ve just found my favorite brand of frozen lunches on supersale at Target. And then I start crying, like they’re out of my favorite recipe and I’m on my period.
“Roscoe!” I kiss him on the lips, which I know is disgusting given what I’ve seen him do with that mouth. “You have vertigo! I’m so happy you’re not dying! I’m so happy you don’t have cancer!” I pick him up in my arms and sway back and forth.
“I’m prescribing him some sedatives to take the edge off, but it should pass. It’s just something that happens in older dogs. Here’s a sample to get him through until you can fill his prescription.”
Dr. Omar is halfway out the door when she adds, “It’s the same sedatives doctors prescribe to people having extreme anxiety . . . if that information is useful to you.”
12
Carla
I’ve been purposefully avoiding any and all mom-related school activities since Jaxon started kindergarten and the teacher was like, “Make sure you each sign up to be a classroom volunteer at least three times a month!” All the other moms were ready to cut each other to get to the sign-up sheet and I thought, Isn’t that your job? How the shit should I know how to get twenty-six kids to pay attention to reading? I can’t even get one giant kid to sit still while I get my nails done. My volunteer work is spending every other week just keeping this kid from eating the nickels he finds on the floor of the car. Ask his Dad to volunteer his time. He’s got almost two months of sobriety and a court order to complete three hundred hours of community service before he can get his license reinstated.
I’d been so excited for Jaxon to start kindergarten, especially at McKinley. The moms at the spa were always talking about how desperate they were to get in, how competitive the lottery system was for open enrollment, and how impossible it was to find a house in the district these days. These moms were obsessed with McKinley and all the ways it was going to benefit their children. There was a nutritionist on staff supervising the hot lunch program, a music therapist there to help the kids express themselves through song. Several language immersion programs, so that your kid could learn Mandarin or Spanish or for some reason, German? Most of it sounded boring as hell to me, and I know this sounds like the cheesy kind of thing you only hear on TV, but anytime I looked at Jaxon’s dirty little face I just wanted him to have every opportunity in the world, even if they were opportunities I didn’t understand. But there was no way he’d get them. McKinley was a school for rich kids who had rich parents like the ones whose crotches I was always waxing. Jaxon would go . . . I didn’t know where.