Keep Me Posted (5 page)

Two weeks later, when Quinn spilled chocolate milk on my open laptop, I felt the way I’d imagined I would if that postal worker ever really did let the mail fall victim to oncoming traffic, vomiting vagrants, runaway dogs, the wind, or any other destructive force that might show up at the corner of Hudson and Morton streets. I decided then that I needed another layer of protection. So that night I went to fishfood.com, the same host we’d used at the magazine for our private internal blog, and selected the basic template. I uploaded the scanned letters, organized them by date, locked the privacy settings, and patted myself on the back for having a plan B for my aging MacBook’s hard drive. I thought about how fun it would be to e-mail Sid a link at the end of the year, and spent an hour changing the background color, header fonts, and
page organization. I wanted it to look just right—for the sight of it to give me as much joy as the letters themselves did.

I felt important with my computer and my scanner and my process—a frivolous replacement for the career I missed so much. I had control over something, which was incredibly therapeutic. Listening to myself now, it kind of begs the question, why didn’t I become a mommy blogger like everyone else? The ironic answer is that I was way too private a person for that.

New York

March 12

Sid,

That story about your friend’s cheating husband is crazy. If karma is real, that guy is in for some serious trouble of the genital sort.

Oh, I think River is fine with the one set of grandparents—it’s pretty common, isn’t it? I mean, we hardly knew Mom’s parents. At any rate, he turned out fantastic, so you did something right.

Out of the blue I got a message from my old nanny, Wanda, asking if I knew anyone who needed help on Tuesdays because she has that day free. Well, as it turns out, I do. I need help! So I made a financially reckless but mentally essential decision on the spot and promised her four hours every Tuesday morning.

I barely slept on Monday night, imagining what I would do with that free time. Visions of a clean and organized home, pedicured toes, an exercise-toned body, a fridge full of
premade meals danced in my head. When she showed up at eight thirty, I practically ran out the door and went and had a coffee by myself and then wandered around the neighborhood. It was one of those perfect New York early-spring days that has people walking around smiling at one another like a bunch of cruise passengers. So when Wanda texted to say they were going to the park, I bolted home and did what most New Yorkers do when the weather changes; I switched out the winter with the summer clothes in storage. I still have half of March and all of April to get through, so this
might be
is certainly premature (I mean, it could still snow). But I was in the mood, so when it gets cold again, I’ll have to make do without my winter layers. I got all of the summer clothes up from my storage locker and realized that my summer wardrobe was either pretwins and too small, unwisely worn through my pregnancy and all stretched out, or just plain ugly. I couldn’t find a single item I was excited to wear. So I called Leo and perhaps a tad overdramatically stated my case, and he told me to go ahead and buy some new clothes. (God, I hate having to ask for permission to buy myself clothes.)

Two hours later, the boys and Wanda came home to find me on the floor with my laptop, my ShopBop.com shopping bag overfilled, and surrounded by heaps of unwanted summer clothes. I told Wanda to take as much as she wanted. She took almost all of it, so I had to buy more stuff. I’m a bit sick over putting $3,900 on the credit card—and then I couldn’t send poor Wanda on the subway with two hefty bags of clothes, so I gave her $40 extra for cab fare, so there goes our pizza money for tonight!

You’d think I’d be excited about the new wardrobe, but I just feel sad that the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in weeks has involved online shopping. I never felt this way when I was working. I was busy and productive,
and
I managed to use the toilet when I needed to and ate a respectable lunch every day. Here, I’m busyish and hardly productive, but the toilet and the lunch things seem like absolute luxuries to me now. At my job, stuff happened. Here, it never feels as if anything happens. I’m just trying to survive each day, and before I know it, a whole season has passed and nothing has changed. And then, of course, I look back at pictures of the boys from just a few months ago and tear up at how much they’ve grown. (What is it they say . . . kids make the years fly and the days drag?) And then I hate myself for not treasuring these fleeting moments. If being a mom is my job now, I’m not a very good employee. I mean well, but I’m always screwing it up. The other day I caught myself looking at Quinn doing something asinine and thinking, I’m trying to enjoy you. Now be enjoyable, damn it! The thing is, I felt differently about the boys when I was working. I was good at being a working mom. I was efficient and decisive at work (way more so than I was before having kids) and at home, I was present and just “on,” you know? At least that’s how I remember it, but maybe I’m romanticizing.

Some mornings I lie in bed thinking, I need a change. I can’t do this all-day every-day mommy thing anymore. I’ll psych myself up to schedule a coffee or a drink with an old work contact, to get around to freelancing, but I never do.

Is it too pathetic to wish for something just a bit thrilling to happen to me? I’m so flipping bored all the time. Do you ever feel like that? Some days I wonder if I’m ever going to feel excited again at the sound of Leo’s voice at the end of the day. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine a scenario in which I feel anything close to “in love” with my husband. I mean, I am glad to see him, but mostly because as soon as he walks in, I go out for my run (confession: I don’t run so much as walk around the neighborhood and look into people’s windows at dusk. There’s a house on Morton and two on Charles that I’ve developed a serious obsession with. You should see these chandeliers!).

It’s getting late. I should sleep.

Love ya.

—Cassie

Singapore

March 13

Dear Cassie,

Well, Adrian’s job contract extended . . . It was supposed to be two years, but they said they wanted him here indefinitely. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, I do enjoy living here, but part of the reason I like it is because it’s temporary. It’s like a break from reality . . . My helper, my superrich friends, my weekends in Bali—what’s not to love, right? Only it’s not
home. And I don’t know that it ever could be. I don’t want Lulu to grow up seeing Mom and Dad only once a year. And River will go to college next year, someplace in the US. I don’t want to be on the other side of the world from him. I’ve asked A. if they might change their mind. But he wants to stay. We’re supposed to go to dinner tonight and talk about it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

XO,

Sid

New York

March 24

Sid—

I only have a minute, but re. staying in Singapore indefinitely? No!!! Come back!!! I miss you too much. What happened with your talk??

xoxo,

Cassie

Singapore

March 26

Cassandra Marie—

Are you okay? Tell me you were just having a bad day when you sent that last letter. You do a lot. It just doesn’t feel that
way when you’re with little kids all day. You are their world—don’t forget that. It’s no small thing. As for the new clothes, just enjoy them! What are you supposed to do, walk around in maternity gear for the rest of your life? Your kids are three. BTW, I saw those stretched-out old undies of yours in your pile of clothes at Christmas. I really hope at least four hundred of those dollars went toward lingerie, or at least some suitable knickers. (Another perk of my expat life: I get to co-opt all the words I like from the Brits and the Aussies. Coming soon: “keen” for interested in and “pissed” for drunk.)

Sex is a great cure for boredom, you know. Don’t tell me that you and Leo are all set in that department because I can tell that you’re not. This is something that men understand and a lot of women don’t: It’s not about quality; it’s about quantity. In the spirit of our letter-writing challenge, you should do a sex challenge. Every night for a week, and then see what happens. And if that doesn’t cure your boredom and perk up your marriage, join a book club or something. Or write me more letters. Seriously, Cass—the ripple effect is real. One thing changes for the better, and soon everything is looking up.

Big, big hug,

Sid

New York

April 4

Sid,

This may be what rock bottom looks like. The boys are on their second hour of TV, and I have collapsed on the floor in a quietly maniacal cry-laugh at your sex challenge suggestion. I’m sure this isn’t what you intended, but God, did it make me feel depressed. Every night for a week? It takes us nearly three months to have sex seven times!

I blame several factors.

1. You. You who got the entire skin-elasticity allotment for our family. Maybe if I didn’t have the midsection of a ninety-year-old, I could let my husband see me naked. But I will not! Leo knows something horrible is going on under my clothes and he used to respect that, but now I swear he keeps trying to catch me off guard in the buff.

2. Honestly, I don’t even look forward to it. Sex between Leo and me these days seems like more of a hassle than it’s worth. There are other factors, of course—but they are totally predictable, and I can’t bear to spend the time to write down a bunch of stale-marriage clichés.

Xo,

Cass