Momfriends (30 page)

I'm surprised to hear either one of them talk this way. I think they are both trying hard to make it look easy, as if their way works so well. But the fact is, sometimes it is just hard. And I'm glad they are admitting that it's the nature of the beast.

"Do you want to maybe go sit in the living room where it's a little more comfortable?” Claudia asks. By now, I think my ass is asleep from the hard wood of her chairs.

“I thought you'd never ask," Kirsten says. She consolidates the remaining snacks and dishes onto a tray and grabs that in one hand and my pasta salad in the other. She starts to walk into the living room. I don't think the transfer of finger food and colorful stainable drink was what Claudia had in mind in her perfect living room.

“Um,” she starts. But she is talking next to Kirsten's deaf ear. And Kirsten keeps on going. I freeze and wait for instruction. She looks at me and shrugs. "Whatever, right? Grab the drinks. I’ll get the glasses."

Kirsten is sitting on the floor of the living room, so I join her. Claudia sits on the couch. Kirsten starts divvying out the remainder of the snacks. I pour the drinks. It's not the job I wanted. I am petrified I am going to spill on the pristine rug.

We hang out drinking and chatting. Our talk is flowing a little more than it did the last time. It's hard to imagine we have anything in common, but we do. We all read the same neighborhood blogs and we all happen to love and love to hate Martha Stewart. Both of them are keeping up with the amount I’m drinking. And I'm glad. I'm tired of feeling like the lush. It's hitting Claudia. Hard. She slides off the couch and onto the floor. She looks liberated. Her voice is getting louder and her movements are getting a little wilder. She is gesturing wildly in a story about some Jesus freak on the subway and she bumps into my glass of watermelon margarita.  Some spills onto her immaculate off white rug.

"Oh, Claudia, I'm so sorry," I say.

"I'll get some water or do you have seltzer?" Kirsten asks Claudia, sensing the urgency.

"Yes, in the fridge, but really it's fine. We are actually going to get rid of the rug anyway. I decided the other night that I am sick of my furniture. I want something more colorful."

"I can't believe I spilled."

"No, ladies, it's ok. Kirsten, sit down. Ruth, don't worry. It was my fault, I can't hold my liquor."

"That may be true," I say. "But I usually clutch my drink a lot tighter. No one is getting it out of my hand. I can totally pay for dry cleaning or steam cleaning or whatever you do to a rug like this."

"What you do is wonder how you got yourself a white rug that you never feel comfortable letting your kids play on. And then one day you wake up realizing it's like the white rug your mom had that you were petrified of ruining. What's even the point of it all?  I mean it's just a rug, right?  I'll show you what you do with this rug."

She grabs the remaining quarter pitcher of bright pink liquid, stands up and dumps the whole thing right in the center of the rug. She looks from Kirsten to me with a giant self-satisfied smile. 

I don’t know how to react. With this and our chat the other night, I suspect Claudia might be losing her mind. She seems to be having these deep "what's the point of life” kind of moments. This is the thing she probably should have felt twenty years ago.

I look over at Kirsten for some help. If I need to wrestle Claudia into a straitjacket I won’t be able to do it alone. But when I look at Kirsten her eyes are filled with tears, but I realize she isn’t crying. Her mouth is open in a silent scream. She is laughing and finally she takes a breath and it all comes out. She and Claudia are roaring with laughter. Kirsten picks up her glass of ginger mojito (a less staining color for sure) and dumps it on the carpet. Claudia loves this. They both look at me expectantly.

“Um, actually, I want to drink this,” I say, though it may be controversial.

This makes them laugh even harder. And I feel funny again. I feel that they get me, like someone does. Even if it’s only for a minute.

“Oh, oh, oh my God. Peter is going to kill me, but oh,” Claudia wipes tears out of her eyes and then cracks up for another few minutes.

“That was great,” Kirsten says. “Where’s my camera? I need a picture. I actually like the rug this way a lot better.”

“Oh, is it artsy? Do you think it’s artsy?” Claudia asks, suddenly getting serious. She says artsy as if it’s a style, like art deco or modern or something. This gets us all laughing again. My stomach and face are beginning to hurt. Kirsten gets up and runs into the bathroom.

“I need to pee. Three kids later, I need to pee. Oh, I always need to pee.”

“Wow, I don’t know that I ever –” Claudia stops herself and searches for the word. “Laugh.”

That makes me really sad. I want to hug Claudia. How could anyone live that way? I am pretty sure that for the most part a sense of humor is what got me through the toughest times in my life. I think it’s even helping me deal with being a new mom now.

Kirsten comes back in with her bottle of wine. “Anyone want to actually drink some of this?”

“I will,” Claudia says. “And you know, I think I want to go outside and grill up that chicken. I worked pretty hard on the marinade last night, and I want to see how it came out.”

“Ok, but I’ll grill it. You guys have done enough,” Kirsten says, still not comprehending the lack of effort I put in my pasta salad. “You should relax.”

Out in Claudia’s backyard it’s breezy. Claudia lights the grill and gives Kirsten a pair of tongs to turn the chicken. She hovers for a little while and I expect her to be a backseat griller, but eventually she sits down next to me and we clink glasses of rosé. Kirsten snaps a picture of it. She is double fisting her camera in one hand and the tongs in the other.

When the chicken is done, we eat it sloppily off the bone. My fingers are covered in sticky barbeque sauce, and I lick them off. I notice that Claudia watches me and then she does the same. She is a student now of how to chill. I smile at her and she smiles back.

“Great chicken,” I say.

“Thanks.”

Then I hear it. Abe’s loud wail. It pierces through everything. It immediately ruins the calm. And it’s embarrassing because I realize that Claudia can probably always hear it.

“It’s ok,” Kirsten says. “I’m sure Steve has it under control.”

“It’s so loud. Maybe I should call,” I say.

“He might want to handle this on his own,” Claudia says.

“I’m not sure he can,” I say.

“It’s trial by fire,” Kirsten says.

“Yeah, men need to learn,” Claudia says. For once they’re in agreement. But I don’t think they get it. I’m finally figuring Abe out. I think I might be the only one who knows exactly how to calm him down. The cries continue. It’s maddening. How could anyone concentrate on anything else?

“Is it always this loud? Can you always hear it?”

“No,” Claudia says. “I’m rarely ever out here.”

“Oh, great. Do you hear it in your apartment?”

“No,” Claudia says, but I’m pretty sure she’s lying.

“When I turn this way, I can barely hear it,” Kirsten jokes, turning her deaf ear towards the noise. “Besides if we hadn’t heard you that day, we never would have met.”

She has a point about that. Abe is showing no signs of relenting. I can tell by the way he is crying that he does not want his bottle.

“I think he wants me.” Claudia and Kirsten exchange a look. “Really I know that cry.”

“We should have done this at your house,” Claudia says to Kirsten.

“Do you think I’m wrong?” I ask. “Do you think I shouldn’t go?”

“You have to do what you feel is best,” Kirsten says.

I look at Claudia.

“I would love for you to stay but if you won’t be able to relax, you should go,” Claudia says. Of all people to tell me to relax, it’s Claudia, who is becoming less uptight since her moondance,

“I’m going to go,” I say.

“Ok, do you want to take some chicken home?” Claudia, the consummate hostess, asks.

“No, thanks, that’s ok,” I say. Kirsten is making no signs of leaving. And why should she? The night is still young. She has a night out and she knows where David is. But I am starting to understand how Claudia feels when she thinks she is being excluded. They are going to party and have fun, and I am going to go home and have Abe on me for who knows how long.

I hug Kirsten good-bye. Claudia walks me out. It takes me less than a minute to get home, but when I open the apartment door, Abe isn’t crying. There’s only Steve sitting on the couch watching the ball game.

“You’re back already,” he asks.

“Where’s Abe?” I ask, slightly frantic.

“He’s in his bed,” he says. “What did you think?”

“We were in the back,” I say. “I heard him crying.”

“What? That’s why you came back,” he says, getting annoyed. “I told you to have a nice night. I said I had it under control.”

“I know you did, but it didn’t sound like he was taking the bottle. I could tell from his cry,” I say, getting annoyed myself, but trying to keep my voice low, so he lowers his. I don’t want Abe to wake up again. And I don’t want Kirsten and Claudia to hear us if they are still hanging outside.

“He took the bottle fine, but he had some gas. And, yes, before you ask, I burped him like they showed us in the hospital. And, yes, I bicycled his legs. He was gassy and he worked himself up, but I worked it out and he’s back asleep. I’m not a complete incompetent,”

“You don’t have to yell,” I say in a loud whisper. “I didn’t think you were an incompetent.”

“You didn’t. Then why do you find it necessary to constantly remind me of all things I already know? Why did you act like I couldn’t handle tonight? Fuck, why the hell did you come rushing back instead of letting me work out my kid’s issues? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

He is really yelling now. And I am about to yell back, but I realize that he has a point. And I think about the way Claudia and Kirsten looked at me when I said I was going back. Maybe I need to let go a little. Maybe I need to let Steve do things his way. Maybe I need to accept that this isn’t rocket science. I’m the mom, but other people can help calm Abe, too.

“You know, you are right, Steve. I am sorry. Sometimes, maybe I want to think I am the only one who understands all the ins and outs of Abe. Like there’s some secret to it that only I know. Because if there wasn’t, what am I doing here? If it’s easy for someone else to figure out all his wants and needs, than maybe I’m wasting my time. Because I can’t seem to do it.”

“Sweetie,” he says, lowering his voice at last. “You’re doing a great job. I think you need to realize that he’s a baby. You know. I mean, I think this sucks sometimes too. Sometimes, I think I have it easy when I go to work. I know it’s draining and your tired, but you are doing great.”

“Thank you,” I say. It’s so nice to hear. It’s being acknowledged that is awesome. “I’m sorry I’m so controlling.”

“You’re not controlling. You’re just a little controlling about Abe. The thing is I’m going to do some things differently, but they might work too.”

“I know,” I say. I sit down on the couch next to him. He puts his arm around me. It’s just the two of us.

“Now I love having you here next to me, but you should maybe take this opportunity to go back to your girly night.”

“I can’t do that now,” I say. It is tempting, but I would feel embarrassed. “And I think I want to enjoy the quiet with you.”

I lean onto his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head. Then I can tell without looking at him what is on his mind. I’m definitely less inhibited after double fisting all night. The tension I felt running back home has left at last.

I sit up and look him in the eye. He raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t want to be controlling,” I say.

“Here we go,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“No, look, I want to do this, I do. I just don’t want you to worry about, you know, pleasing me. I want to do it and it will be done. It’s become this thing that I think about so much. I don’t want it to be as big a deal as I am making it.”

“Well, I’ll tell you after almost twelve weeks, it’s not going to be a big deal. I am glad your expectations are low, because I feel like a virgin again.”

“Ok, let’s do it.”

“Ughh,” Steve says, pretending he had an orgasm. Then he looks at me sheepishly. I laugh and swat his arm.

“Come on,” I say, bossily. I point into the bedroom. “Go.”

“Aggressive,” he says, marching in. “I love it.”

“And I want to be on top,” I say.

“So in control,” he says.

“You might as well take your clothes off,” I tell him, pulling off my shirt.

“Wow,” he says. “We are just going to get right to it, huh? Ok. Shit, your breasts are big.”

“How observant, Sherlock.”

“No,” he says getting serious. “They’re beautiful. And so are you.”

I actually believe him or at least believe he feels that way.

“Thank you. You know, we should have a condom,” I say. “I’m not getting pregnant again. Not yet.”

“Not a problem,” he says, pulling one out of the pajamas he just took off. “I’ve been carrying a condom around everywhere I go for weeks now. On the off chance you decided to hop on top of me. Wishful thinking, I thought, but alas it pays to be prepared.”

“You have?” I ask, breaking my pushy act for a minute. “That is so sweet and romantic in a sad way.”

“I know.”

“It is lubricated?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Well, put it on,” I say. It’s not that I don’t want to be romantic. I want to get over this hump of the first time. I nod and pull of my underwear.

“Wow, ok. The new take charge mom that you are is totally sexy.”

“Thanks,” I say. I straddle him. I hold my breath.

“We’re not going to kiss or anything,” he asks.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. I kiss him.

“No, it’s ok, you can treat me like a piece of meat. The less foreplay the longer I might last. Oh, here we go. Wow, I remember this. Oh, boy!”

And he was right. He is overeager. The whole thing lasts less then two minutes. And it definitely isn’t satisfying for me in a physical pleasure sense of the word. Steve apologizes profusely, making all kinds of jokes about being a teenage virgin. But I’m happy. It’s a sense of accomplishment to have finally done it.