Not Ready for Mom Jeans (16 page)

And each day like this that stacks upon the previous one, I start think that staying home would be an attractive option. But I’m afraid to make such a huge decision when so many other things are happening, and without proper sleep. I don’t want to give in just because of a few bad days or sleepless nights. Because if there’s one thing that I’ve learned so far, it’s that the grass might be greener, but there’s probably dog crap hiding in there somewhere.

But this time, it’s not Sara’s evil teeth or family health concerns that are causing the sleep deprivation, it is also due to a lovely gift from my aunt Kristen.

My aunt Kristen is a wonderful woman, who loves Sara dearly. So much so that she always buys her presents. Lavish, expensive, generous presents. Sometimes she doesn’t even give them to us in person, sometimes they just show up on our doorstep, like gifts from Santa.

Well, Monday I came home from work and found a huge box on our doorstep. Excitedly I tore open the box and found inside one of those music activity centers. It’s this thing Sara’s supposed to play with that makes a bunch of noise. It’s for when she’s a little older, so I stored it in the back of our closet.

At four in the morning, the thing awakened us out of a deep, comalike sleep by beeping, whistling, and playing a song that has now seared itself into my very cerebral cortex. Jake stumbled around in the dark and finally located the stupid thing and turned it off.

Just as he lay back down in bed,
Do Do Do Dee Da Doo Dee Dee
dee!

This time, it was my turn. I yanked on the light switch and he groaned and threw the covers over his head. I ripped open the closet door, and just as soon as I picked the godforsaken thing up it stopped.

An hour later, it went off again.

Satan himself was punishing us. It’s a sign of the End of Days, I swear.

Last night, after it went off for the second time, Jake put it in the hallway of our building. We figured any thieves were welcome to it. We slept great until around 3:00 a.m., when our alky neighbor Champagne Wayne came home and drunkenly tripped over the thing and passed out on top of it. We woke up to Butterscotch howling at the front door; we knew it had to be serious if it made our cat leave his pink feather boa bed.

We walked out in the hallway and found Champagne Wayne, signature purple leisure suit and all, sprawled out in front of our doorway with the stupid music going off. Apparently, he also broke whatever internal off switch the thing had and now it just plays continuously. We quickly threw the thing down the garbage chute and prayed it would find some other family to torture.

Reese said, “Just wait until you start to get toys that require batteries. Of course, the gift-giver didn’t buy batteries and do you think your three-year-old wants to wait until tomorrow to play with her new toy? So, you end up going out in a blizzard, desperately searching for eight D batteries. It’s always people who don’t have kids that buy that stuff, too.” I immediately thought back to what I bought Grace for her second birthday: a Disney karaoke machine requiring something like sixteen batteries, and realized it was not Satan punishing us but rather God, with his infinite humor and ass-biting Karma.

“And wait until you get things like Bratz dolls,” Reese continued. “That’s when it really gets scary. Or when Sara wants to wear makeup and dress in low-rise jeans at two.”

“God, our toys used to be so much more harmless, right? My favorite toy when I was little was my Barbie Bubbling Spa, the hot tub for Barbie.” I twisted the phone cord of my office phone around my index finger.

“Who
didn’t
have that?” She laughed.

“It was also educational. It taught me patience, since my mom never let me play with it because it required full use of the entire bathroom, like three gallons of water, and fifteen towels to clean up all the excess that spilled out.”

“Or how about Operation? That was a good one,” Reese said.

“See? That taught self-soothing skills. Playing that game nearly caused me an anxiety attack every time I played it. I still hear that shrill buzzing noise sometimes in my nightmares.”

“No kidding!” She paused, then continued, “So, how’s your mom?” Her tone was light.

“She’s great, it’s the rest of us who are falling apart. But we’ll know more soon! I’m sure everything will be fine!” I tried to gather my strength and inject my words with a shred of cheer, but my efforts fell flat and sizzled around me like bacon grease.

“You know I’m here anytime you need me,” Reese said quietly.

“I know.” I nodded into the phone.

“I’ll keep praying, but you’re right, she’s going to be fine.”

“Thanks,” I said.

After I hung up with Reese, I called my mom under the guise of getting her opinion on kid toys that make noise.

She said, “You guys are getting off easy so far. You loved this puzzle which made car noises. Except it didn’t have any batteries. It was powered by an internal nuclear power cell and would go off anytime anyone opened or closed a door in the house. Eventually, your father took it outside and banged it on the ground over and over. It didn’t work, though. It kept going off. It basically won.”

“So, just Karma again, huh?” I said.

“Sounds like it. Sorry!” she said.

“So … how’s everything?” I asked.

“Doctor’s appointment on Friday,” she said evenly. “We’ll know more then. I’ll figure out my radiation and chemo schedule and all those kinds of things.”

“OK,” I said. I didn’t really know what else to say.

“Clare?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Remember what I said, everything’s going to be fine.”

My eyes welled up. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” I said with a laugh.

“You never really stop being a mom. Even when your kids grow up. You’ll see,” she said.

Part of me wants to post something about it on my blog, but a larger part doesn’t. Most of my readers are so supportive and I’d love to hear stories from others who have gone through the same thing. But the 1 percent of people who read my blog seemingly just to find things to blast me about, people like jen2485, it’s like they don’t deserve to know. So, I’m not going to say anything for now.

Besides, I really don’t want wifey1025 showing up on my front doorstep wearing a pink shirt, pink breast cancer pin, and, undoubtedly, with pink handcuffs to use to restrain me while she breaks my kneecaps, à la Kathy Bates in
Misery.

Not to mention my readers have more than enough material to discuss, since I just posted about Julie’s blind date. Now there’s a heated debate happening over rodeos: Cultural Expression or Hillbilly Tradition?

Monday, May 5

The Gods are appeased.

Sara’s tooth finally broke through and the non-stop screaming has ended.

Jake is still quite cranky from the lack of sleep. Case in point: today I got home from work and found him mumbling expletives at the television.

“Motherfucking cable … no concept of good movies … who writes this shit …”

“Why are you muttering at the television?” I said as I dropped the diaper bag and put Sara in her Bumbo Seat on the floor. I sat down in front of her. “How’s my best girl?” I asked her.

“Because of the stupid descriptions on the guide.”

“Oh,” I said, totally uninterested. Let’s just say this wasn’t Jake’s first rant about our cable company. It’s become like a hobby to him. Bored? Rage about how expensive our wireless Internet is. Nothing to do? Flip out about the occasional digitizing of the TV picture.

“Why do these idiots think they have the right to judge what’s a good movie and what’s not?” He banged the remote down on the end table.

“OK, I give,” I said, and sighed.

“Look!” He pressed the info button on the remote and I read the description of the movie
Road House.
Something about Patrick Swayze as a bouncer.

“Yeah, so?” I said.

“Didn’t you read it? It calls the movie ‘laughable’ and ‘poorly acted.’
Road House
is a great movie.”

“OK,” I said slowly. I turned to Sara and whispered, “Your daddy is nuts.” She giggled. Her laughter made a tiny crack of sunshine in the rain cloud that had been following me around the past few weeks. I hugged her to me, trying to absorb some of her happiness, as Jake continued his tirade.

“I mean, who even writes this stuff? Like, is there some little old man who watches all of these movies to provide a description of them? And why does he think he’s qualified to comment on the quality of the shows and movies?” Jake snatched the remote again. “Look! It says
Legally Blonde
is a ‘heartwarming comedy.’ I think my IQ dropped out fifty points when you made me watch it.”

“So, uh, what do you want for dinner?” I said in a desperate attempt to divert the truck before it fell of the cliff and I was forced to hear another retelling of The Time Our Cable Company Charged Us for HBO Even Though We Don’t Have HBO.

“I don’t know. I’m too pissed to think about it. Whatever you want,” he said, and slumped back against the couch.

I stood there, silently holding Sara, staring at him. He looked up at me and his expression changed. “Jesus, I’m being an ass. Sorry. I’m just …”

“Tired, I know. Me, too,” I said to him quietly as I carried Sara into her room.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” I said to Sara as I changed her diaper later. “For some reason, all men feel cheated by their cable companies. Don’t try to argue or reason with them. Just intercept the bill each month and pay it yourself. Trust me, this will save you countless headaches. There was one time in college when Reese’s husband Matt—the asshole I keep telling you about—went to the cable company office and played the receptionist a PowerPoint presentation on why he felt they were price-gouging.” I started laughing as I thought about him coming back to my apartment, looking defeated when he left with a five-dollar credit and a brand-new premium channel package.

It felt good to laugh. It seemed like it had been years. It made me forget about the thoughts lingering in my head, thoughts I’ve tried so many times to ignore. Thoughts that whisper questions about what the hell I’m doing and why I’m doing it when I don’t have to.

Sara didn’t seem to care. She gazed at a picture on the wall.

“You’ll learn,” I whispered to her.

Tuesday, May 13

“Then, my rash started oozing pus everywhere. My doctor said it was the worst reaction he’s ever seen. So, they gave me a different cream and it finally cleared up. Can you believe it?”

I listened from a safe distance in my office to Mule Face recount her allergic reaction to one of the mail-order face creams she peddles. The same face cream that she tried to sell me sixty ounces of this morning. And suggested I mention in my blog.

Not too bright, that one.

“Clare Finnegan,” I said distractedly as I answered my phone.

“Hey! Are you busy?” my mom’s voice said.

“Not really. Just listening to one of Mule—Annie’s stories.”

“Might not want to call her Mule Face while in the office. Bad idea. Anyway,” my mom continued, “your dad and I just met with my oncologist.”

As she said it, my heart started to pound again, but my denial muttered in my head,
Oncologist. Why does she need an oncologist? Only sick people need them. Oh, right.
…

“And?” I squeaked out as I stared at a tiny gnat landing on my desk.

“I’m having surgery in three weeks to remove the lump. A lumpectomy. Then, I start chemo right after that and then radiation.”

I slumped down a little in my chair.

“Oh,” I said quietly.

“It’s the standard course of treatment. He also said that everything is, for the most part, precautionary, since it hasn’t spread to my lymph nodes, and he expects a great outcome.”

“That’s great, Mom,” I said meekly.

I wanted to be positive, I wanted to congratulate her, I wanted to be strong. But I didn’t know how. I wanted my mom to tell me everything is going to be OK. Even though
she
is the “everything.”

“So, listen. Your father and I had an idea. I’m going to be out of commission for a while, obviously, so … what are you guys doing this weekend?”