People I Want to Punch in the Throat (10 page)

“Your son and another boy will be there, too?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, getting my hopes up. Would that make a difference?

“I’m very uncomfortable letting Evelyn be alone around older boys.”

Older boys?
“Gomer’s six.”

“Plus, now that’s four children you would need to get out in the event of a fire.”

Motherf—

“Okay. How about this? How about you and Evelyn come over? I’ll make some coffee and I’ll buy some muffins and we can chat and you can
get to know
me while Adolpha and Evelyn play where we can see them in a match-free environment while the boys play up in Gomer’s room and never come near the girls,” I offered helpfully.

“I’m not comfortable with that, either,” she said. “That means both Evelyn and I would be in a stranger’s home.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, lady! You’re killing me!

I was at my wits’ end. I just wanted a friend for Adolpha. This was getting ridiculous. What did this woman want from me?

“All right, then you tell me what you
are
comfortable with. Adolpha would like to play with Evelyn outside school. How do you usually make that happen?”

This was my last attempt. If this didn’t work, I was going to tell the woman to go fuck herself.

“We don’t. Evelyn only plays with people I know. And
I don’t know you
.”

I looked at Adolpha, who was ready to cry, and so was I. What a fucking bitch. Who treats people like this? Somehow I missed the news bulletin about the suburban moms who lure other suburban moms into their homes, dope them with tainted coffee, and then steal their internal organs to sell on the black market.

What was this woman’s problem? We are all wary of strangers and concerned about where our kids are going and whom they will be with, but this woman was taking it entirely too far. If she didn’t want her kid to go to a stranger’s house, then get to know me at least so I’m not a stranger anymore. At least offer to meet me at a fast-food playland and risk a staph infection and have a cup of coffee!

It wasn’t just Adolpha looking for a friend. I was hoping to find another mom or two that I could relate to. I’d love to have a friend or two to hang out with while our girls trash my house. Obviously this woman was not going to make the cut and receive the other half of my BFF necklace.

I didn’t know what her problem was. Maybe she truly was afraid of strangers. If she was that afraid, then she needed professional
help. Also, she needed to figure out a nicer, kinder way to explain her phobias, because I couldn’t help but take it personally. She didn’t want to go to
my
crappy tinderbox of a house and be exposed to my predatory son and his friend. And worst of all, she didn’t want her daughter to be friends with
my
daughter.

“You know what?” I said to her. “You’re right, you don’t know me, and let’s keep it that way, because I’m exhausted by you. I don’t want to know you and hear about your fire safety drills and whatever else keeps you up at night. But the one who is really missing out is Evelyn. Adolpha is the kind of friend everyone wishes for. She is fiercely loyal, funny, and a little bit zany. Your kid would be lucky to have Adolpha in her life, but she missed that chance because her mother is a lunatic.”

I threw my nose in the air, grabbed Adolpha’s hand, and stormed off toward my car praying to God that I didn’t stumble in a pothole and embarrass myself any more than I already had. “Don’t worry, Adolpha,” I whispered. “I will be your best friend.”

“But you’re so old,” she whined.

“Yeah, but I have money. I take my best friends shopping. Let’s go and buy something great.”

“Like a puppy?” she asked hopefully.

“Don’t push it, kid, or I’ll make Gomer my best friend.”

I never send my kids to camp in the summer. Not because I don’t have the money, but because I don’t have the organizational skills to do it.

Do you know how early in the year you have to register for summer camps? It is unbelievable. I just get the Christmas decorations packed away when my inbox starts filling up with reminders of fast-approaching deadlines for summer camp. And it’s not like choosing a camp is an easy decision. There are dozens to choose from. My kids could go to a different camp every day if I could afford it.

Here are just some of the many camps we have to choose from:

Soccer

Baseball

Basketball

Football

Golf

Tennis

Racquetball

Swimming

Cheerleading

Ice skating

Dance (ballet, jazz, tap, interpretive, water ballet, competitive jazz aerobics)

Swimming (competitive and synchronized)

Diving

Gymnastics

Tae kwon do

Karate

Fencing

Hockey

Kindermusik

Art classes (painting, sculpture, drawing, pottery, etc.)

Computer classes (animation, robotics, programming, etc.)

Instrument lessons (violin and piano seem to be the dominant ones right now)

Math Monkey

Kumon

Foreign languages (Spanish, French, Chinese)

Scouts

Daisies

Cooking

And I know I’m missing a bunch.

The possibilities are endless. Adolpha could take an advanced hair-braiding course at the community center while Gomer learns Chinese calligraphy. But only if I get off my ass and figure out what we’re going to be doing in six months.

Six months? That’s a long time away. I barely know what I’m
doing next week; I can’t possibly plan for six months from now. What if an all-expenses-paid trip is offered to us and Gomer’s already enrolled in pizza-making camp? Plus, my children’s interests are fickle. How can I be sure Adolpha will still be interested in attending Robotics for Grrrls in six months?

Also, we all know that even though there are thousands of camps offered every summer, there are only a handful that are really sought after. I don’t know who decides each year what the hot new camps will be, but someone does and word spreads fast to everyone except me. I’m always the last to know, and then I’m scrambling to try to get my kids in cool camps, too. If I want to get Adolpha into dressage camp, then not only do I have to plan our calendar six months out, but I also have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to get online and make sure I get one of the few coveted spots or else she’s going to end up in mime camp—and try explaining mime camp to a five-year-old. Good luck!

When Adolpha was about three I let the pressure get to me. I fell for the hype and enrolled her in dance camp, which was supposed to be
the
camp that year. It was my first experience with “girl moms,” and I blame them. Totally. In case you don’t know what a girl mom is, I’ll explain. A girl mom is more than just a mom with a daughter. A girl mom is someone who takes her girls to a whole new level of girliness. She usually dresses her newborn daughter in tutus and little socks that look like high-heeled shoes and quickly moves her into faux fur. I am not a girl mom, but by the time Adolpha was three it was readily apparent to anyone watching that Adolpha
wished
I was a girl mom. I was raising the girliest girl on the block. I had a toddler on my hands who literally ripped clothing off her body Hulk-style if it wasn’t “pink enough,” wailed for sparkly high heels, and rocked tiaras and wild tights most days. If Adolpha didn’t look exactly like the
Hubs, I would have wondered if perhaps the hospital had accidentally switched babies and I was raising some random girl mom’s baby while she struggled to raise a girl who wanted to wear overalls and sensible shoes.

I encountered these girl moms at a playdate at a neighbor’s house. We’d been invited for a “teddy bear tea party” playdate. (Girl moms like to give everything a theme, even playdates. It helps the hostess plan snacks and lets attendees know what the expected attire is.) The little girls were off giggling in the playroom eating their custom-made teddy bear cupcakes when Rose, one of the moms, complained, “Who’s ready for tomorrow?”

A chorus of groans resounded around the room. I was flummoxed.

“Oh, it’s going to be awful,” sighed Melody, the hostess.

“Last year I barely got Kenadi enrolled,” said Lori, the woman next to me. “I was second to last. I couldn’t believe it.”

I tried to figure out what they were talking about. What had I missed? School enrollment? No, it was January, so that was still a ways off.

When Melody saw my confused expression, she said, “Oh, Jen! I forgot you were here! You probably have no idea what we’re talking about. We all attend dance together. We’re planning on enrolling in Ms. Tiffani-Anne’s School of Dance Super-Duper Summer Blowout Dance Camp for Little Hoofers.”

Ohhhh yeah
. I forgot: a girl mom usually has a history of dance in her past and is anxious to get her little darling on the boards as soon as possible.

“Is Adolpha a dancer?” asked Lori.

“No. She’s three,” I replied. No three-year-old should ever
classify herself as anything—she’s barely human at that point—but especially not a dancer.

Everyone chuckled, but I could tell from their side glances at one another that they were not amused.

“Jen, wouldn’t you
like
for Adolpha to be a dancer?” Melody asked me.

“God, no! Why would I want that?” I exclaimed before I could filter myself.

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” I said, trying to fix my blunder, “dancers are kind of a mess. I read a book about ballerinas when I was ten years old and every single one of them was a binger and a purger and cheated at school so she could keep dancing. It made me realize that I never wanted my daughters to be ballerinas—or anorexic. I’ve seen that dance show on TLC or whatever with the fat woman who yells at the little girls. Those kids are like eight years old and they look like harlots when they dance. I have no desire to raise my daughter for a life on the pole. If it’s not ballet or pole dancing, what other kind of dancing is there? I guess maybe she could clog, but the hair on those girls looks like an insane amount of work, and she’s half Chinese and her other half isn’t Irish.”

“Jen, do you know how I know everyone here today—except for you, of course?” Melody asked.

“No.”

“We were all Jazzy Jaguars together in college.”

I choked on my tea biscuit. “What the fuck is a Jazzy Jaguar?”

“Only the greatest college-level dance team in the southeastern United States,” said Melody.

“Our senior year we won the Southeastern United States Regional
Dance Competition—Small to Mid-Sized College Division.”

“The awards were great, but we got so much more than that out of dancing,” said Lori.

“Poise and athleticism,” mumbled Rose as she stuffed another muffin in her mouth and brushed the crumbs off her no longer poised and athletic belly.

“Mental toughness,” said Melody, moving Rose’s plate out of her reach and giving her hand a pat.

“Friendship,” said Lori, smiling at Melody and Rose.

That’s what did it. That smile. Sure, these women annoyed the hell out of me and intimidated the crap out of me. I could never invite them into my cluttered home for a non-themed playdate where I’d serve boxed cookies and non-organic juice boxes. I could never go with them to get drinks at the newest, coolest, hippest bar in town—mostly because I had nothing to wear to such a place. I was a lost cause, and some days I am perfectly okay with that. But that day I worried about my daughter. I’d chosen a path of not giving a damn for myself, but was it fair to force that on Adolpha? She obviously wanted more. She wanted poise and athleticism and mental toughness and ridiculous fluffy costumes. But most of all, she wanted friends. I could hear her playing in the next room and I knew she was having fun. She wanted to belong to a group and to find girls she could grow up with. I knew that meant I’d have to get along with the mothers, but I was willing to do that for Adolpha, because that’s what mothers do.

“I want in,” I said.

“What?” asked Melody.

“How do I sign up? I want Adolpha to be a dancer.”

“I thought it wasn’t something you wanted for her,” said Rose.

“Dancing was never anything I’ve been interested in, but I think Adolpha would love it. I don’t want her in some half-assed program. If we’re going to do this, I want to be in the best. Is Ms. Tiffani-Anne the best?”

“Of course she is!” said Melody.

“You have to be serious if you’re going to join,” said Lori. “Ms. Tiffani-Anne is not for the casual dancer. She only takes the best.”

“There’s a tryout?” I gasped. Adolpha could barely walk in a straight line—how would she make it through a tryout?