People I Want to Punch in the Throat (21 page)

She stomped off to the end of the field, where she could get as far away as possible from me.

I watched her go and felt stupid.
What the fuck is a nerve pill?
I wondered. Then the whispering moms came up beside me. One put her arm around me and said, “Phew, that was a little rough, huh?”

I nodded.

The other one opened her handbag. “Need a little something to help you feel better, sweetie?” She offered me a little blue pill.

Holy shit! I was in. I looked at the little blue pill and then into the woman’s lifeless eyes. I heard Stacy call out, “You’re doing wonderful, Jaxon! I’m getting some great action shots for your scrapbook!” I realized I had no desire to scrapbook or bake or work out—with or without pills. And no pill was going to give me a sense of style or gorgeous carefree braids. I didn’t want to take a pill that would turn me into a cleaning zombie (although I’m sure the Hubs wouldn’t mind). I liked my mood swings, I liked my sharp edges, and I liked feeling angry and scared and excited and angry.

I also realized that Xanax and Adderall aren’t
my
mother’s little helpers. I’ve been downing my drug of choice for years without ever realizing it. I’m not a pill popper. I’m a stress eater.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll just take the rest of those muffins.”

Before I had kids I’d heard grumblings about the Mommy Wars. I assumed it was working moms versus stay-at-home moms. I was sure the working moms complained that the stay-at-home moms ate bonbons and watched soaps all day, while they toiled in the office. The stay-at-home moms complained that the working moms loved their careers more than their kids. What I didn’t realize then was that the Mommy Wars are so much more than working moms versus stay-at-home moms. It’s just not that black and white anymore. Mommies don’t compete only over who has the toughest job in the world; that would be too easy. We all “chose” our jobs and have made peace with our choice. We’re tired of competing over that shit. Now we want to compete over the one job we have in common: mothering. Now the Mommy Wars are all about who can out-mom their neighbor.

The judging is no longer about who spends the most time at home with her kid or who has the most important job; it’s been ratcheted up to who can breast-feed the longest and in the most unusual places (or positions—have you seen the viral picture of the naked mom standing on her head breast-feeding?), or
whose child is the busiest or the smartest or sometimes the dumbest (yup, moms compete over that shit, too), or who can make the most adorable lunch that their kid will end up throwing away.

The battlefield for these Mommy Wars is the only common ground where all of these women come together for a brief afternoon: the elementary school carnival. It’s the only place where the moms will be forced to “politely” interact with one another. So they put on their phoniest smiles, reach deep into their arsenal of passive-aggressive put-downs, and take their child to the school to make some damn memories.

I had the pleasure of working at the carnival once, and it was nuts. These women didn’t use guns or knives to fight their war. They didn’t need to—their words were deadly enough.

I started the day at the check-in booth. My job was to make sure that everyone who came through the door had paid to attend. The day before, the carnival committee had sent home wristbands in the kids’ backpacks. The kids were supposed to wear the wristbands as proof of payment. I noticed a family come in and none of the kids were wearing wristbands. I approached them and said, “Hi, welcome to the school carnival. Do you have your wristbands?”

“No,” the mother replied, “we never received them.”

“Hmm, that’s strange. They were supposed to go home in your oldest child’s backpack yesterday.”

“Well, we never got them.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me just look at the list and see if there’s a note or something.” I pulled out the master list and asked for her last name.

“Cooper-Wells,” she said.

I scanned the list and found the Cooper-Wells family on the
list. “Here you are. It says you’ve paid. I can just get you some new wristbands.”

I was about to go grab some new wristbands when she stopped me. “We don’t need
new
wristbands, because we
never
got them in the first place.”

“Right. Like I said, I’m going to get you some new wristbands,” I replied.

“You’re not listening,” she said. “You keep saying ‘new’ like
I
lost the first set. I didn’t lose them. I never received them.”

There was something about Mrs. Cooper-Wells that rubbed me the wrong way. She was getting on my nerves with her semantics about “new” wristbands. She was so defensive, and I wasn’t even attacking her—yet. I said, “I’m not sure what happened to your wristbands, but either way, I’m happy to get you a
new
set.” Yeah, I can be just as bitchy as the next person.

“You’re not following,” she said. “You see, I’m very organized. I have to be. I’m a working mom. I have systems in place in my house. My children have a routine. They have to, because I don’t have time to dig through their backpacks and go looking for important things. I have to teach them responsibility. It’s my job. I’ve done it well. If Harrison had received the wristbands yesterday, we’d have them today.”

This is when the woman in charge of stuffing the wristbands in backpacks came over to see what the hullabaloo was about. “Everything okay over here, Jen?” she asked.

“Sort of. They don’t have their wristbands.”

“Are they on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so let’s get them some new ones.”

“We don’t need
new
ones,” Mrs. Cooper-Wells interjected. “Because we never got them.”

“Well, my committee and I stuffed the backpacks yesterday, and if your name is on the master list, then your child received the wristbands,” the stuffer said.

“As I was telling her,” Mrs. Cooper-Wells said, pointing at me, “I have a system in place. If my son had received the wristbands, we’d be wearing them.”

Now the backpack stuffer was getting pissed. “If you’re on the master list, then you received your wristbands.”

“I saw your master list. There wasn’t any indication of who received their wristbands, only that payment was received. I would think something as simple as a check in the margin would be helpful in letting you know that you’ve put those wristbands in the backpack. How do you know the wristbands went in the backpack?”

“Because
I
have a system,” the stuffer growled.

Whoa. It was getting tense now. I thought Mrs. Cooper-Wells needed to back down and stop being so uptight about the wristband thing, but I also thought the backpack-stuffing lady was going to quickly cross a line and tell Mrs. Cooper-Wells to fuck off. So I decided to do what I do best: crack an ill-timed joke that’s intended to make fun of myself but really makes the situation worse. “Wow, you guys are both so organized. I wish
I
had a system. My kids just dump their crap on my kitchen floor once a week and I sift through it and hope there was nothing too timely in there. We lose all kinds of stuff. If I hadn’t put my wristbands on my kids yesterday as soon as they got home from school, we wouldn’t have ours, either.”

Mrs. Cooper-Wells glared at me and said, “Children thrive with routine and structure and systems. I can’t imagine
sifting
through my kids’
stuff
once a week.”

Now I was pissed. Who did this bitch think she was?

Forget the backpack stuffer crossing the line;
I
was going to cross it. “You know what?” I said. “Today my job is to check wristbands, and your family doesn’t have any. I’m sorry your system didn’t work and your kid lost the wristbands—don’t even say he didn’t, because we
all
know that’s what happened. Not one other person has come in today and accused us of incompetence. The people in charge of this carnival have worked hard, and if you think you could do a better job, then by all means, please volunteer to be in charge next year. I bet no one will be missing wristbands if you and your systems are in charge. Now, here are your
new
wristbands. Enjoy your day.” I handed her some wristbands and sent her and her gaping mouth on their way.

At that point the carnival chairwoman must have realized I could use a break, and she thought she was doing me a favor when she sent me to the cafeteria to help with the food line.

I found a spot at the end of the line where I could serve up tepid corn dogs and bags of popcorn.

I was immediately lectured by Kay, the first mom to arrive at my station. “I can’t believe that this is what you guys are serving,” she complained.

“Excuse me?” I asked. I always say “excuse me” even though I heard perfectly well what the person said. I feel that by saying “excuse me,” I’m giving them a chance to realize they’re being an asshole, and they can change their attitude for the second attempt.

Kay didn’t get the memo. Instead she said louder and slower, “I can’t believe … this is what you guys … are serving.”

“Well, you don’t have to eat it,” I replied.

“What are our choices, though? My kids are starving and they need food. This barely qualifies. This is just processed garbage on a stick.”

I couldn’t argue with that statement, but did she see me eating
it? No way. However, no one who comes to a school carnival expects to eat kale. What else would you eat at a carnival if not crap on a stick?

I looked around the lunchroom and saw one mom unpacking a lunch box that she’d brought from home. “Ellen brought lunch for her kids,” I said. “I guess you could do that next year.”

“Or next year you could serve something remotely healthy.”

Really? Another helpful comment about how to run the carnival better? Did I look like a fucking suggestion box? First it was Mrs. Cooper-Wells suggesting her systems for wristbands, and now Kay with her helpful menu-planning ideas. I sighed heavily. After years of serving on the PTO, I’ve learned the most efficient passive-aggressive way to say “fuck you,” and I use it a lot. “You know what? That is so helpful, Kay. We’re always looking for volunteers at the carnival. Maybe you’d like to be in charge of the food next year? Should I go ahead and put you down?” I asked.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that because I’m a stay-at-home mom I must have all the time in the world to volunteer at school,” she said.

“Nope, I wasn’t thinking that at all.” Mostly because I was thinking what a giant pain in the ass she was and how I was so glad she never volunteered at school.

She ignored me. “Well, I don’t. I have a lot I do every day. I’m very busy. If done properly, running a household is as much work as a full-time job.”

“Oh yeah? Do you have systems?” I asked, egging her on. I couldn’t resist. I was bored, and I enjoy a good bear-baiting.

“Systems? No, I don’t have systems. I don’t need systems. I just treat my roles of wife, mother, and homemaker as a job. I set goals for myself and I attain them. I hold myself accountable.”

“Would you ever fire yourself if you didn’t meet your goals?” Poke, poke, poke.

“I know you’re making fun of me, but my job is important.”

“Oh, I believe you,” I said. “I suck at all of my jobs—especially the wife-mother-homemaker one. Mostly because I don’t get paid for it. I tend to put my paying jobs ahead of laundry. Actually, I put my non-paying jobs ahead of laundry, too.
Anything
to avoid laundry,” I said. Yup, I was trying to be funny again. Nope, it didn’t work.

“Well, that’s a shame, because your job as a wife, mother, and homemaker is the most rewarding job you have. Especially being a mother. You’re molding little humans. You’re raising our future leaders.”

I shrugged and said, “Yeah, well, my future leaders won’t be able to do laundry.”

She shook her head sadly. “I know you don’t treat motherhood with respect. Avalynn has told me about Gomer’s lunches. All deli meats and pudding cups. You’re slowly killing your kids, you know.”

I tried to think up a witty retort about all of those preservatives in Gomer’s lunch extending his “shelf life,” but before I could say anything she flipped her hair and was gone—with three corn dogs and a bag of popcorn.
I hope she chokes on that shit
, I thought.

“Don’t listen to her,” whispered the woman next to me, serving up soda. “Hi. I’m Starr. I’ve known Kay since we were in La Leche League together. My daughter, Gaia, is the same age as Avalynn. For all her talk about being mother of the year, Kay only stuck with breast-feeding for three weeks. She thought it was too hard and it interfered with her workout schedule. Did you know that she works out for two and a half hours every day?
Who has time for that? And what’s more important, really—worrying about fitting in your jeans right away or giving your baby the best possible start in life?”

I was too embarrassed to tell Starr I only lasted two weeks in La Leche. Those chicks were hard-core! I had a preemie with a head the size of a racquetball and my boob was closer to a watermelon. Seriously, one boob weighed more than his whole body. I couldn’t stop worrying that I was going to crush him. I quit after two weeks and got my money’s worth out of my breast pump.