Sway of West

Chapter One-2

Women over 40 tend to go in two separate directions when it comes to their wardrobe, to stretch or not to stretch. I’ve chosen to stretch. There is not one article of clothing in my closet that doesn’t stretch or have an elastic waistband. Unless you’re built like Olive Oil, a woman’s body demands forgiving material. I can’t waste time feeling painfully constricted in my own clothes, this is why my heart has always belonged to Lycra. I mentally give the double middle finger to silks and linens, and select a pair of basic black stretchy work pants. Wiggling them over my hips takes more effort than normal.

“Fuuuuuuuck meeeeeeee.”

I didn’t think it was possible to fat-bomb myself Funfetti-style out of the patented ‘Bliss Comfort’ waistband found within this specific pair of pants, but apparently it is.

The familiar sign of weight gain is surprisingly only mildly depressing, in fact, it barely seems to register at all. The reality is I don’t have time to do anything about it, so why bother. I throw on a dress instead, add some tinted moisturizer and a swipe of mascara with hopes that it will overcompensate for the baggy eyes, and run my fingers through my hair. As a last ditch effort, I add a pair of silver chandelier earrings to work double-time, not only as an accessory but also a distraction from my lack of effort to beautify, and head down the hall to wake up Hurricane Jess.

What’s it going to be today?

Half of the time she wakes up in the most loving mood humanly possible for a three year old, and she’s full of compliments and sugary sweetness, saying things like “I love you, mommy.” or “Those earrings are beautiful, mommy.” The other half of the time she wakes up a possessed toddler demon who will stop at nothing to remove and shatter your insanity. Today, she’s not feeling any love whatsoever. In fact, if I look close enough, I can find a pair of pint-sized horns protruding beneath that beautiful, curly dark blond hair. For starters, she’s hiding herself completely under the bed sheet. Not a good sign. This maneuver essentially means one of two things: A) that she does not want to get out of bed and/or B) does not want to go to school.

“Do I go to school today?” she asks in a surprisingly angelic voice while pulling back the covers.

But, I’m not fooled. I know it’s a classic toddler bait and switch tactic. I tread lightly, silently praying I’ve misread the demonic signs up until this point.

“Yes, babycakes. You have school today, and I think you may even have water play! Yay!”

I’m grossly enthusiastic in my delivery, and it seems to buy me time before the evil side emerges. But there’s another hurdle directly behind the school exchange. You see, every single waking hour of every single day Jess wants to wear her black dress with the pretty flowers on it. It’s clearly her favorite, it’s two sizes too small, and unlucky for me, it’s also in the dirty clothes pile. I relay this information as delicately as I can, but it’s no use. The lower lip takes its familiar protruding position, and the pouting starts. Moving to the floor, she gets into the downward-facing toddler demon pose with her forehead pressed against the carpet and her butt in the air. And I know what’s coming next, it’s what I affectionately call the ‘death scream’. I’ll present her with some clothing options, and she’ll present me with defiant blood curdling shrieks in return.

Her level of skill is impressive, the Screen Actors’ Guild would unanimously agree she’s an Outstanding Performance by a Toddler in a Leading Role nominee. I imagine all the jealous, young actresses in Hollywood trying to perfect their scream for some role in a low budget horror film and smile to myself. This kid nails it every day, sometimes twice a day, and in the most quietest of public places if I’m lucky.

I give an ultimatum that I’m going to pick the outfit out for her, a fate worse than death, and we compromise on a white floral jumper. With the flick of a switch, she goes from maniacal belligerent toddler to 35 pounds of pure love, complete with compliments and kisses.

We progress downstairs to tackle the final stretch of morning preparations, breakfast, and potty time. I used to savor potty time, netting myself about eight minutes of quality one-on-one time with my cup of French Roast coffee while Jess does her business. I’d be serenaded with random and seemingly never-ending songs about fabulous days, pancakes, and orange sparkle socks, all while sipping on hot, luxurious coffee. But, lately that’s all changed. Being the anxious and always rushed mom that I am, I made the abhorrent and utterly inexcusable mistake of handing her the toilet paper before she was ready.

Once.

One time, this happened.

One time!

And she’s not going to let me forget it anytime soon.

“Mommy. Give me your hands.” she says matter-of-factly, perched on her throne complete with a pink seat and matching stool.

“Darling. Mommy wants to go drink her coffee.” I reply with matching sweetness and a forced smile, already well-aware that I’m going to lose this battle, too. I’m painfully still serving my sentence for the premature toilet paper delivery that happened weeks ago.

“You need to give me your hands until I’m done, Mommy. Let me take my time.” she states adamantly.

Being the control freak that I am, it becomes undeniably obvious during moments like these (eight moments, give or take) that I birthed a control freak, just like myself.

Does anyone else’s kid do this kind of thing? Is it only my kid?

All I want to do is sip my coffee while it is still somewhat hot, but I won’t mentally survive back to back rounds of death screams. Feeling defeated yet again, I let out an overly dramatic sigh, give her my hands, and stand there listening to her sing her songs. My smile shifts from forced to genuine, and I shake my head watching this perfect little angel, who I love so much, take her perfect little s**t. I would move heaven and earth for this child.

Jess gives me the all clear and I wipe her clean, wash our hands, and we head for the kitchen. The singing hasn’t stopped, it’s now progressed into an arrangement that includes her school friends Becca, Bonnie, and Jillian, and is taking on volume. My daughter loves potty time solely for the opportunity to focus on her song creativity and to sing in a room that has adequate acoustics. Meal time provides an entirely different experience for her audience. The singing now carries emotion and vibrato because, to put it simply, she loves to eat.

I place her in the high chair and prepare the oatmeal. Her latest melody has evolved, incorporating lyrics about diaper wipes and water play, and is now including dance moves. The top half of her body is a whirlwind of activity, arms and fingers fully extended, which I imagine she’s doing intentionally to help open her diaphragm to sing even louder, if that was possible. Only I know that once I hand over her oatmeal, the uncontrollable Celine Dion arm moves are going to ensure that I have lukewarm peaches and cream all over my walls. Not that it matters much. It would likely complement the existing pale droplets of apple sauce and maple syrup stains from last week.

Jess finishes up and naturally there are several globs of oatmeal on her jumper. I wipe off what I can, the concept of an outfit change is rarely considered in this household. Exceptions include spilling her juice all over herself or not making it to the toilet on time. She’s just going to get dirty anyway, and I can’t be bothered with trying to have a perfectly coiffed child at all times. No mother has time for that, it’s not realistic. And let’s face it, I’m a pretty far cry from being perfectly coiffed myself, so why even bother.

We both call out our goodbyes to Myles and Jess skips off to the garage. I trudge slowly glancing around erratically trying to make sure I remembered to take every possible item needed to get through a day that is dedicated to everyone but me. Hot pink backpack complete with chicken nuggets, yogurt, snacks, and sippy cup? Check. Overly stuffed laptop bag that’s determined to give me early-onset arthritis? Check. Black leather Marc Jacobs bag that I’ve faithfully cherished for the last 7 years, and holds everything (Excedrin, tampons, lip gloss, earbuds to block out annoying coworkers, and emergency Skittles) that may be needed to deal with today? Check. Futuristic travel coffee mug that is marketed to keep hot liquids hot until the end of time? Check.

Only the coffee won’t be hot by the time I get to it. The marketing scheme is total bullshit. I love hot coffee, and I love iced coffee, but I can’t stand the taste of room temperature coffee. It sucks, just like trying to eat cold McDonald’s french fries. You know it’s going to suck but you eat them anyway because you need french fries. And I need caffeine, so I’ll drink the goddamn coffee.

How the f**k else am I supposed to get through today, and every other day that follows?

Jess requests “Let It Go” for the car ride, and we manage to listen to it twice before arriving at daycare. Her singing is still going strong, only it’s no longer a Jess original, but the lyrics of an excited and refreshed Elsa saying sayonara to all of her troubles. I can’t remember the last time I felt excited or refreshed about something, it's been years. Three and a half years to be exact. But, it doesn’t matter. Elsa is excited, which makes Jess happy, and that’s what matters. If that means I need to listen to “Let It Go'' 47 times in a row to make her drop-off go smoothly, then you can bet your a*s that this mom-of-the-year will do it.

We settle inside without a hiccup. She’s quick to smother my face with kisses, squeezing it between two slightly sticky hands, and then runs to hit the door release button. It feels a bit rushed, the only thing missing is her size 7 foot punting me straight in the a*s, right out of the door, and into the parking lot. But it’s better to part ways quickly and on her terms than to risk another round of the death screams.

I always have a hard time leaving her knowing I’m going to be away for the next ten hours. It’s a long day for a three year old, and with a little luck, she won’t smack any of her friends, pee on the floor, or scream out any choice curse words that she may have picked up from a certain mom-of-the-year. I try hard not to say “Jesus f*****g Christ” every time something is more difficult to do than it should be, because it seems like that’s all the time, but occasionally my favorite phrase maaaaay accidentally slip out and land on toddler ears.

Outside of the door, I try to sneak past and avoid the watchful eyes of the Manicure Moms gossiping in the parking lot. It’s no use. I can feel the burning laser beams radiating from their seemingly well-rested retinas and hear voices hush to levels indicating top secret information is being exchanged. They instantly annoy me. Forget about their judgmental tendencies and the unmatched ability to gossip, that isn’t what blows my mind, it’s their flawless image. I can’t fathom for the life of me how one has the time to blow dry their hair, curl it, have perfectly polished nails, and be a photoshoot-ready, 5-star type of mom who bakes scones and has time to iron bed sheets. It would take me at least 20 minutes to blow dry my hair, and I just don’t have that kind of luxury time, nor the tricep muscles to hold a hair dryer up over my head for that long. I would skip the shower entirely if I could rely on dry shampoo, but my Italian descent and dark, oily hair would never, ever let that happen.

Maybe deep down I’m jealous that I’ve never been a Manicure Mom. I’ve always been more of a realist, and that goes for every aspect within my life. Those Mani Moms, in their non-stretchy, pressed silk Talbot blouses, aren’t fooling anyone. I have to believe that every mom at drop off this morning had to have gone through a similar s**t-storm like the one I just went through. No mom in this universe could possibly have their all-encompassing, collective s**t together.

Little kids are essentially young wild animals, and no perfect-parent facade is going to make me think otherwise. Wishing for a dose of reality, I say a small prayer to the God of Obnoxiously Polished Manicure Moms asking for their faux-casual, hairspray drenched up-does to snag a yellow jacket while driving their mom mobiles with crumb-less interiors, causing them to take out a string of mailboxes. And just the thought of it puts a smile back on my face.

The engine rolls over, the clock comes alive indicating it's now 7:15am. I’ve been awake for two hours and not one single minute has been dedicated to me. It’s been more than three years now, and everyday I still mourn the concept of Me Time. Gone are the days when I could enjoy things like reading, binge watching Jersey Shore and BH90210 reruns, completing Sudoku puzzles while soaking up dangerous levels of sun exposure at the beach, and quite possibly the most rewarding, sleeping in past 6am.

Maintenance and operational type tasks don’t count as Me Time. Things like commuting, showering and getting ready, making dinner, and cleaning are excluded, they’re too much like work. Some women say that they love to clean their house, and the statement is absolute nonsense. They’re confused, likely a result of being sleep-deprived and grossly under-caffeinated. To be clear, a woman likes her house to be clean, but she doesn’t want to have to be the one cleaning it. Give any woman a choice to scrub skidmark stains out of a toilet or hit TJ Maxx, and you can be sure she’ll choose TJ’s every single day of the week.

The urgency to get to work builds, the squishiness in my lower intestine prompts me to reluctantly put the car into gear. I don’t check my phone for any work-related urgent requests. I’m sure they are there, but I can’t be bothered calling anyone back while I’m driving. I don’t have enough brain power to drive safely down the road while having a productive conversation with someone. Even with bluetooth, it’s a lose-lose situation. I’ll drive hazardously, miss out on 75% of the conversation, and need to repeat the same conversation over once I sit down at my desk, anyway, so there’s no use.

I attempt to nose my truck into traffic but it’s a sea of frenzied, puckered assholes driving bumper-to-bumper on the road this morning. Important assholes in Porsche Panameras, planet-saving assholes in electric cars, and assholes who are likely hung like field mice driving obnoxiously lifted trucks with monster truck-sized tires. I wait until some kind soul waves me on, taking pity on the mom trying to leave the daycare parking lot. I’m grateful for these people, I truly am. Living in New Jersey, the percentage of decent, courteous drivers on the road is about 10%. I’m 100% pulling this estimate from my own asshole, but after driving these roads for all of my adult life, I’m absolutely a credible resource.

The asshole on the radio mentions an accident on my route and I know the drill, I’ll be delayed by at least 30 minutes, which now makes my ride an awesome hour and a half. Already, I can see that Assholes will be the perpetuating theme of today.

“f**k meeeeeee.” I grumble.