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It makes sense that Eva worries about the future, especially with Mom sick and Dad caring for her. But I don’t think this is just about me. It’s about Eva, too. She’s trying to see what would happen to her.
If I got sick, who would take care of her? If I died, where would she go? Questions she’s smart enough, perceptive enough, to ask. Questions that must worry her when she lies in her bed in the dark.
But I don’t want Eva worrying, as I know what it’s like to lie sleepless in the dark, the mind racing, thinking, imagining.
I worry that if something happens to me or my company, we could lose our house.
I worry that maybe I am too different from other moms and that my way of thinking, doing things, will harm rather than help Eva.
I worry that if I couldn’t care for Eva because of illness or death, she’d be completely uprooted—and yes, she could have a good life with Shey (her backup guardian), but Shey isn’t me.
Maybe everyone worries about these things—death, illness, disaster—but when you’re single, you can’t complain that all the pressure and responsibilities fall on you. Of course they fall on you. That’s what I wanted. To be in charge. To have control.
The funny thing is, I don’t have that much control. I never did. I just didn’t know it back then.
It’s nearly eleven and I’m just about to fall asleep when the phone rings. My first thought is, Luke.
My second thought is, Don’t let it be about Mom.
It’s Tiana, actually, and she’s just returned home from an industry awards dinner and she’s in a chatty mood.
“Have you read Nora Ephron’s latest, I Feel Bad About My Neck?” she asks, not even bothering to check and see if maybe she woke me up.
“No,” I mumble, flopping back into bed.
“It’s brilliant,” she continues blithely, “and you’ve got to read it today.”
“Tits, it’s after eleven,” I answer grumpily, thinking that it’s fine for Tiana to suggest I go buy something I have to read today when I’m forced to read Eva’s How to Be Popular in secret every afternoon just so I can stay a chapter or two ahead of her. “Even Barnes and Noble is closed now. And my neck is fine. My neck looks great.”
“That’s because we’re still in our mid-thirties. The turkey neck comes in the mid-forties.” She pauses, takes a thoughtful breath. “Apparently forty-three is the magic age.”
“Thanks.”
Tits pauses again. “You okay?”
“I’m good. Just sleepy.” It’s eleven, Tiana. E-l-e-v-e-n.
“So what have you been reading lately?”
Tiana is the bookworm. All she ever wants for her birthday or Christmas is a gift card for more books. Rubbing my eyes, I try to clear my head. What is the last book I’ve read? “I’ve been reading about how to get popular.”
Tiana snickers. “You want to be popular?”
“Shut up.”
“You, the one voted most likely to burn down the school?” She laughs harder, before stifling her fit of giggles. “Okay, seriously, the point of me mentioning Nora’s book is the chapter on parenting. Even though I don’t have kids, I thought it really nailed the whole parenting craziness going on in the world, because even here in La-La Land, parents have gone crazy. Parenting here is a profession. A calling. You wouldn’t believe the articles in newspapers and magazines this year looking at this whole phenomenon of alpha moms and helicopter parents.”
“What’s an alpha mom?”
“An overachiever mom, a mom who takes charge of everything, including the kids’ world, school, teachers, everything.”
I think of Taylor Young. Alpha mom. “Ephron’s book sounds good. I’ll look for it.” I yawn again. “So are you still coming this weekend?”
“You better believe it.”
The next morning, Robert chuckles when I tell him I’ve got to spend my lunch hour at Points Elementary photocopying the school newsletter. “Now that’s a wise use of your time and talent,” he taunts me as I head out the door.
“It’s not my choice. It’s part of my volunteer job,” I answer, grabbing my keys and wallet.
Chris glances up from his computer screen. “You know a man would never do that.”
“I know.” I flash a smile and wave good-bye.
Mrs. Dunlop, the school secretary, greets me as I walk into the school office. “Let me show you the way,” she says, rising from behind her desk. As she leads me to the copy room, she whispers, “We saw Eva’s hair. I know it was for a modeling shoot, but it’s short, isn’t it?”
I plaster a smile. “It was a surprise.”
“You didn’t know ahead of time?”
“No.”
“It’s just that she had such beautiful hair.”
I just nod. What else can I say?
Another mom is already in the copy room, pushing buttons, keeping the massive copier running. When she looks up, I’m delighted that it’s Kathleen, the woman from the cotton candy booth.
“You,” Kathleen says with a smile of welcome.
“Yep. You’re stuck with me again.”
Mrs. Dunlop leaves us, and Kathleen explains the system. “We’re copying four hundred and eighty of everything. I’ve already done the green cover sheets and the orange Halloween letter. All that’s left is the lavender page, which is the library, chess club, and soup can info, and the cherry-colored page, which has the play info. Then we start laying it out all, stapling it together, and start counting them out for each class.”
I survey the enormous stacks of paper towering everywhere. “We’re to do that all in an hour?”
“Whatever we don’t finish gets passed on to the next set of mothers.”
It’s tedious but easy work, and Kathleen and I talk as we finish copying and then start collating and stapling.
Kathleen lines up the next stack of handouts. “Thank you for coming in. This is a horrible job to do on your own.”
“You volunteer a lot, then?” I ask.
“As much as I can. It helps pass the time.”
“You have a son, right?”
She nods. “Our only one. It took us four years to make Michael, so when I discovered I was finally pregnant, I really wanted to stay home with him. And I have.”
“What did you do?”
“Hard to believe now, but I was actually a vice president with a big accounting firm.”
I pause and flex my fingers, which are getting numb from stapling so much. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
Kathleen shrugs tiredly and laughs. “Now the only thing I count is Scholastic book orders.”
We start in on the next pile of copies. “Do you ever regret staying home?”
She shrugs. “I think there are always regrets, no matter what we do. But after seven and a half years of being home, I’m comfortable with being a full-time mom. Not that I don’t sometimes envy the moms that have managed to keep their career. Working moms have it better.”
“You think?”
“Working moms get recognition and perks that stay-at-home moms don’t. Paychecks. Promotions. Expense accounts. Travel opportunities. Job reviews. All of those things validate the professional in the workforce. But for a mom who stays at home with her kids, who recognizes her? What are the rewards?”
“But your husband appreciates you, right?”
Kathleen’s expression turns wry. “He’s a man. You know what I mean?”
I like Kathleen. She, like many of the moms at Points Elementary, has the obligatory rock on her ring finger and shimmery foiled hair. I don’t know what she drives, but I imagine it’s a spotless luxury model, and these are the perks the stay-at-home mom gets: shiny hair, white teeth, big house, nice clothes, great skin, good body, new car.
It’s a trade-off, of course. Working moms are harried, their cars frequently dirty, their voices a tad shrill, their skin a little more lined, but they do get paychecks and bonuses and travel perks. They get to escape the domestic mundane for goal-settin
g meetings and sales calls and consultations, whatever they might be.
One life isn’t better than the other. They’re just different. Each woman must decide what’s right for her in life.
I couldn’t not work. I had a taste of being trapped at home when I was on maternity leave after having Eva. After just two weeks, I started to go crazy. I had too much time on my hands. Too many hours in the day to fill. I hate watching TV. I didn’t want to look at another magazine. And I missed thinking about something other than my baby, my leaking breasts, and my wild mood swings.
At work I suit up, pull back my hair, and I’m a brain, not just a body.
At work I have ideas that are good, valuable, influential.
At work you have to respect me.
For the stay-at-home moms, where is the respect? How many men really respect their wives? How many men understand the sacrifices their wives are making to keep the house clean, and raise the kids well, and make sure dinner’s always on the table, warm and waiting?
A half hour later, we’ve finished stapling and counting the copies for each class, and Kathleen and I grab our coats and keys and head out.
“You do this every week?” I ask as I button my coat. Clouds have gathered overhead, and the sky is dark, threatening rain.
