head bobbed once, but he still didn’t meet my gaze. “Sorry.”
“I forgive you, Charlie bear, but please don’t do it again.” I sighed. “Now, let’s get you dressed so we can get to play group.” The Mommyand Me group I’d been attending since Charlie was five months old was welcoming a new member, Hannah, a former stockbroker who had just adopted an adorable, chubby two-year-old girl from China. She had invited a few mothers over to her high-ceilinged, open-concept rambler for an introductory lunch and play time for the kids.
“I’ll do it
myself
!” he proclaimed. He dashed to his dresser and began yanking out handfuls of clothes I had just folded and put away the night before. He tossed the first batch to the floor, reaching in the drawer for another handful.
“Charlie, don’t!” I said, running over to stop him. He pulled on the T-shirt I attempted to take away from him.
“No!” he said. “It’s my shirt, Mama!”
Oh, dear Lord.
I took a deep breath and stepped back. “Charlie, I am going into the kitchen. I will see you there in two minutes, and whatever you have on, even if you’re still in your undies, we are going to play group.”
He giggled. “Even if I’m
naked
?”
“Yes.” Trying not to smile and thus completely undermine my threat, I gave him a stern look and walked out of the room.
An hour later, we arrived at Hannah’s place with me in jeans and a ratty blue sweatshirt and Charlie in too-tight purple swim trunks and a bright yellow sweater. Four women including myself showed up, and now stood around the marble-topped island in Hannah’s kitchen. Since it was unseasonably chilly, instead of being outside, our children were playing directly off the kitchen in the toy-laden, toddler-proofed “great room,” a space that when I was growing up would have been called the den.
“Cadence, you should come to my party on Friday,” said Brittany, whose daughter, Sierra, was born a few months before Charlie and seemed to hit every developmental milestone—rolling over, crawling, eating solid foods—well before my son. Brittany, like me, worked from home, which I originally thought would be a commonality that bonded us. I soon discovered that while I planned to make my freelancework a career, Brittany saw hers as a scrapbook supply specialist as an excuse to kick her husband out of the house and throw a party. I genuinely liked the other women in the play group, but outside of our children being about the same age, we didn’t really have that much in common. Our relationships remained pretty much on the surface; our conversations centered around the kids. Most of the time, this was enough.
“Oh!” Renee squealed. “You totally should come, Cadence. The new flower hole punchers she has are super cute.” Renee was a former elementary schoolteacher, mother to three-year-old Juan, and prone to using the phrase “super cute” in just about every conversation she had.
“I would,” I said, trying not to visibly flinch, “but I’m on deadline. I don’t think I’ll have time.” When I first met Brittany, I had tried to forge a friendship with her, valiantly attending several of her parties over the past three years. I even purchased some of her company’s products to put together Charlie’s baby book, but only managed to complete the first four pages. And using the word “complete” might have been pushing it.
“What about Sunday’s knitting night?” Renee asked, as she dipped a strawberry into the cream cheese and Marshmallow Fluff dip Hannah had set out with a platter of fruit. “We’re working on a blanket for Hannah’s new edition.”
I gave a faltering smile to Hannah, who kept her eye on the children as they played. “I wish I could,” I said, “but Martin brings Charlie home on Sunday nights. I need to be there.” After watching so many of the other women find satisfaction—joy, even—in activities like these, I sometimes wondered what was wrong
“I forgive you, Charlie bear, but please don’t do it again.” I sighed. “Now, let’s get you dressed so we can get to play group.” The Mommyand Me group I’d been attending since Charlie was five months old was welcoming a new member, Hannah, a former stockbroker who had just adopted an adorable, chubby two-year-old girl from China. She had invited a few mothers over to her high-ceilinged, open-concept rambler for an introductory lunch and play time for the kids.
“I’ll do it
myself
!” he proclaimed. He dashed to his dresser and began yanking out handfuls of clothes I had just folded and put away the night before. He tossed the first batch to the floor, reaching in the drawer for another handful.
“Charlie, don’t!” I said, running over to stop him. He pulled on the T-shirt I attempted to take away from him.
“No!” he said. “It’s my shirt, Mama!”
Oh, dear Lord.
I took a deep breath and stepped back. “Charlie, I am going into the kitchen. I will see you there in two minutes, and whatever you have on, even if you’re still in your undies, we are going to play group.”
He giggled. “Even if I’m
naked
?”
“Yes.” Trying not to smile and thus completely undermine my threat, I gave him a stern look and walked out of the room.
An hour later, we arrived at Hannah’s place with me in jeans and a ratty blue sweatshirt and Charlie in too-tight purple swim trunks and a bright yellow sweater. Four women including myself showed up, and now stood around the marble-topped island in Hannah’s kitchen. Since it was unseasonably chilly, instead of being outside, our children were playing directly off the kitchen in the toy-laden, toddler-proofed “great room,” a space that when I was growing up would have been called the den.
“Cadence, you should come to my party on Friday,” said Brittany, whose daughter, Sierra, was born a few months before Charlie and seemed to hit every developmental milestone—rolling over, crawling, eating solid foods—well before my son. Brittany, like me, worked from home, which I originally thought would be a commonality that bonded us. I soon discovered that while I planned to make my freelancework a career, Brittany saw hers as a scrapbook supply specialist as an excuse to kick her husband out of the house and throw a party. I genuinely liked the other women in the play group, but outside of our children being about the same age, we didn’t really have that much in common. Our relationships remained pretty much on the surface; our conversations centered around the kids. Most of the time, this was enough.
“Oh!” Renee squealed. “You totally should come, Cadence. The new flower hole punchers she has are super cute.” Renee was a former elementary schoolteacher, mother to three-year-old Juan, and prone to using the phrase “super cute” in just about every conversation she had.
“I would,” I said, trying not to visibly flinch, “but I’m on deadline. I don’t think I’ll have time.” When I first met Brittany, I had tried to forge a friendship with her, valiantly attending several of her parties over the past three years. I even purchased some of her company’s products to put together Charlie’s baby book, but only managed to complete the first four pages. And using the word “complete” might have been pushing it.
“What about Sunday’s knitting night?” Renee asked, as she dipped a strawberry into the cream cheese and Marshmallow Fluff dip Hannah had set out with a platter of fruit. “We’re working on a blanket for Hannah’s new edition.”
I gave a faltering smile to Hannah, who kept her eye on the children as they played. “I wish I could,” I said, “but Martin brings Charlie home on Sunday nights. I need to be there.” After watching so many of the other women find satisfaction—joy, even—in activities like these, I sometimes wondered what was wrong
Similar Books
