with me that I only found more excuses not to join them. I felt like I did back in high school, not wanting to be a cheerleader or head up the homecoming committee—I didn’t have a bubbly personality and didn’t care about the theme of a prom. And yet, I ached to fit in with the girls who did, like a hippo trying to fit in with a herd of gazelles.
“That’s too bad,” Brittany clucked. She smoothed her sleek blond pageboy. “It must be so
difficult
to work without Martin there to help out.”
“I manage.” I shrugged and looked down to the floor. These women knew that Martin and I had divorced, but I kept the details to myself. “I need to use the ladies’ room,” I said, rearranging my face into a cheery expression. “Will you excuse me?”
“Down the hall and on your left,” Hannah directed.
I stepped through the entryway and down the short hallway. In contrast to her modern kitchen, Hannah’s guest bathroom was a flashback to the mideighties, painted a pale shade of peach accented with a seashell wallpaper border and bright turquoise hand towels. As I put my hand on the doorknob to rejoin the group, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The space beneath my eyes was bruised from lack of sleep—my best hours for writing came after Charlie was in bed, and these days that time seemed to be getting later and later. My wild curls were pulled back in a clip, but I’d missed several strands and they spun out from the sides of my head like corkscrews. I let go of the doorknob and tried to smooth them, remembering a time when I checked myself in the mirror
before
I went out, not after I’d arrived at my destination.
I sighed. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be here. I should have stayed home and worked on the article about food allergies I needed to turn in to
Alpha Mom
magazine the following week. Play group was more for Charlie’s sake than for mine anyway. Still, I showed up, just like I had for Sign with Your Baby classes and Toddler Yoga. I remained ever-determined to do with my child the kinds of things my mother had never done with me. In September, he would start going to preschool five mornings a week instead of just three, so it was easy to reason we could stop coming to play group then. School would provide him all the play time with other kids he’d need.
Back in the kitchen, I walked past the women toward the great room. “I’m going to check on Charlie,” I said, and the women smiledand nodded, continuing their conversation about the newest Pampered Chef knife set.
My son sat alone at the toddler table, scribbling away on a piece of paper with a thick, blue crayon. I dropped into the other tiny chair, a little horrified by how much of my hips hung over the seat.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, tilting my head so I could see the image on the page.
“ ’Pider-Man,” Charlie said. He was intent on his work and didn’t bother to look up.
“Of course you are.” I wasn’t sure where his obsession with the superhero came from; he’d never seen the movies or watched the cartoon. I blamed excessive product placement—did a three-year-old really
need
a toy cell phone emblazoned with Spider-Man’s face? Probably not, but I’d bought him one, nonetheless.
“Can I help you color?” I asked my son.
“No, I got it.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re doing a good job coloring on the
paper
.” He gave me a mischievous grin, then went back to his picture—an abstract mess of red, blue, and black. Our refrigerator was covered in a multitude of similar depictions. I watched him for a minute, until he set his crayon down and held up the paper in a triumphant gesture.
“All done!” he announced. “It’s for you.”
“It is?” I took the paper and gave him a huge smile. “I love it. Thank you.”
“Welcome, Mama.” He jumped up and walked over to the corner where Leah, Hannah’s newly adopted little girl, was playing with a pile of blocks. He happily plopped to
“That’s too bad,” Brittany clucked. She smoothed her sleek blond pageboy. “It must be so
difficult
to work without Martin there to help out.”
“I manage.” I shrugged and looked down to the floor. These women knew that Martin and I had divorced, but I kept the details to myself. “I need to use the ladies’ room,” I said, rearranging my face into a cheery expression. “Will you excuse me?”
“Down the hall and on your left,” Hannah directed.
I stepped through the entryway and down the short hallway. In contrast to her modern kitchen, Hannah’s guest bathroom was a flashback to the mideighties, painted a pale shade of peach accented with a seashell wallpaper border and bright turquoise hand towels. As I put my hand on the doorknob to rejoin the group, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The space beneath my eyes was bruised from lack of sleep—my best hours for writing came after Charlie was in bed, and these days that time seemed to be getting later and later. My wild curls were pulled back in a clip, but I’d missed several strands and they spun out from the sides of my head like corkscrews. I let go of the doorknob and tried to smooth them, remembering a time when I checked myself in the mirror
before
I went out, not after I’d arrived at my destination.
I sighed. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be here. I should have stayed home and worked on the article about food allergies I needed to turn in to
Alpha Mom
magazine the following week. Play group was more for Charlie’s sake than for mine anyway. Still, I showed up, just like I had for Sign with Your Baby classes and Toddler Yoga. I remained ever-determined to do with my child the kinds of things my mother had never done with me. In September, he would start going to preschool five mornings a week instead of just three, so it was easy to reason we could stop coming to play group then. School would provide him all the play time with other kids he’d need.
Back in the kitchen, I walked past the women toward the great room. “I’m going to check on Charlie,” I said, and the women smiledand nodded, continuing their conversation about the newest Pampered Chef knife set.
My son sat alone at the toddler table, scribbling away on a piece of paper with a thick, blue crayon. I dropped into the other tiny chair, a little horrified by how much of my hips hung over the seat.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, tilting my head so I could see the image on the page.
“ ’Pider-Man,” Charlie said. He was intent on his work and didn’t bother to look up.
“Of course you are.” I wasn’t sure where his obsession with the superhero came from; he’d never seen the movies or watched the cartoon. I blamed excessive product placement—did a three-year-old really
need
a toy cell phone emblazoned with Spider-Man’s face? Probably not, but I’d bought him one, nonetheless.
“Can I help you color?” I asked my son.
“No, I got it.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re doing a good job coloring on the
paper
.” He gave me a mischievous grin, then went back to his picture—an abstract mess of red, blue, and black. Our refrigerator was covered in a multitude of similar depictions. I watched him for a minute, until he set his crayon down and held up the paper in a triumphant gesture.
“All done!” he announced. “It’s for you.”
“It is?” I took the paper and gave him a huge smile. “I love it. Thank you.”
“Welcome, Mama.” He jumped up and walked over to the corner where Leah, Hannah’s newly adopted little girl, was playing with a pile of blocks. He happily plopped to
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