Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin

talking to myself, just as my mother does. “And you’re wearing a turtleneck, young lady. Like it or not.”
    ***
    Later that night, after the kids are finally in bed, I glance at our calendar and discover that tomorrow is Ruby’s day to be “special helper” at her preschool. This is fantastic news for Ruby who, according to the “special helper” handout, will get to feed the class goldfish, choose the book to be read at story time, and be first in line to the playground. Unfortunately, it also means that it is my day to provide a healthy yet delicious snack for sixteen children, one that does not contain peanut products or tree nuts, because of a lethal allergy in the class—which pretty much rules out anything that we might have on hand.
    “Dammit,” I mumble, wondering how I missed the neon-orange highlighter that I used to underline “special helper” only two weeks ago.
    “You want the Napa or the Rhone?” Nick says, holding a bottle in each hand.
    I point at the Rhone and make another disgruntled sound at the calendar as Nick slides the Napa back onto the wine rack and rifles through the drawer to find an opener. “What’s up?” he says.
    “Ruby’s the ‘special helper’ tomorrow . . . In school.”
    “So?”
    “So we have to bring the snack,” I say, using we even though this assignment falls squarely in my domain—and did even when I was working. Unfortunately, I no longer have the excuse of my job—which I always felt lowered expectations slightly.
    “So what’s the problem?” he asks, utterly clueless.
    “The cupboards are bare,” I say.
    “Oh, c’mon,” Nick says nonchalantly. “I’m sure we have something here.”
    “We don’t, actually,” I say, thinking of the piecemeal lunch and dinner I threw together today, using leftovers from last week.
    He uncorks the bottle, pours two glasses, and then strolls toward the pantry. “Aha!” he says, pulling out an unopened bag of Oreos—one of my many guilty pleasures.
    “Oreos?” I say, smiling.
    “Yeah. Oreos. You know—cookies and milk. Old-school.”
    I shake my head as I consider the exhilarating freedom of being a man, the daddy. Of thinking that Oreos could possibly, in any school or stratosphere, be brought as a snack, let alone the class snack.
    “Wrong on so many levels,” I say, amused. “Aren’t you a doctor? Isn’t this sort of like the preacher’s daughter having sex? A cobbler’s kid going barefoot in the city?”
    “Did you really just say cobbler?’ Nick says, laughing. And then, “C’mon. Kids love Oreos. Besides, your analogy is suspect—I’m not a dentist. I’m a plastic surgeon.”
    “Okay. Oreos are unacceptable.”
    “Why?”
    “For one, I’m sure they contain peanut products,” I say, scanning the ingredients. “For another, they’re loaded with sugar. For another, they’re not homemade. And they don’t look like they could be homemade . . . Do you have any idea what the other mothers would say behind my back if I handed out Oreos?”
    Nick hands me my glass as I continue my playful rant. “I’d be totally shunned for the rest of the year. For years to come. I mean, I might as well go in there, light up a cigarette, and toss out the F-bomb. ‘Fuckin- A these Oreos hit the spot’... The reply-all button would be in full abuse mode in a mass gossipfest.”
    Nick cracks a small smile and says, “Are these mothers really that judgmental?”
    “Some,” I say. “More than you could imagine.”
    “Do you care?” he asks.
    I shrug, thinking this is the crux of the issue. I don’t want to care about this sort of trivia. I don’t want to care about what other people think, but I do. Especially lately.
    As if on cue, the phone rings and I see that it’s my friend April calling. April is my second-closest friend, after Cate—and definitely my closest everyday Mommy-friend, even though she makes me feel inadequate much of the time. She doesn’t do it on purpose—but she is just