Baby proof

involving the sky?

But my mother clears her throat and says, 'I want to tell you something I've never told you before.'

'Go ahead,' I say to my mother as I see Jess's shadow in the doorway. She isn't really eavesdropping; she's just saving me the trouble of repeating everything later.

'You were an accident,' my mother says. 'An unplanned pregnancy.'

'I know that, Mother,' I say.

She never tried to hide the fact-it was something I knew at a very young age. She'd tell people right in front of me, 'I thought I was done. But Claudia here was an 'accident.'' She'd whisper the word accident, but of course I heard it every time. And even if I hadn't heard all the whispers, I certainly heard her when she shouted the word at me after I told her I was boycotting her lavish wedding to Dwight and that she could shove my lavender bridesmaid dress where the sun don't shine. (My favorite expression involving the sky.)

'Please,' she says now. 'Let me finish.'

I shrug, thinking that she sure has a hell of a way of apologizing.

'So you weren't planned,' she continues. Then she raises one finger in the air as if poised to make a grand proclamation. 'But just the other day, I was reading the acknowledgments in one of your novels. The one about the guy with the harelip?'

'Cleft palate,' I say. She is referring to John Skvarla's memoir. John's birth defect was such a miniscule part of his life story that I wonder if she ever made it past the first page. My mother postures herself as well read and buys hardcover books all the time, but they typically go straight to her living room shelves, unopened. All for show.

'Whatever,' she says. 'The book isn't the point. The point is-I was reading his acknowledgments, the part where he thanked you for being his editor and friend. And I was filled with this profound sense of pride that you are my daughter.'

I know that my mother basks in any form of public attention. She loves telling her friends that she raised a successful editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, and pointing out her daughter's name in the front of a book is just icing on the cake. Still, I am surprised by her words. This is not the language my mother normally speaks in.

'I am so proud of you, Claudia,' she continues. 'Not just for how smart you are and for all you've accomplished. But because you're the kind of person that people want to thank in the front of a book. People love you and respect you. You are special that way,' she says quietly. She looks down at her feet and slides her orange driving moccasins together. Her hands are folded in her lap. She looks contrite and shy and sincere.

'You are the very best thing I've ever done in my life,' she finishes.

I don't want to feel moved or grateful, but I am. So much so that I am on the verge of tears again. I wonder how one woman can create such a tsunami of emotion in me-and in such a short span of time? I tell myself to get a grip. I remind myself that my mother is, in a sense, taking credit for the way I've turned out, when she deserves relatively little credit. She used to tell me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air. She was devastated when I was sixteen and applied to work at the library instead of lifeguarding at the country club. I am who I am in spite of my mother. But I can't help it-I know I will not forget what she has just told me. I know I will replay her words a hundred times or more. I know that, as much as I don't want to admit it, my mother is important to me.

'Why are you telling me this?' I say.

'Because of the recent choices you've made in your life.'

'What about them?' I ask. I know she is talking about Ben and babies, but I am not sure how it all ties in with her out-of-the-blue compliment.

She looks contemplative, as if carefully considering her wording. 'I'm not the best mother in the world… I never have been,' she says slowly. 'But always remember, Claudia, you are not me. You are a lot of things to a lot of people. But you are absolutely nothing like me.'

twelve

I never did think I was anything like my mother, nor did I peg her as the main reason I didn't want children. So, despite her intent, my mother's speech did nothing to reverse my position on motherhood.

But there was still something about my mother's words that felt like a revelation to me. Perhaps because it was the first time my mother had ever apologized to me for anything. Perhaps because everyone wants her mother to be proud-and, to some extent, we can't help seeing ourselves as our mother sees us. Perhaps because it was a reminder of all that I still have in my life. I have my career, of course. But more important, I have rich relationships that I cherish. I am a good sister, daughter, and friend. My life has meaning-and will continue to have meaning-without Ben.

So it was my mother, albeit unwittingly, who helped me get to the next level of emotional recovery. Achieve that postdisaster glimmer that life goes on. I even began to think about dating again. Not so much because I wanted to but because dating is always the best inward and outward sign that you've moved on after a big breakup. In some ways, I think it might be the only way to move on.

So when Michael strolls into my office one day and says, 'Guess who has you in his number two spot?' I feel a bit excited. I know exactly what he means by 'two spot.' Whether you're an insurance adjuster in Iowa, a schoolteacher in Florida, or an editor in Manhattan, you are familiar with the practice of gathering around the water cooler (or in our case, the automated Euro-coffee machine) and discussing who among your esteemed colleagues is most attractive. It's an exercise largely born out of boredom or long hours at the office, but it is nonetheless approached with tremendous gravity. (And is only rivaled by the list compiled by couples: 'Celebrities I Am Allowed to Cheat on My Significant Other With.' Obviously my cheating list is null and void-I can do what I want now without an exemption-which, unfortunately, brings me no closer to sharing a bed with (1) Sting, (2) Colin Firth, (3) Johnny Depp, (4) Tom Brady, or (5) Ed Harris.)

Of course, the problem with playing this ranking game at most publishing houses is that there are slim pickings for a woman. First, the general breakdown of women to men in publishing is about 3 to 1. And of the men, about 70 percent are gay. So you're talking a 10 to 1 female-to-heterosexual-male ratio. On top of that, aside from a few more high-profile departments like publicity, publishing is filled with a high percentage of former nerds (myself included) who spent the majority of their childhood indoors, reading books. My friend Jacqueline, for example, was featured in her local newspaper in North Carolina for reading over five hundred books in one year; she was five at the time. Not that I should talk-my greatest accomplishment as a kid was making it to the state tournament spelling bee, losing in the final round on the word precipice. This is not to say that all former nerds are unattractive. To the contrary, I think we're a great breed-quirky, smart, and far more interesting than your average former cheerleader or ex-jock. Still, the list is not about being quirky and smart or appealing in an offbeat way; the list is about being sexy.

Anyway, one of the perks of being close to Michael is that I'm always privy to the male lists floating around, which is particularly interesting on the few occasions when I've been mentioned. It works like this: Michael tells me I'm on someone's list whereupon I pretend to be some combination of embarrassed, nonplussed, or annoyed, all the while feeling secretly flattered. Who wouldn't be? Even when chosen by a downright geek, it's nice to know you rank.

But I still say, 'Two spot?' because the last thing I want to appear is desperate or eager.

'You know. He thinks you're the second-hottest girl at work,' Michael says.

'Who?' I say, rolling my eyes. 'Gerald from the IT department?'

'Nope.' I give.

'Richard Margo,' Michael says smugly.

He now has my full attention. Richard Margo is our executive vice president and director of publicity and is very well-known at our house, as much for his prestigious position as his reputation for pitching in the minors for