Schuyler Bennett’s face lights up. “Oh, I did know you were the right one for the job! Sit down and let me tell you a story.”
Daphne’s Journal, June 25, 20—
I am in love!
A few years ago the object of my affection would have been the latest in the string of underemployed actor/bartender/losers I dated before I met Peter, but today it’s the nineteen-year-old sophomore Vanessa Lieb, whom Laurel recommended to babysit. She’s made everything so much easier. First of all, she immediately reorganized Chloe’s diaper bag.
“You should get one like Laurel’s,” she told me. “It has all the right pockets.”
The right pockets! Who knew that was all I needed to make motherhood manageable!
Then she changed Chloe and got her in her car seat so I could “get myself ready” for group. I’d actually thought I was ready, but I used those ten minutes to brush my hair and change the shirt Chloe had spit up on for something a little nicer—a floaty gauze top I ordered last week from Anthropologie. I hid the package from Peter when it came because he’s been going on about money again, but really, I need some new clothes. I still don’t fit into my pre-pregnancy stuff and I’m sick to death of my maternity clothes. Anyway, the top was on sale and Laurel was wearing something like it last week, so . . .
I felt so much better freshened up and I didn’t have to worry about getting spit up on again because Vanessa got Chloe out of the car seat too. She knows Laurel’s babysitter, so she waved at her in the parking lot and they went to take the babies to the park while Laurel and I went into group.
The other mothers were talking about how forgetful they’ve been and I was going to tell the story about forgetting the bottles last week, but I felt a little embarrassed. But Laurel talked about how forgetful she’d been lately and I thought if someone as put-together as Laurel could admit to being “a little out of it” I could tell the story of the bottles. And then another mother told about how she sat through a whole luncheon with her nursing flaps unbuttoned and her tits hanging out and we all laughed. “It’s mommy brain,” Esta said. “A perfectly natural response to fluctuations in hormones.” What a relief it was to hear her say that!
It really helps to hear other moms’ stories so I don’t feel so crazy and alone. There was even a mother who said that she heard voices sometimes, telling her things. You could have heard a pin drop in the room.
“Well, what do the voices say?” Esta finally asked.
“Don’t forget to sterilize the baby bottles; don’t drink coffee before you nurse, those kind of things.”
We all breathed a sigh of relief. “Well,” Esta said, “it sounds like a very sensible sort of voice.”
“Sure,” Laurel whispered in my ear. “All the voices sound sensible at the time.”
I had to keep myself from laughing!
Afterward we all piled into Laurel’s Lexus SUV and went back to her house and guess what? Laurel lives in our neighborhood. Her house even looks a lot like ours. When I commented on it she said, “Isn’t it awful? All these ticky-tacky suburban boxes. I never thought I’d end up living in Westchester.”
“Me neither!” I said, not mentioning that it was a lot fancier than anyplace I thought I’d ever live. Her house is fixed up a lot nicer on the inside than ours is. Everything’s done in pale sand and bone colors. There’s even white carpeting, which I’d be terrified of getting dirty but maybe Chloë (I found out that Laurel spells it with an umlaut. I told her I’d thought about using one but I was afraid all her teachers would resent it) doesn’t spend much time in the living room. Laurel sent Vanessa and Simone (that’s Laurel’s nanny—she’s actually from France! Only Laurel would have an actual French au pair!) into the playroom, where there are a gazillion toys, most of which are way too old for our four-month-olds, so we could have some “mommy time” to ourselves.
We sat on a big white couch and we talked about everything. It’s been so long since I talked to anyone like that—not since college, when we’d all stay up late in our dorm rooms talking about books and the meaning of life. Laurel and I didn’t talk about the meaning of life, though. We started by telling each other our labor stories. Laurel had a really bad time because she had morning sickness, then preeclampsia, and had to be on bed rest and they had to induce labor. I told her about how Chloe came early and how scary it was. When I told her how the doctor had said right in the middle of my labor that she might end up with cerebral palsy Laurel said, What an asshole! Which sort of shocked me because I hadn’t thought of it like that. I told her how guilty I felt because I’d worked through my pregnancy and I was on my feet a lot.
“Well, whose fault was that?” she asked. “Whose decision was it to keep working?”
I started out telling her how Peter and I had both agreed it was best I work until my delivery so I wouldn’t be dipping into my maternity leave, but then she asked me what Peter did for a living and when I told her he managed a hedge fund she laughed. I started explaining about “low fees” and it being a small fund, and how Peter had had such a strict upbringing he was really nervous about money, but she just shook her head and
