I’m . . . possibly still drunk. I have no business operating anything that involves a flame. And Dylan and Jane are big enough to reach the cupboards. They’re smart enough to add milk and cereal together in a vessel of some sort. They’re old enough to know that toast is just bread that’s been placed in a toaster. You just push one button.
Instead of the eggs, I reach for my phone.
“MOM. What are you doing?” Dylan is not amused.
“I’m calling the cops,” I say calmly. “If your breakfast is missing, I think we should get the authorities involved.”
I think this is the best joke I’ve ever made, but Dylan and Jane look at each other like I should be institutionalized. I’ve been standing up too long, and my body is starting to break into a cold sweat. Please, I pray to any god that is listening, don’t let me puke in front of my kids.
“You’ve got twenty minutes till the bus comes. The stop is on the corner. Put your dishes in the dishwasher before you go.”
The two of them protest as I shuffle out of the kitchen and prepare to climb the stairs. Dylan and Jane can’t believe what they’re hearing today. They don’t know how to ride a bus, they cry! How will they know when to get off? Does it even have seatbelts? Is it safe? And they’re serious. My kids are smart, capable children who claim that they don’t know how to enter a motor vehicle, sit on their butts, and disembark when they reach their destination? Have I really never made them take the bus? It’s a free service provided by the school district. It picks them up less than twenty-five yards from our house. Plus, my car is still in the McKinley parking lot.
By the time I reach the top of the stairs, which might have taken anywhere between two and twenty-seven minutes, I can hear cabinets banging in the kitchen. I smile. They’re gonna be okay. They’re gonna be better than okay. They’re gonna be functioning members of society. Today it’s breakfast, but tomorrow it could be doing their own laundry. Changing their own sheets. Packing their own lunches. In a few decades, they’ll pay their own mortgages and finance their own cars! But first, the bus.
“You’ll figure it out,” I call weakly from the landing. “I believe in you!”
THE CURE FOR A HANGOVER HASN’T CHANGED SINCE COLLEGE. It takes thirty-two ounces of red Gatorade, two Advil, and a big, greasy breakfast: three fried eggs, over hard, white toast, and any kind of fried potato product.
When was the last time I ate a meal alone? A real meal, not just shoveling chips and salsa into my mouth while standing at the counter scrolling through work emails at 10:30 PM.
I’ve read the entire newspaper. The real newspaper. The one that’s made of paper. Usually, I let them collect on the front step until they’ve become a massive, soggy mess, and then I throw them in the recycling. I could cancel my subscription, but having a newspaper subscription is one of those things that makes me feel like I’m a real grown-up. Actually reading it? I feel like nobody could possibly doubt that I am a woman who has my life together, as long as they don’t get close enough to smell the booze seeping out of my pores. I read every inch of that newspaper. I actually chewed my food before swallowing it. And forty-five minutes later, when I had finally read the very last obituary—rest in peace, Beverly Howard—I felt great. Relaxed, even.
At this point in the day, I’d typically be in my sixth meeting. It would overlap with two other meetings, so I’d arrive late and leave early, offering apologies to everyone in the room like this wasn’t their fault for seeing that my calendar was full and booking a meeting with me anyway. I almost feel guilty, except I don’t. I’m only a part-time employee. I don’t have a 401(k) or healthcare benefits. I don’t get paid enough to answer emails before the sun rises, or to spend my Christmas on the phone with Dale, talking through his latest stupid idea. I get paid to do half of one job, three days a week. That’s exactly why I took the job.
WHEN DID I GO FROM BEING A PART-TIME MARKETING MANAGER to being a more-than-full-time CMO/COO/CFO who makes less than our entry-level sales staff?? It happened slowly, the same way anything does. A few more meetings here and there, a few more phone calls taken from the car during school pickup and drop-off. A few more nights where “dinner as a family” turned into me making separate meals for each kid according to their personal preferences. It was raising my hand to volunteer with the teacher who needed help organizing the Fall Ball, the coach who needed extra adults to stand around at practice and make sure we didn’t lose track of a kid. Somehow, I went from wanting my kids to be happy and succeed to “helping” with their reports and double-checking their homework for them. I went from having a partner who could help me with bath time and bedtime to becoming the only one who could do it right. The same way I went from helping Dale part-time to becoming the only person at the company who can do anything right.
SPEAKING OF DALE, HE’S CALLING AGAIN.
“AMY. Amy. What is happening, I’m about to issue an Amber Alert for you. You’re missing the midweek check-in.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, Amy, you are. It’s right now. I’m right here, at the meeting, in the conference room, checking in. And you’re not here.”
“Dale. It’s my day off,” I say in a voice that’s as relaxed as I feel.
“It’s THURSDAY, Amy. It’s nobody’s day off! There are no days off! Not when you have a champion’s mentality, and I’m beginning to think you don’t have that mentality.”
“Dale,” I say, activating my Mom Mode. “Dale,” I say again, slowing my voice and enunciating clearly, the way I did when Jane used to throw tantrums so violent I was sure she would transform into the Incredible Hulk at any moment. “I am a part-time employee. This means that I am contracted with you to work part-time. You’ve certainly enjoyed my overworking for the past few years, and I understand that this may be confusing for you, but I will now only be working part-time. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Dale is choking on his words when I end the call.
I fold the paper neatly and place my dishes in the dishwasher. The day stretches ahead of me, filled with possibility and wonder.
I can do anything I want with this time. Anything at all.
And even though I’ve just eaten a full farmer’s breakfast, even though I can still feel the effects of last night behind my eyes, I want to go out to lunch.
* * *
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Gwendolyn James
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: Last Night
Hi Mamas,
Many thanks to those of you who maintained your commitment to excellence in education by fulfilling and exceeding your obligations to the McKinley Mom Squad. We are, of course, only as strong as our weakest link, and some weaknesses presented themselves last night.
As your leader, I feel responsible for the traumatic outburst we experienced last night and want to apologize to everyone who was affected. Amy is a valued member of the Mom Squad and I hope that Amy takes the time to get the mental health support she needs.
Our thoughts and prayers are with her during this stressful time. Marriage and Motherhood are not for the faint of heart, and we hope she and her family come through their troubles stronger than ever. Amy remains a valued member of the Mom Squad, and we are here to support her with open arms. When she’s ready, we will accept her apology and move forward, together.