THAT TEXT WORKS ITS WAY FROM ARCHIE AND TRINKET’S mom to Declan’s mom and Plum’s mom and Willow’s mom and Gertrude’s mom and the mom of every kid at McKinley named for an obscure flora, fauna, or historical figure and the mom of every kid named a regular name, but with an inexplicable K or X dropped in to make it unique (sorry, Jaxon), and every kid named for a character in a fantasy novel (we have three Aryas, and all their parents are trying to claim they never watched or read Game of Thrones). They trickle in, one or two moms at a time, greeted at the door by Carla, who offers everyone a shot of tequila. For all the time I’ve spent with and around these women, I’ve never seen them actually have fun. I’ve seen them do pickup and drop-off, and wipe vomit and/or blood from their kid’s shirts. I’ve seen them chaperone a field trip to the Science Museum with thirty-two first graders. I’ve seen them give standing ovations to school concerts that absolutely didn’t deserve it. I’ve seen them display happiness and joy directed at their children, but not just happiness and joy for themselves.
What really gets the party started is my playlist of late-nineties hits. Because nothing bonds a group of women on the cusp of middle age like harmonizing to “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan. Hearing the first three seconds of “Pony” by Ginuwine makes it physically impossible for us not to grind on each other like we’re the cast of Coyote Ugly. Kyler’s mom—sorry, Lindsi—knows the entire choreography to Britney’s “Toxic” and we listen to the song eight times in a row just so we can watch her do it. It’s amazing.
“Amy!” a mom screams over the sounds of “Genie in a Bottle,” “I puked in your dishwasher!” I give her a thumbs-up as I survey my Most Successful Party of All Time.
I think it was Kiki who started it. The girl loves to chant. At first, it’s just a few drunk voices, not quite in unison. “Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Eventually, it’s the entire party, and I realize when I see Carla and Kiki standing on my sofa that the speech they’re waiting for is supposed to come from me.
“Welcome to meet the fucking candidate night!” shouts Carla, like she’s announcing a professional wrestling event. Someone stops the music, and Carla has the undivided attention of every mom in the house. Kiki tries to pipe up, “My best friend Carla and I are so honored to be working on the campaign for our third best friend, Amy Mitchell. A lot of people think you can’t have two best friends, but—”
Carla places her hand over Kiki’s mouth. “Are you ready for Amy FUCKING Mitchell?” she shouts, and the chanting resumes.
“A-my! A-my! A-my!”
I’ve spent twelve years yelling at the kids not to stand on the furniture, but here I am, standing on my sofa trying to figure out what to say to a group of drunk moms who really just want to get back to playing flip cup.
“Hey! Hi.” I know, I know. Real dynamic start to my first stump speech.
“I’m Amy. You know, I wasn’t ready to give a speech or anything. Just like I’m not really ready for anything, ever. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I spend a lot of time pretending. Not the fun kind, not make-believe. I spend a lot of time pretending I’m perfect, that I have it all together, and the truth is, I have no idea what I’m fucking doing. All I know is that I’m really tired. I’m really tired of having to work so hard on shit that doesn’t matter to my kids, or to me. I’m tired of marathon PTA meetings and insane bake sales. I’m tired of all the bullshit.” I had to pause here. Not for dramatic effect, but because people were cheering. Like, cheering the way we usually cheer for our kids. I heard a few “fuck yeahs” in there, too. Maybe I’m not so bad at this.
“I know we all want to have happy kids. Of course we do. And I don’t think you can have happy kids without a happy mom. And that means we need to give ourselves a break. It’s not selfish to need some time to yourself. It’s not selfish to be here tonight. Holy shit I needed this! So. If you’re tired of feeling like you’re not good enough. If you’re tired of feeling like you’re not doing enough. If you’re just tired? Vote for me.”
By the time I step down from the couch, I’m mobbed with moms. Someone had flipped the music back on, but all around me is a crush of earnest, slightly (okay, extremely) inebriated faces.
“I want to be your best friend! Can we be best friends?”
“Amy Mitchell, you’re the hero we’ve been waiting for!”
“I will do whatever you tell me to do! You’re my sister. I love you sooooo much!”
I nod and smile and hug every single mom who comes my way.
THE PARTY WENT ALL NIGHT LONG LIKE LIONEL RITCHIE. OR, until 11:30 PM, which is basically an all-nighter when you’re a mom or when you’re Lionel Ritchie’s current age. In college, we used to judge the success of a party on how trashed our house was. The best party we ever threw ended with all our living room furniture being burned in the front yard. Tonight was the grown-up version of that party. Someone had beaten the Little Tikes playset to smithereens with what I can only assume used to be a baseball bat, before that too was smashed. Every surface in my house is covered in beer bottles, LaCroix cans, and Dylan’s and Jane’s old sippy cups with a few swallows of wine left in them. Kiki and I are sorting the debris into garbage and recycling while Carla finishes doing whippets out of a can of store-brand whipped cream when a tall, dark figure appears in the doorway.
“Don’t fucking kill us!” Kiki screams, ducking into a fetal position.
“I won’t!” the figure screams back, stepping into the kitchen. “Did I . . . miss the party? Carla made it sound like it was raging.”
Jesse.
“Jesse!” Carla shouts suspiciously. “So good to see you! Fun party, Amy, see you another time!” Carla grabs a very confused Kiki by the arm and starts for the front door.
“Bye, Jesse. I like your face and your clothes and your body,” Kiki whispers before Carla spirits her away.
It was all very natural and not at all uncomfortable for me or Jesse, whose beautiful caramel skin is starting to blush.
“Should I . . . go?” he asks, in a voice that said he had no intention of going anywhere.
I shake my head, and feel Jesse’s hands on my hips, pulling me closer to him.
Our first kiss may have almost given us each a concussion, but it turns out, kissing is like riding a bike. You can forget how to do it, but you’ll get the hang of it after a few tries.
I feel like someone just offered me a glass of water after wandering through the desert. I feel like a deaf person hearing music for the first time. I feel like a mom finally being treated like a sexual being. Everything is sexy to me in this moment. The feeling of my countertops under my thighs, the way Jesse’s hands move across my hips and up my shirt. I know that Beyoncé and Jay-Z can do it all night long in a kitchen, but I do find the location where I serve dinner to my family to be a little distracting. And I don’t want to be distracted right now, not when Jesse’s mouth is on my neck and I’m pulling off his shirt. I pull away from kissing him and grab him by the hand, pulling him up the stairs behind me.
Jesse’s body is not what I expected. It’s better. It doesn’t even make sense that someone can be this good-looking. Even his shoulders are hot. Can you be attracted to a shoulder? I would make out with just his shoulder if that were socially acceptable.