Chapter 1
Jennifer
I have become one of those mothers. The mother I swore I would never be. Hair perpetually unwashed. Stained clothes. Mismatched socks. No makeup. It only took three years. Well, three years and a toxic man. And now I was living a life unrecognizable to the girl I used to be. I raised the soft leather I was clutching between my fingers to my face and inhaled deeply. Stale smoke and aged bourbon clung to the fabric that used to hug my curves every weekend, filling my nose with the scent of my old existence. I remember a lifetime ago, bar hopping, endless parties, haze-filled dances and thrill fests that I called my twenties. Boy how things have changed. Now I lived in loose scrubs or pajamas.
Would they even still fit? I stepped out of my sweatpants and kicked them aside. What other treasures from my past were hidden in the back of my closet? The last time we moved I didn’t even bother to unpack the boxes. Whatever was inside was a mystery.
My leg slid into the first pant leg easily enough. Feeling the caress of the well-worn leather flooded my brain with memories. Dimly lit bars and the sting of strong liquor burning my throat. Sweaty bodies pressed against me. Tim’s fingers tugging at the front buttons. The look in his eyes when he slowly peeled them off to reveal black lace. I exhaled and gripped the waistband. With a grunt, I wiggled and shimmied the pants as far up as I could. They stopped halfway up my hips. Those days were long gone. I looked in the mirror. Although my hips had expanded beyond the capacity of my pants, my body was still an hourglass shape. It was simply carrying around a bit more sand in my hourglass these days. Welcome to motherhood. Now, if anyone peeled my sweatpants off, there would be nothing for them to find other than the massive bush I was sporting. Single motherhood had done little for my beauty routine. Self-care my ass. Shaving my calves was a treat I reserved only for summer months. It didn’t matter how hairy you were when you were simply a milk machine.
"No pants!" Camille yanked her pajama bottoms halfway down her chubby legs and squealed with delight. Her blonde curls bounced as she explored the floral fabric with her fingers. I was jealous of how fully engrossed my kids could get in simple experiences. The only thing I was that excited for these days was going to sleep. Or perhaps if I could somehow get alone time. Simply the thought of five minutes alone made my nipples hard.
In my fight against insanity, distraction was my only weapon. It was literally a godsend these days. It usually stopped my children from completely destroying things. Usually.
As if on cue, Camille began to bang her fists against her knees. Apparently, it is also frustrating when your pants don’t come off. Great. The last thing I need is another battle this morning. I'd already been late to my shift three times in the last month. Please, please, please don't let her lose her shit. I wiggled out of my previous life's pants and reached for a fresh pair of scrubs. Out of all of the nurses in the hospital, there were only three of us that wore the hospital-issued green. All the other nurses my age wore vanity scrubs that reflected their personalities. There was a time where I wanted pretty things. Now, function ruled the roost. And besides, at twenty-five dollars a top, it was now considered a luxury. Buying food and paying rent were more important. I glanced into Avery's crib. She was still asleep.
I love you but please stay asleep longer. I need more time. Camille is enough of a handful on her own. Gathering my strength, I tackled Camille’s frustration with the focus of a hostage negotiator. My daily routine lives or dies with my ability to deescalate tense situations. Perhaps, I missed my calling. "Yes, Mommy's got no pants right now. I'm changing my clothes to get ready for work. Remember I wear my special hospital clothes."
"Pants!" Camille pulled her leggings back up.
The fabric was hitched on her diaper and gave her a lumpy look, but at least they weren’t around her ankles. Thank God. Now, I had to reinforce her behavior. Or something. Parenting was such a social experiment. "Yes. Pants!" I cheered and pumped my fists. Thank God for small victories.
Camille's round face broke into a toothless grin. She clapped and squealed. "Pants!" Her bare feet stomped the carpet in a little dance. That's the thing about the little life-changers. Just when you're ready to run away screaming, they crack you up. What's so bad about retiring leather pants? I’m sure there is some magazine article shaming animal-wearing ancients like myself. I was thirty-two after all. Leather pants and leopard print used to be sexy. Now my fashionable self was shelved. That's not all you retired. There was also your free time, savings account, and sex life.
I liked to pretend that motherhood was a costume change, but there was no denying that my life was unrecognizable from only a few years ago. Are you happy now? Guilt flooded my senses. I love my girls. My life is much better now. But, is this all you want out of life? What happened to romance?
Pushing that thought away, I grabbed the diaper bag from the changing table. Pull-ups, wipes, diapers, check. A spare outfit for each, check. Camille's teething ring, Avery's penguin, my shredded dignity, check. All they need are some snacks. Using the hair tie around my wrist, I twisted my hair into a messy bun. Grabbing two socks off the floor, I made faces at Camille while I yanked them on. She gurgled and cooed and then began pawing at the carpet fibers. Well, at least she's entertained. Children were an inspiration when it came to imagination. With anything ordinary, they can assemble a world of trouble. I used to know someone like that. And I married him.
I sighed audibly. Camille looked up at me. I smiled. She went back to raking the carpet fibers with her hands. The dark red carpet lightened from her attention. When was the last time I vacuumed? This weekend I need to get serious and clean Add vacuuming to the ever-growing list of chores that I neglect. This house was disgusting. My stomach rumbled. Did I have time to eat? I grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand and swiped up. Six-fifteen. Eight minutes to get out the door. Another day of hitting the drive through. No wonder my pants didn't fit. I was just going to have to make it work.
I took another look at Avery. Her gentle breaths were moving in and out in a soft rhythm. Her cheeks were pink. I’m not sentimental, but there is something about seeing her small and peaceful. Camille was that tiny once. It felt like another lifetime ago. Unfortunately, I did not have the luxury of letting her sleep. We needed to get going or I was going to be late again. I scooped up Avery and did a quick sniff test. Powdery goodness. Her eyes were still closed.
Was it worth the risk of waking her to change her clothes? Every time I dropped one of the girls off in their pajamas, I could feel the daycare manager’s judgement. She smiled sweetly, but it was written all over her heavily made-up face. You're gone all day. Can't you at least change their freakin' clothes? I knew that look because it was exactly how I used to look at mothers with screaming children, and babies with stained clothes or food on their faces. Before I knew how impossible motherhood was. We were all adrift on a sea of unmet expectations, worry and sacrifice. Guilt was the life jacket that kept us from sinking. That and the bone-crushing love. Fuck 'em, let her sleep. I strapped Avery into the car seat and grabbed Camille by the hand.
"Let's go pumpkin." I balanced both of them until we made it into the kitchen. "Mommy's just gotta grab your snacks from the fridge." I let go of Camille's hand and put Avery down on the island countertop. At least I didn't forget the snacks. After the girls passed out last night, I cut up apples, washed baby carrots, and measured pretzels into daycare-approved sustainable packaging. A list was sent about sugar content and allergens. They actually started throwing away offending snacks. Hence, the ultimate pleasurable evening arranging lunch boxes sans contraband.