“Well, let me just say that, in part, I think it’s a very noble thing for Nick to support you in this,” she began, switching to her calm, patronizing tone, only slightly less annoying than her strident one. “He wants you to be happy—and thinks this will make you happy. He’s also prioritizing time over the extra income—which can be a wise thing . . .”
I dipped a wooden spoon into my bubbling cheese sauce, and tasted it. Perfect, I thought, as she continued her rant. “But Nick’s dreams aren’t being put on hold. And as the years pass, this could create a wall between you. He will have this stimulating, challenging, rewarding, vibrant life, completely separate from you, Ruby, and Frank. Meanwhile, all the drudgery, all the domestic details, will be yours—“
“I’ll still have a life, Mom. I’ll still have interests and friends—and more time to cultivate both . . . And I can always go back and teach one or two classes as an adjunct professor if I miss it that much.”
“That’s not the same. It would be a job, not a profession. A pastime, not a passion . . . and over time, Nick might lose some respect for you. And worse, you might lose respect for yourself,” she said, as I inhaled and prepared myself for what I felt certain was coming next.
Sure enough, she finished with a note of heavy, bitter innuendo. “And that—“ she said, “that is when your marriage becomes susceptible.”
“Susceptible to what?” I asked, playing dumb to make a point.
“To a midlife crisis,” she said. “To the siren call of shiny red sports cars and big-breasted women with even bigger dreams.”
“I don’t like red cars or big breasts,” I said, laughing at my mother’s colorful way of expressing herself.
“I was talking about Nick,” she said.
“I know you were,” I said, resisting the urge to point out the inconsistencies of her argument—the fact that Dad’s dalliances began after she started her own business as an interior designer. In fact, her work redecorating a Murray Hill brownstone had just appeared in Elle Decor the very week she uncovered my father’s final affair, busting him with an unemployed woman with no particular dreams other than to perfect the art of leisure. Her name was Diane, and my father was still with her today. David and Diane (and their dogs Dottie and Dalilah). Ds monogrammed on everything in their home, a portrait of second-marriage bliss, the two of them smugly pursuing hedonism together, wallowing in the fruits of her trust fund and his retirement from the white-shoe law firm where he worked for over thirty years.
But I stopped myself from telling her that work was not a foolproof insurance policy, both because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and because I didn’t want to imply that I had anything other than the utmost respect for her. She may not have handled her divorce with textbook poise (such as the day she discovered Diane and took a bat to my father’s Mercedes convertible), but she did the best she could. And despite every setback in her life, she always managed to emerge victorious, strong, even, against all odds, genuinely happy. From raising my brother and me, to her brief but intense bout with breast cancer (which she miraculously hid from us in elementary school, insisting she shaved her head due to the intense New York heat wave), to the career she built from nowhere, Barbie was one tough, beautiful cookie, and I was always proud to have her as my mother, even at her most overbearing.
So instead, I simply held my ground and said, “Mom. Listen. I know your heart’s in the right place. But this is the right choice for us. For our family.”
“Okay. Okay,” she relented. “I hope I’m wrong, Tessa. I truly hope I’m wrong.”
I think of this conversation now, and my vow to try to support Ruby’s choices even when I don’t agree with them. But as I survey the Sharpay photo, taking in the red lipstick, high heels, and provocative pose, I lose my resolve and attempt to carve out a “no hoochie-wear” exception and change my daughter’s mind. Just this once.
“Ruby, I think it’s a little too mature for you,” I say casually, trying not to entrench her position.
But Ruby only shakes her head resolutely. “No it’s not.”
Grasping at straws, I try again. “You’ll freeze trick-or-treating in that.”
“I’m warm-blooded,” she says, clearly misunderstanding her father’s biology tutorial this morning.
Meanwhile, I watch another mother-daughter pair, dressed in matching purple velour sweats, happily agree on a wholesome Dorothy costume. The mother smiles smugly, then, as if to show me how it’s done, says in a suggestive voice clearly intended for Ruby, “Look at this darling Snow White costume. This would be perfect for a little girl with dark hair.”
I play along, to show her that her flimsy tricks would never work in my house. “Yes! Why, Ruby, you have dark hair. Wouldn’t you like to be Snow White? You could carry a shiny red apple!”
“No. I don’t want to be Snow White. And I don’t like apples,” Ruby retorts, her expression stony.