The other mother gives me a playful shrug and an artificial smile as if to say, I tried. But my mother-of-the-year prowess can only go so far!
I flash a fake smile of my own, refraining from telling her what I’m really thinking: that it’s an unwise karmic move to go around feeling superior to other mothers. Because before she knows it, her little angel could become a tattooed teenager hiding joints in her designer handbag and doling out blow jobs in the backseat of her BMW.
Seconds later, as the two continue along their yellow brick road, Nick rounds the corner carrying Frank in one arm and an Elmo costume in the other, proving once again that, at least in our house, boys are easier. Ruby’s eyes light up when she sees her father, and she wastes no time in busting me in the highest volume possible.
“Mommy said I could be anything I want for Halloween and now she says I can’t be Sharpay!” she shouts.
Nick raises his brows. “Mommy wouldn’t go back on a promise like that, would she?” he asks.
“Oh, yes she would,” Ruby says, pushing out her lower lip. “She just did.”
Nick glances my way as I reluctantly nod. “See for yourself,” I mumble, pointing at the glammed-up photo, and feeling a rush of secret satisfaction as I read his mind. On the one hand, I know his basic instinct is to indulge his daughter, make her happy at virtually any cost. On the other, he’s as overprotective as they come, with a strong preference that his little girl not roam the neighborhood resembling a child prostitute.
Feeling hopeful, I watch Nick kneel beside Ruby and give it his best shot. “I think this looks a little . . . old for you, Ruby,” he says. “Maybe next year?”
Ruby shakes her head. “It’s not too old, Daddy. It’s my size!” she says, pointing to the 4T in the upper corner of the packaging.
At this first sign of resistance, Nick stands and surrenders, shooting me a helpless look.
“Well, then,” he says to Ruby. “It looks like this is between you and Mommy.”
I think of my mother again—both trying to imagine what she would say to Ruby, and perhaps more important, what she would say about Nick’s laissez-faire fathering. The domestic details will be yours, I hear ringing in my ears. Then I heave the burdened sigh of , mothers everywhere and say, “A promise is a promise. Sharpay it is.”
“Yay!” Ruby says, scampering toward the checkout line.
“Yay!” Frank echoes, as he and Nick follow her,
“But no lipstick,” I say, now talking to myself, just as my mother does. “And you’re wearing a turtleneck, young lady. Like it or not.”
***
Later that night, after the kids are finally in bed, I glance at our calendar and discover that tomorrow is Ruby’s day to be “special helper” at her preschool. This is fantastic news for Ruby who, according to the “special helper” handout, will get to feed the class goldfish, choose the book to be read at story time, and be first in line to the playground. Unfortunately, it also means that it is my day to provide a healthy yet delicious snack for sixteen children, one that does not contain peanut products or tree nuts, because of a lethal allergy in the class—which pretty much rules out anything that we might have on hand.
“Dammit,” I mumble, wondering how I missed the neon-orange highlighter that I used to underline “special helper” only two weeks ago.
“You want the Napa or the Rhone?” Nick says, holding a bottle in each hand.
I point at the Rhone and make another disgruntled sound at the calendar as Nick slides the Napa back onto the wine rack and rifles through the drawer to find an opener. “What’s up?” he says.
“Ruby’s the ‘special helper’ tomorrow . . . In school.”
“So?”
“So we have to bring the snack,” I say, using we even though this assignment falls squarely in my domain—and did even when I was working. Unfortunately, I no longer have the excuse of my job—which I always felt lowered expectations slightly.
“So what’s the problem?” he asks, utterly clueless.
“The cupboards are bare,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon,” Nick says nonchalantly. “I’m sure we have something here.”
“We don’t, actually,” I say, thinking of the piecemeal lunch and dinner I threw together today, using leftovers from last week.
He uncorks the bottle, pours two glasses, and then strolls toward the pantry. “Aha!” he says, pulling out an unopened bag of Oreos—one of my many guilty pleasures.
“Oreos?” I say, smiling.
“Yeah. Oreos. You know—cookies and milk. Old-school.”
I shake my head as I consider the exhilarating freedom of being a man, the daddy. Of thinking that Oreos could possibly, in any school or stratosphere, be brought as a snack, let alone the class snack.
“Wrong on so many levels,” I say, amused. “Aren’t you a doctor? Isn’t this sort of like the preacher’s daughter having sex? A cobbler’s kid going barefoot in the city?”