“Did you really just say cobbler?’ Nick says, laughing. And then, “C’mon. Kids love Oreos. Besides, your analogy is suspect—I’m not a dentist. I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“Okay. Oreos are unacceptable.”
“Why?”
“For one, I’m sure they contain peanut products,” I say, scanning the ingredients. “For another, they’re loaded with sugar. For another, they’re not homemade. And they don’t look like they could be homemade . . . Do you have any idea what the other mothers would say behind my back if I handed out Oreos?”
Nick hands me my glass as I continue my playful rant. “I’d be totally shunned for the rest of the year. For years to come. I mean, I might as well go in there, light up a cigarette, and toss out the F-bomb. ‘Fuckin-A these Oreos hit the spot’... The reply-all button would be in full abuse mode in a mass gossipfest.”
Nick cracks a small smile and says, “Are these mothers really that judgmental?”
“Some,” I say. “More than you could imagine.”
“Do you care?” he asks.
I shrug, thinking this is the crux of the issue. I don’t want to care about this sort of trivia. I don’t want to care about what other people think, but I do. Especially lately.
As if on cue, the phone rings and I see that it’s my friend April calling. April is my second-closest friend, after Cate—and definitely my closest everyday Mommy-friend, even though she makes me feel inadequate much of the time. She doesn’t do it on purpose—but she is just so damn perfect. Her house is tidy, her children well behaved
and well dressed, her photo albums and scrapbooks current and filled with gorgeous black-and-white photography (her own, of course). She does everything the right way, especially when it comes to her children—from nutrition to finding the best private school (and requesting the best teacher at that school). She’s read and researched
it all and earnestly shares any and all information with me and anyone who will listen, particularly when there is an underlying note of doom. A water bottle contains excessive levels of lead? A suspicious man driving a white van in the neighborhood? A new study linking vaccines to autism? She will be the first to give you the scoop. Unfortunately for me, her daughter, Olivia, is a year older than Ruby and now attending kindergarten at another school (Longmere Country Day—which is, of course, the best in town); otherwise, she would have reminded me of my snack duties.
“It’s April,” I tell Nick. “Let’s ask her about the Oreos.”
He rolls his eyes as I pick up the phone and say hello.
April immediately launches in with an apology for calling so late—which is how she begins almost every conversation. Usually it’s the “I know this is a really bad time” disclaimer—which is interesting because I’ve never seen or heard any evidence that she endures particularly chaotic bedtimes or bath times or mealtimes, the grueling rituals that unravel lesser mothers. At the very least, she’s trained her children not to whine or interrupt when she’s on the phone. In fact, Olivia is the only child I’ve ever heard use the word pardon.
“You know we don’t have a calling curfew,” I say (knowing that she has a firm eight o’clock cutoff and that it is now 7:55). Then, before I let her ramble, I say, “Quick question for you. Ruby’s snack day is tomorrow. Only thing we have in the pantry is Oreos. Do you think that’ll work?”
I put the phone on speaker, but there is only silence on the other end.
“April?” I say, grinning. “Are you there?”
To which she replies, “Oreos, Tess? Are you for real?”
“No . . . But Nick is,” I say.
She gasps as if I’ve just confided that Nick delivered a left hook to my eye during an argument and then says worriedly, “Tessa? Am I on speaker?”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing she’ll kill me for this later.
“Is . . . Nick right. . . there? she whispers.