“I can imagine,” Rachel says, nodding.
“But Nick takes it to such an extreme. You know how he can be. Self-righteous isn’t really the word . . .”
“Blunt? No-nonsense?” she guesses.
“Well, yes, there is that. He’s always been on the serious side,” I say, realizing how difficult it is to describe the people closest to you, perhaps because you are aware of all their complexities. “But it’s more that he has zero tolerance for anything he deems frivolous, be it gossip, celebrity magazines, excessive drinking or consumption.”
She nods hesitantly, walking the fine line between supporting me and denigrating Nick.
“I know I’m making him out to be so humorless . . .”
“No, no. You’re not. Listen—I know Nick. I get him. He has a great sense of humor,” she says.
“Right,” I say. “He just seems more reclusive lately. He never wants to get together with friends . . . And as far as parenting goes, he’s either the laissez-faire dad or Mr. Devil’s Advocate . . . Or maybe I’m just noticing it more lately ...” I say pensively, thinking of the recent conversations with my mother and tentatively sharing some of the lowlights with Rachel.
“Well, Barbie’s a cynic. You have to take her with a grain of salt,” she says. “You know what she recently said to me? Right in front of the girls?”
“What?” I ask, shaking my head in anticipation.
“She said getting married is like going to a restaurant with friends. You order what you want, and when you see what the other person has, you wish you had ordered that instead.”
I drop my head to my hands and laugh. “Brutal,” I say.
“I know. She made me feel like a big pork chop that Dex might send back to the kitchen.”
“How about this one?” I say. “After she saw Nick open the car door for me recently she offered this nugget: ‘When a man opens the door of his car for his wife, you can be sure of one thing—either the car is new or the wife is.’”
Rachel laughs and then says, “Well? Was the car new?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “Brand spanking . . . So anyway, I would never admit this to her, but quitting my job hasn’t really been the panacea I was hoping for. I feel just as frazzled and exhausted—and there still doesn’t seem to be enough time for the kids . . . For anything, really.”
“Yeah. It almost makes you feel more guilty, doesn’t it? For not being an arts-and-crafts kind of mom?”
“But you are,” I say, giving her an accusatory look.
“I am not,” she says. “I can’t tell you the last time I got out the art supplies with the girls. You theoretically have so much more time at home, but you fill it with the minutiae that you somehow managed to avoid when you were working.”
“Yes!” I exclaim again, feeling intense relief, as there’s nothing so despair-provoking as thinking you’re the only one who feels a certain way, especially when it comes to matters of motherhood—and correspondingly, nothing more comforting than knowing you’re not
alone. “That’s exactly it. I feel like I need a wife . . . Someone to handle the class projects and—”
“Run all the errands,” Rachel says.
“And buy the gifts.”
“And wrap them,” she says.
“And write the thank-you notes.”
“And put the photo albums together,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m two years behind—and only halfway finished with Julia’s baby book.”
“Hell, forget the albums. I’d settle for some help taking the photos,” I say, thinking of how I recently told Nick that if something were to happen to me, the kids would have no photos of their mother. He told me not to be so morbid, grabbing the camera from me and snapping a dark-circles-under-my-eyes, Clearasil-coating-a-big-zit-on-my-chin shot that I later deleted, shuddering to think that I might be remembered in such a grisly light. Or worse, viewed that way by another woman, Nick’s second wife, the only mother my children would ever know.
Then, just as I feel our playful gripes transforming into a no-holds-barred bitchfest, Rachel smiles and says, “Ahh. Yes. But lucky for them they are so darn cute. Inept though they are.”
I smile, puzzled at the idea of calling children “inept” and then realizing that she is not talking about the kids, but rather Dex and Nick.
“Right,” I say, my smile stretching wider. “Good thing.”
***
That night, long after everyone has departed and the kids have gone to sleep, Nick and I are in our room, getting ready for bed.
“That was a great weekend,” I say, rinsing my face. I pat it dry and apply a generous amount of moisturizer to my face and neck. “I love seeing the cousins together.”