“I’m not sure. I didn’t ask,” I say pointedly, knowing she won’t take the hint.
Sure enough, she inhales dramatically, looks around, and drops her voice to a hushed whisper. “My husband works with his mother. Valerie Anderson. They’re at the same law firm.” Her eyes light up as she continues, “And he says she hasn’t been to work in weeks . . .”
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally, and then do my best to divert her attention to her own children, the only topic she’s guaranteed to enjoy more than speculation about another. “How are the boys?” I say.
“Crrazy,” she says, rolling her eyes, as she watches her second oldest, dressed as Winnie-the-Pooh, systematically pluck chrysanthemums from April’s flower bed. Clearly, she is cut from the “my child can do no wrong” mold, as she lets him continue to pick away, saying, “Yeah. They are all boy.”
As opposed to Frank, I think, who routinely clamors for my lip gloss, plays with Ruby’s dolls, and recently announced that he wants to be a hairdresser when he grows up. I offer these details to Carly, who gives me a sympathetic head tilt and a lilting, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”
Her implication is clear—I should be gravely worried.
I watch Winnie-the-Pooh stomp on the crushed petals, smearing streaks of purple and pink along the driveway, feeling sure he kills bugs with the same diligence and thinking that I’d rather my son be gay than the testosterone-driven frat boy her son seems destined to become.
“And this is Piglet, I presume?” I say, smiling at the infant in her arms, wearing a hot-pink striped onesie and a little snout on his nose, and glancing around for Tigger and Eeyore.
She nods and I murmur, “Adorable.”
“He’s not so adorable at three in the morning,” she says wearily, wearing her fatigue as a badge of honor. “I have a baby nurse—but I still get up to nurse every couple hours. So it really does no good.”
“That’s rough,” I say, thinking that she just masterfully made two points: she’s privileged enough to have outside help, yet committed enough to get up and nurse her child anyway.
“Yeah. It is. But so worth it . . . Did you nurse?”
None of your business, I think, as it occurs to me to lie as I have many times in the past. Instead I blurt out the truth, feeling liberated that I no longer guard the fact as a guilty secret. “For a few weeks. It didn’t work out so well for me. I quit. We were all better off.”
“Poor milk production?” she whispers.
“No. I just went back to work—and pumping was too hard,” I say, spotting Ruby, who is doing her best to push a squawking Frank out the back window of a lavender Cozy Coupe.
“Hey! Ruby! Knock it off!” I shout across the lawn.
“It’s my turn,” Ruby yells back at me, a hysterical edge to her voice. “He won’t share.”
“He’s two,” I say. “You’re four.”
“Two is old enough to share!” she shouts, which, unfortunately, is a decent point.
“I better go handle this one,” I say, grateful to excuse myself.
“This is when you wish their father was around, huh?” Carly says, giving me her very best “my life is better than your life” smile.
***
Later that night, after the kids are asleep, our porch lights are turned off, and I’m trying to resist candy, my mind returns to Carly’s smug smile. I wonder whether it was in my head—whether I’m being oversensitive or defensive about Nick’s work, projecting my own dissatisfaction. It occurs to me that she is not unique—that all women compare lives. We are aware of whose husband works more, who helps more around the house, who makes more money, who is having more sex. We compare our children, taking note of who is sleeping through the night, eating their vegetables, minding their manners, getting into the right schools. We know who keeps the best house, throws the best parties, cooks the best meals, has the best tennis game. We know who among us is the smartest, has the fewest lines around her eyes, has the best figure—whether naturally or artificially. We are aware of who works full-time, who stays at home with the kids, who manages to do it all and make it look easy, who shops and lunches while the nanny does it all. We digest it all and then discuss with our friends. Comparing and then confiding; it is what women do.
The difference, I think, lies in why we do it. Are we doing it to gauge our own life and reassure ourselves that we fall within the realm of normal? Or are we being competitive, relishing others’ shortcomings so that we can win, if only by default?
The phone rings, saving me from my runaway thoughts and an unwrapped Twix bar. I see that it’s Nick and answer hurriedly.
“Hey!” I say, feeling as if we haven’t talked in days.