The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 11: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2011

I throw my coat over my yoga clothes, stuff everything else in my gym bag and run for the car. I arrive at the daycare at six-fifteen, fifteen minutes late, and find myself face-to-face with the Director.

In my almost dizzying loathing for the Director, it is easy to forget that it was I who insisted that we enroll our children in a daycare instead of hiring a nanny, a course of action which Jesse sensibly argued would relieve considerable pressure on our household in the form of basic cleaning, grocery shopping and flexibility in parental arrival and departure times. But I held firm in my conviction that a progressive daycare was more consonant with our values than hiring a poor woman from a developing economy who would have to leave her own children behind in order to care for our privileged white offspring. Now I am faced daily with the bitter reality that the Director, who is without doubt the kind of person who would have participated enthusiastically in my tableau condemning the oppression of Afghani women, is the most obvious obstacle to my ever attaining the mythical feminist state of joyous working motherhood.

“Sophie,” she says, “I’d like to speak to you for a minute. Can you step into my office?”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say. “I’ll pay the fine.”

She closes the office door behind me, an ominous beginning. “You’ve been racking up a lot of fines lately,” she says.

“Maybe I should run a tab,” I joke, but I can see that the Director is not amused.

“We had another incident today,” she says.

“Scotty bit someone?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“It’s not his fault,” I say. “It’s been pretty stressful at our house lately. He really is a good little boy.”

“I’m not saying that he’s not. But it’s probably time to consider whether this is the right childcare arrangement for him and for you.”

My heart sinks. “You can’t kick us out,” I say.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” she says. “Usually families come to the realization on their own that another arrangement would work better. I’m just encouraging you to start that conversation with yourself and your husband. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I get the strong sense that this isn’t working for your family. Scotty’s the last child here every day. It’s stressful for him and it’s not fair to the staff.”

“I get it,” I say. “I’ll do better.”

“Sophie,” she says. “This isn’t an assignment and I’m not giving you a failing grade. I’m just suggesting that you might want to consider alternatives.”

“Can I go and get Scotty now?”

“Go ahead,” she says. “We’ll talk again.”

I find Scotty in the toddler room, watching a Dora video. He leaps to his feet when he sees me, throws his arms around my neck and won’t let go. “Can we watch the end?” he asks.

I sit down on the carpet with him and pull him onto my lap. The Director can throw us out when she wants to leave. For now, I’m going to stage a sit-in, just like old times.

I bury my face in Scotty’s curls and, finding myself in as dark a psychological space as I’ve been in for a while, allow myself to dive down a bit deeper still. I have always taken pride in my adherence to a long-term professional plan, terminating in my installation as the Executive Director of a socially-relevant, politically-influential non-profit, preferably for the advancement of the dispossessed. After graduation, I logged six years at organizations with unassailable feminist credentials, one a U.K. magazine with a focus on women’s health, whose dwindling readership numbers were artificially inflated with free mailings to community centers across the country, and the other a think-tank dedicated to lobby efforts in support of girl-centric curriculum in public high schools. Having started a long-distance relationship with Jesse while employed at the first of these fine organizations, and having moved in with him during my tenure at the second, both of which paid next to nothing and offered no benefits or job security, it occurred to me one day that if I wanted to A) not be entirely financially supported by my male life partner and B) ever be in a position to have children who would not be entirely supported by my male life partner, I would have to get a job with an organization that had sources of funding other than intermittent government grants from minor agencies tasked with securing the women’s vote for the next election. And that’s how I ended up working at the Baxter, although when I took the job there it never crossed my mind that I’d be planning social events for the ruling class. Life is indeed full of disappointments.

And on the subject of disappointments, as I plunge deeper down my little rabbit hole of angst, I am reminded of my friend Sara, who had my book club in stitches one night telling us about the worst things that her children, now in their teens, had ever said to her. She had a fine collection of ignominies, but the gold medal for maternal insults went to her son for telling her at the tender age of five that she was not the mother he had hoped for. I only had Jamie then, and he was too small yet to recognize my shortcomings. I was more confident in the upward trajectory of my parenting achievements. I thought there could be no failure more devastating than having your child say such a thing. But as I sit on the floor in Scotty’s daycare, I know that there is much more profound despair to be found in the knowledge that you are not the mother you had hoped to be.

“Hey, Scotty,” I say. “Do you want to do something fun tonight?”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise,” I say, and as the credits roll on the Dora episode, I pick him up and march past the Director’s office with my head held high. Let her think that I’m a bad mother. What does she know? There is still time to turn the tide, and my short interlude of meditation on the toddler mat has given me some inspiration and perspective – a result of connecting with my innermost thoughts and feelings, no doubt: Leo would be proud. I am going to turn this day around, and, being a planner, I have a foolproof plan. Tonight, I will nourish my children with healthy, homemade food, while simultaneously teaching them about the satisfaction that comes from enjoying the fruits of your own labor. And that’s not all. I will teach them about the nature of giving and the true spirit of Christmas by helping Jamie create beautiful, personal Christmas cards for all of his friends. There is still time to be the mother I always wanted to be. And who needs television when you can make your own fun?

Fortunately, there is supersized 24-hour grocery store near Scotty’s daycare, which has everything I need to execute an evening of perfect parenting. I’m not really dressed for the occasion, but the one benefit of having a daycare neither near work nor near home is that you are unlikely to run into anyone you know. I feel unreasonably happy every time I come to this grocery store, and the main reason for this is the seasonal aisle, which has bailed me out on countless occasions. The seasonal aisle is a little oasis for the working mother, one of the few places in the world designed for her comfort and convenience. Forgot to buy Halloween candy? You can get it in the seasonal aisle at two in the morning on October thirty-first – and not substandard candy either, but the very same candy that the stay-at-home moms bought two weeks ago. No Easter presents? Fear not. On Easter morning, you will find an outstanding selection of chocolate bunnies and eggs for the Easter hunt and even festive Easter hats. The seasonal aisle has never let me down and today is no different. I pick up a package of red construction paper, glue, red and green sequins and Santa stickers, and throw them in the cart along with all of the pizza ingredients.

Scotty whimpers, and I see that his nose is running. I rummage in my purse for a tissue and check my pockets. I must have one somewhere. I unzip my coat and check the inside pocket. Still no tissues, but I find a lollipop of unspecified vintage, so I resort to wiping Scotty’s nose with his shirt and placating him with the candy. “Just a few more minutes, baby,” I promise.

“Sophie?” I turn around and see Jenny Dixon standing behind me. I suppress a groan and smile brightly, attempting to look as professional as possible in sweaty yoga clothes. “Is this your son?” she asks. “He’s gorgeous.”

“This is Scotty,” I say. “We’re making homemade pizza tonight, aren’t we honey?” Scotty sucks hard on his lollipop and eyes Jenny with deep suspicion.

“How fun!” says Jenny. “I meant to call you this afternoon, actually. Have you done the performance reviews for your staff yet?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

“I know it’s been busy in your department, so I’ve cut you some slack. But they were due three weeks ago. When do you think you can get them done?”

“By the end of the week, for sure,” I say.

“I’m counting on it,” says Jenny. “See you tomorrow. Oh, and good luck with your pizza. I admire you. I’ve never had the patience for that – the dough just takes so long to rise.”

By the time I find and pay for all of my purchases, load a resistant Scotty back into his car seat, and pull into the driveway, it’s already seven o’clock. The babysitter, radiating irritation at my tardiness, pushes past me and out the door, as I haul my shopping bags into the kitchen.

“I’ve got to run, Sophie,” she says. “Jamie had a snack earlier but he’s been asking for dinner. See you tomorrow.”

“Can we order pizza, Mommy?” asks Jamie.

“I’ve got a better idea, sweetie,” I say. “Let’s make our own pizzas!” Jamie looks unimpressed. “You can have exactly what you want on it, and it won’t take any longer than ordering. I promise. I’m just going to heat the oven.” I scan the instructions on the package of dough to check the temperature, remembering Jenny’s parting comment with a sense of foreboding. And now I see for the first time that I am supposed to put the dough in a bowl, cover it and let it rise for an hour. Then the pizzas need to cook for fifteen minutes. I plunk the cold dough in a bowl and do some quick calculations. One hour plus fifteen minutes will take us to eight-fifteen, by which time the children will be completely ungovernable; I can’t blame them, given that they go to bed at eight-thirty. The unwelcome thought crosses my mind that I have picked the wrong evening for homemade pizza, but I brush it aside. Surely a half hour is enough time for the dough? But I still need a stop-gap.

“How about a handful of goldfish crackers to tide you over?” I suggest. I fill two bowls with goldfish and push them across the breakfast bar.

“I want to watch my show!” says Scotty.

“You know what? I’ve got a better idea,” I say, brightly. “We’re going to do some crafts! Look at what I’ve got.” I pull out my bag of tricks from the seasonal aisle and spread the craft supplies on the table. I give Scotty a couple of markers and some construction paper and tell him to draw snowflakes, which miraculously, he does. “And I have a great project for you, Jamie,” I say. “We’re going to make Christmas cards for all the kids in your class! Won’t that be fun?”

Jamie pops the last goldfish cracker into his mouth. “I’m still hungry,” he says.

I hand him a banana. “Look,” I say, pulling out a sheet of red construction paper. “We’ll fold the paper like this, cut out a white paper snowflake, glue it on and add some sequins. Then you can print your friends’ names and Merry Christmas inside. Don’t you think your friends will like them? They’ll be so much nicer than store-bought cards.”

“I hate printing.”

“OK, how about you do all of the cutting and gluing for the front of the card and I’ll do the printing?”

“How much longer until the pizza is ready?”

I look at the clock. The dough has been rising for fifteen minutes. It will have to do. “Coming right up,” I say, and I rip off a handful of dough and roll it out. “See?” I say, “It’s going to be just the perfect size for you. Do you want to put on the toppings?” Jamie shakes his head. I bash out two more misshapen personal-sized pizzas, fling some tomato sauce at them and dump a mound of shredded cheese on top. “Will you at least put the pepperoni on?” I ask.

“Can I have some more goldfish?”

“Me too!” Scotty drops his marker and throws his snowflake drawing on the floor.

“I’ll give you more goldfish if you put the pepperoni on the pizza,” I say.

Jamie takes a few slices and places them on the pizza with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

“I think you’ll be surprised at how delicious this dinner is going to be,” I say, refilling their bowls with crackers. I open the oven door and slide the pizzas in. “Just fifteen more minutes, guys. And while we’re waiting, we can get started on our cards.”

“I want to get down,” says Scotty. “Can I watch my show now?”

“We’re not watching TV tonight,” I say. Scotty’s brow furrows, his lower lip juts out and starts to quiver. He is ten seconds away from a complete meltdown, but I have an emergency backup plan. “Come with me, honey,” I say, holding out my hand. “Let’s get your piano out.”

Scotty’s “piano” is a cheap synthesizer that my mother gave him for Christmas last year. It has six different tracks programmed in, each more annoying than the last, and no discernable volume control. I had put it away in my closet sometime last February, after I realized that I was humming the tunes in the shower every morning. For a couple of months, Scotty would ask where it was and I would change the subject, but now I appreciate that I will have to make some sacrifices if I’m serious about reducing television consumption. So I race upstairs and produce the long-lost piano. Hopefully, this buys me at least a half hour to focus on Jamie.

“I’m going to teach you how to make paper snowflakes,” I tell him, as I fold a sheet of white paper over on itself. I take a pair of scissors and make crisp little hatches around the edges, then unfold the paper to reveal – a rectangle with a jagged hole in the middle and a ragged edge that looks like it has been chewed by a dog.

“Where’s the snowflake?” asks Jamie.

“You know what? Never mind the snowflake. Let’s just glue some sequins and stickers onto the red construction paper.” I fold a couple of pages in half and hand them to him. “Here are the first two. Can you choose the stickers you want?” I notice that his second bowl of goldfish is empty, but at least he seems marginally interested in the stickers. He selects some Santas, elves and reindeer, and begins layering them onto the cards.

“Not so many, sweetheart,” I say. “Pace yourself. We’ve got to save some for the other cards. How about some sequins?” I unscrew the cap on the glue and empty a pile of sequins onto the counter. Jamie takes the glue, turns it upside down and squeezes a white, sticky puddle onto a full quarter of the page.

“Whoa!” I say, grabbing the glue and turning it upright. “You don’t need quite that much, honey!”

Jamie grabs a handful of sequins and drops them onto the glue spill. I remind myself that the goal is not to create perfect works of art, but to work on fine motor control, offer attractive alternatives to television and, of course, celebrate the spirit of Christmas. “Gorgeous!” I say. “Your friends are going to be so happy that you made them these beautiful Christmas cards!”

Jamie looks doubtful, but he dutifully moves on to the second card, which is soon covered in the same gooey mess as the first one. The timer on the oven goes off, and I race over to peek at my pizza masterpieces. But there is something wrong. The pizzas are completely flat, too flat even to pass as thin-crust. Maybe they just need a little more time. I close the oven, just as Scotty comes in.

“I want a cookie,” he says.

“It’s dinnertime, honey,” I say. “No cookies.” His face crumbles and I rush over to pick him up. “Would you like a banana instead? The pizza will be ready really, really soon.” I grab a banana, peel it and hand it to Scotty. “Are you done with your piano?” I ask, setting him up on the counter. “Do you want to read a story?”

“I want my show!” he says, and starts to cry.

“Me too,” says Jamie. “I don’t want to make cards anymore.”

“Come on guys,” I say. “We can find something else fun to do.”

Suddenly I smell something burning. I race over the oven, but it’s too late. The little pizza pucks are completely scorched around the edges, and by even the most optimistic interpretation, inedible. “Who wants a peanut butter sandwich?” I ask.

“I’m full,” says Jamie.

Scotty’s eyes are streaming with tears, and as I pick him up off the breakfast bar, I realize that I have sat him squarely on top of Jamie’s cards, and he is now covered in glue and sequins. I strip him down to his diaper, and kiss his head. “How about you, honey?” I ask. “Are you still hungry?”

“No, Mommy,” he says. “I want my show.”

I pull a wine tumbler out of the cupboard, walk over to the fridge, and balance the door open with my hip while I pour left over wine from the wine bottle and fill the glass to the top. I take a long drink and look at my lovely sons, whom I have made miserable for no good reason. They deserve better, but today I have no idea what better might be, or how to get there.

“Come on, guys,” I say. “Bedtime in a half hour. Let’s see what’s on until then.” And then I beckon to my sons to follow me, walk into the playroom and turn on the television.