The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 3: MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2011

And so it is that I find myself in the car on Monday afternoon (how can it still be Monday? How?), inventing crazy routes to avoid traffic as I race to the doctor’s office. There is no woman more desperate on earth than the one with a sick and deeply unhappy toddler in the back, trying to make it to the pediatrician before he closes for the day. A lot of ink has been spilled drafting laws to make the roads safer from people who drink and drive or talk on their cell phones and drive, or wear sexy bathing suits and drive, which is apparently very distracting for drivers in Kentucky. But in my opinion, regulators have really missed the boat here, since the most dangerous, distracted drivers on the road are moms with screaming children in the backseat. You can see them everywhere, belting out their little ones’ favorite tunes from the Creative Caregivers Singing Circle and shimmying in the driver’s seat; contorting backwards through the gap between the seats to shove pacifiers and animal crackers into their darling babies’ mouths; or just weeping hysterically at the horror of it all. And today, I’m one of them.

I’ve got my wireless headset wedged in my ear and I’m trying to do a modified staff meeting over the phone, which is profoundly unsatisfying for everyone concerned since at least half of the discussion is drowned out by Scotty’s howls. It’s the standard docket: three press releases for approval, two major proposals in development and a variety of daily media inquiries, none of them particularly earth-shattering. Erica’s peevishness comes across the line loud and clear; she feels ignored and she’s not wrong. But she’s a grownup and writing press releases isn’t rocket science, for god’s sake, and for today, I’m delegating supervision of her work to Geoff. In my current state, he’s going to do a better job of it anyway. And he has much more innate patience than I do for the delicate emotional states of my little group of writers, all of whom think that they should be producing the Great Novel, and exist in a state of quiet despair that the exigencies of mortgages and groceries require them to write thank you letters and donor profiles instead. Thank heavens for Geoff, the sanest creative type on planet Earth, and his unexpected talent for HR management.

I had been planning a brainstorming session on the Gala theme, but the shrieking is hitting an alarming crescendo, and after nearly rear-ending a city bus, I decide that I am going to have to concentrate on getting to the doctor in one piece. I ask them to continue the meeting without me, and hang up. And I need to calm down before we get to the office so that I can pull off my Competent Professional Mother In Control of Her Life impression. For reasons that I don’t fully understand, sitting in Dr. Goldstein’s waiting room seems to trigger intense paranoia in me; I’m always convinced that he will take one look at my kids and diagnose them with scurvy or some other disease that has been eradicated in all but the most negligent households in the developed world. As a result, I talk too much and put words in the children’s mouths, boast inappropriately about their achievements and generally undermine my own efforts to portray myself as a successful and relaxed parent.

Dr. Goldstein comes into the examining room. “What do we have here?” he asks. “Another ear infection, young man?” He pulls out his scope and looks at me expectantly. “I’ll need you to lay him down and hold his arms so I can get a good look in his ears.”

Scotty, who has been sobbing at a slightly lower volume since we arrived, ramps it up at the sight of Dr. Goldstein. He goes rigid as I try to lay him down, kicking furiously and making contact with my left breast, which hurts so much that it takes my breath away. I lose my grip on him entirely. Dr. Goldstein steps in. “Like this,” he says, and in a nanosecond he has Scotty pinned on the table. “Now hold his hands here – no, not like that, like this – right.” With practiced movements, he jabs the scope in one ear and then the other, and takes Scotty’s temperature for good measure. “All done,” he says. “You can let him up.”

And now Dr. Goldstein turns his attention to me. “The right ear is red and his temperature is slightly elevated.” He reaches over and grabs a prescription pad and scribbles something completely illegible. “He’s had a few more ear infections this year than I would like. I’m giving you something a bit stronger this time. But if the infections don’t taper off, we’re going to be looking at tubes.”

At this, I feel my calm façade start to crack; in truth, Dr. Goldstein’s pronouncement makes me want to throw in the towel. Antibiotics are one thing, we have them every couple of weeks, but how am I going to fit a surgery into my schedule? And where is Jesse going to be when all of this happens? He’s not the one here, listening to Dr. Goldstein announce that our son has defective ears, and I’m willing to bet the farm right now that Jesse is going to have a very important meeting with investors that conflicts with the pre-op appointment with the surgeon, the surgery and the follow-up appointment, not to mention the hours of recovery spent unwrapping popsicles and switching Backyardigans DVDs. I might as well just quit my job and stay home to deal with the constant barrage of glitches and setbacks.

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised, and I can tell that whatever expression is on my face at this moment, it is inappropriate. “It’s a minor procedure,” he says soothingly, “And it may not be necessary at all. Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it, alright?” And I know in that moment that neither he nor I believe that I am a Competent Professional Mother In Control of Her Life, Her Children Or Anything Else. “And what about you?” he asks, adding insult to injury. “You look a little flushed. Are you sick as well?”

A responsible adult would admit weakness, would reach out and take help where it is offered. But I am determined to cling to the one little raft in the roiling sea of chaos that is my life. I will not give in. I may have a cold, but it is only a small, insignificant cold that will be gone tomorrow because I refuse to acknowledge its existence. No retreat, no surrender. “No,” I say. “I’m absolutely fine. Thanks so much for fitting us in.”

I pack Scotty back into the car. When we reach the drug store, I pull him out of the car, screaming his head off, and carry him inside where I bounce him up and down on a hard plastic chair for fifteen minutes while the pharmacist fills his prescription on a rush basis while all of the busy people waiting in line look at us with varying degrees of pity, annoyance and outright dislike. When we finally make it home, it is four-thirty, far too late to find alternative care arrangements, even if I had any bright ideas about how to do that, which I don’t. I give Scotty a dose of medicine, tuck him in on the sofa with a blanket and a DVD and contemplate drinking heavily. But Jamie is due back from school any minute, so I decide to do a few minutes of work while I can.

As I empty the papers from my desk out of my bag, a pink message slip drifts to the floor. I scoop it up and feel a rush of adrenaline as I read the name. I haven’t seen Will Shannon in at least three years, but the thought of him never fails to trigger a chemical reaction. I examine the message slip with the attention of scholar deciphering the meaning of an ancient manuscript. Joy hasn’t given me a lot to work with here. Assuming that she ticked the correct box, I can expect a call back. But the bottom of the check mark is touching the box below, which could indicate that Will is expecting me to call. There’s no number on the slip, but Will knows that I have it, and Joy is really unreliable when it comes to getting full information from callers. And there’s no actual message, so it’s hard to justify jumping the gun and calling him first when there is no obvious issue that needs to be addressed. I could send an email, something quick and light saying that I got his message and asking when might be a good time to connect since my schedule is so crazy. I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve been sitting by the phone. I’m mulling over the possibilities when the phone rings.

“Hey Soph,” says Jesse, “How did it go at the doctor?” As if going to the pediatrician with a sick baby could be anything other than a trip to the seventh circle of hell, not that Jesse would know. “Are you guys at home now?”

I find this last question especially vexing, since I know that Jesse has call display, which he uses to screen my calls whenever he is too busy to be dragged into a domestic quagmire. “We are,” I say, and I congratulate myself because my tone, although chilly, is measured and mature. “He has another ear infection.”

“No scurvy today?” I smile in spite of myself. “Did you pick up the prescription?”

My smile vanishes so quickly that the corners of my mouth hurt, and I put the phone down on the counter for a second so that I don’t throw it across the room. As if I wouldn’t pick up the prescription! As if there would ever be a slight chance that the job would fall to Jesse! I bristle with indignation; that the sum total of Jesse’s contribution to today’s misadventure should be to drop in at the end and ask stupid, self-serving questions, and that this should count as engaged fatherhood seems wildly unfair.

“Are you there?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I say. “The line cut out for a minute.” The surge of rage is fading, and I wonder if any of this is really Jesse’s fault. In choosing to juggle the competing demands of work and family, I was bargaining on a professional life that would be worthy of the effort. Juggle — the word annoys me intensely when applied to the multiple responsibilities of my life, suggesting as it does a trifling hobby with the sole purpose of entertaining a paying audience, none of which actually relates to the conditions of my existence. When I made my choices, I anticipated a steady rise in stature and an accumulation of accolades that would make the wisdom of my choice clear; and perhaps more importantly, I was terrified of finding myself on the stay-at-home end of one of those excruciating conversations in which a working mother attempts and generally fails to persuade a stay-at-home mother that she values and admires the choices that have led her to a life of unpaid, unappreciated and unremembered domestic labor. Am I actually angry because the biggest challenge and crowning achievement of my day has been the mere acquisition of a prescription?

“I got the prescription,” I say, “I’ve given him the first dose.”

“Great,” he says. “What’s he doing now?”

“He’s watching unlimited episodes of Dora and Diego, which is making him marginally less miserable. When will you be home?”

Jesse pauses, and now I can hear the telltale clicking of his keyboard and I think my head is going to explode. I can’t believe that just moments ago, I was trying to persuade myself that anger is just shame turned outward! Jesse can’t even concentrate without doing email for more than two minutes on a conversation about our poor sick child who is running a fever, for god’s sake, on the couch in the next room.

“I’m sorry, Soph, but I’m going to be late,” he says. “The meeting this afternoon went well, and this group of investors seems serious, but Anya thinks that it’s important to cement the relationship by taking them out to dinner.”

“I’m sure she does,” I say, not very nicely. Anya is all sharp edges: cutting wit, experimental jewelry, severe bangs over prominent cheekbones, bony hips. She doesn’t have kids, and I’m quite sure, doesn’t like kids; and most of the time I think she pretends that Jesse doesn’t have them either. She has primary responsibility for business development at the firm, which gives her the power to disrupt our family schedule by routinely booking after-hours command performances for Jesse that I am certain could easily be accommodated during the work day. I can’t stand her.

“Sophie,” says Jesse, in a tone that is both a plea and a warning.

“Fine,” I say. This is an old conversation and I know better than to go there. When Jesse started the business with Anya, I gave him my full and unconditional support, which included learning to appreciate Anya’s strengths (Jesse’s words) and not driving Jesse mad by unpacking every exchange with Anya and looking for imagined slights (what Jesse actually meant). It’s been a bigger struggle since our disastrous trip to Las Vegas earlier this year. Jesse and Anya had a trade show that fell on our anniversary weekend, so I tagged along, thinking that we’d be able to carve out some time together. But in the end, Anya found a reason why Jesse had to be with her at all hours. I sat by the pool and got drunk in the desert sun and ordered room service by day; and by night watched bad movies on pay-per-view and tried unsuccessfully to beat back my paranoid suspicion that Anya’s ambitions for her relationship with Jesse extended well beyond the confines of the business. But I’m committed to getting past it, because I know that Jesse is incredibly stressed about the funding for their new project. It is a huge condominium development with street-level commercial space and state-of-the-art environmental technology, which is Jesse’s area of expertise. If they can get the financing together, their little company will establish its reputation in a tough and crowded market. But they’ve had to extend themselves a long way to get all of the permissions, plans and computer-generated renderings, and if the financing falls through, the company is likely to go the same way. I reach for my better self.

“Good luck,” I say. “I love you.”

There is a moment of silence and I hear that Jesse has stopped typing. “I love you too,” he says distractedly. “Oh, Soph, Anya is waving me back. I’ve got to go. See you later.” And he’s off.

I sit at the breakfast bar in the home that we have bought and renovated together and look at the pink message slip on the counter thinking: This is what no one tells you about marriage. No one tells you that you will feel angry and disappointed and lonely; no one tells you that you will have to work so hard to be good to each other. No one tells you that you will wonder whether it is worth it.

Marriage is a trade-off, but not the one you think. When you get married, you think you are trading freedom for certainty, and a past of failed love affairs for a future in which your romantic hopes are realized. There is a heady sense of emancipation that comes with the knowledge that you will never again look at your spouse and ask: Does he like me back? Does he want to kiss me? Do we belong together? When Jesse proposed to me, it was the definitive answer to all of these questions, and I almost wept with relief.

And then, as time marches on, you realize that in the day-to-dayness of your married life together, in your haste to escape from the insecurity of your pre-married existence, something essential has been lost. The very uncertainty that made you sick with anxiety also fueled your desire. Think about the most romantic moment of your life and you’ll see what I mean. Eyes meeting across a room, an unexpected touch that crackled like electricity on your skin, a first kiss under a street light in the snow, your beloved getting down on one knee: the moment was about expectation, the anticipation of a future where the relationship moved forward and deepened. Marriage, even a great marriage, is decidedly lacking in expectation. There aren’t a lot of surprises, and let’s face it, surprises in marriage are rarely good ones. Announcements such as, “I’ve discovered that I really like men/my twenty-five-year-old secretary,” or “I’ve decided that instead of working I want to build giant art installations out of car parts in our backyard,” are not in the standard happily-ever-after package.

And then you realize something even more disappointing. Marriage doesn’t change either one of you. It changes your outward behavior, because you are – at least ostensibly – committed to the social norms associated with the institution: fidelity, for most, but also a whole host of more mundane acts that fall into the category of making an effort, like contributing to the family income and treating each other with respect and being nice to your husband’s loathsome business partner. But all of your essential insecurities and desires eventually surface over time, like landmines in the desert.

I believe in marriage. I believe that two good people can be happy together for a lifetime. It’s the only thing even close to a religion that I have, and I cling to it with almost messianic zeal. But it is a belief system that makes unreasonable demands on its adherents, all of us sacrificing to the bone for a reward that may or may not come at the end of our days; and all of us steadfastly refusing to see the mounting evidence that long-term happy marriages, if they exist at all, are pretty hard to come by. We all want to think that miracles are possible. Otherwise, marriage is just a lot of hard work.

The front door opens and snaps me out of my reverie. It’s Jamie, home from school with the thirteen-year-old neighbor who picks him up from aftercare every day. I pay her extra to give him a snack and stay with him until I get home. By now she’s probably saved enough to pay for her college tuition.

“Mommy!” Jamie lights up to find me here, races over and throws himself into my arms with a force that nearly bowls me over.

“Hi, sweetie,” I say, and I kiss his curly head and know that this is the best moment I’ve had all day.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

He thinks for a bit. “Can we order pizza?” he asks. I can see that he doesn’t really think I’ll say yes, but I want him to believe in miracles for a little longer, so I say, “Sure.”

“Awesome!” He punches his fist in the air, an expression of wonderment on his face.

“Where did you learn that?” I ask, miming his fist-pump.

“Dad does it when we watch the hockey game,” he says and I remind myself that Jesse is a great father while I pick up the phone and call for dinner.

“How was school today?” I ask.

“OK,” he says. “We did science. Oscar had a time-out.”

“How come?”

“Mrs. Carron told him to take turns with Lily and he said no.”

It strikes me, not for the first time, how few of the qualities that we consider necessary for survival – sharing, putting the interests of others ahead of your own, controlling your emotions – are innate. Our parents try, our teachers try, and we, as adults, try to reinforce these learned behaviors in ourselves, but fundamentally, we would rather throw our crayons on the floor than share them. No wonder marriage is so hard.

Jamie and I hang out at the breakfast bar, waiting for our pizza. He has some juice and I have some wine (because it’s been a long day, and it’s true that wine has a lot of calories, but you really have to do the analysis of whether it’s more important to be skinny or to be sane, and anyway, it’s sensible to hold something in reserve for your New Year’s resolution) and he draws me a picture of Anakin Skywalker battling an army of droids.

It’s not until Jamie says, “What’s Scotty watching?” that I realize the theme song from the menu screen is playing over and over again; and if the video is over and Scotty isn’t shouting for me to fix it, it can only mean one thing. I groan, and peer into the den where I see Scotty fast asleep on the couch, two hours before his bedtime. With two of my essential parenting principles in conflict, I am torn between Never Wake A Sleeping Child and Mess With Bedtime At Your Peril; but the prospect of spending two hours with a fussy three-year-old who would rather be sleeping tips the balance, so I resolve to tempt fate and I carry Scotty upstairs. He barely moves as I change him into pajamas and roll his sweaty little head onto the pillow. I sit on the edge of his bed for a minute or two, listening to his congested snorts and snuffles in the dark, and my chest tightens with the fierceness of my love for him. When Jamie was born, I realized that children are to their parents as Kryptonite is to Superman; they are the only thing in the world with the power to destroy us utterly, and their presence leaves us in a state of constant and unrelenting vulnerability. But by the time we realize it, we’re committed forever.

The doorbell rings and I rush downstairs to claim the pizza. “Do you want to watch Clone Wars?” I ask Jamie.

“Can we eat in the TV room?” he asks, as if hardly daring to imagine that an ordinary weeknight could offer such marvels.

“Absolutely,” I say, and as we snuggle on the couch, eat our supper and watch the Jedi restore peace to the universe, I think: just under the wire, it turned into a good day after all.