Luckily, they are more the forgiving kind of religious people and less the judgmental kind. So after a few dozen Hail Marys and one excruciating afternoon at Our Lady of Unity doing the Stations of the Cross, I moved in with them and started what I now call the normal years. With their help, I raised the girls, worked for a while at Allstate, and, yes, was class mom seven endless years in a row. It’s a record that I believe still stands at William Taft. I hope it’s not what ends up as the most noteworthy thing in my obituary, but you never know.
It was while working at Allstate that I met the man who would become Baby Daddy #3 and Husband #1, Ron Dixon. By the way, I still have had only one husband. I just think it’s funny to introduce him that way. Ron called to file a complaint with the people with whom he thought he was in good hands. As was my job, I took the call and tried to talk him out of canceling his policy. Ron has an amazing voice. Even when he’s complaining, it sounds like he just swallowed liquid velvet. I could have listened to him all day. It was around the time he called me a soulless bitch that I decided I wanted to meet him. To this day, he thinks I took all my disgruntled phone callers to lunch.
What can I say? I had him at hello. I’m not unattractive, considering my age and the mileage I’ve put on my body, and Ron happened to be single, having just gone through a soul-sucking divorce. In fact, when he called the insurance company he was trying to put in a force majeure claim for a fallen tree that had clearly been hit by a car. I later found out that the tree was the victim of domestic abuse, having been plowed over by his ex.
As a member of the sisterhood, I take exception to men always calling women crazy, but in this case I can say unequivocally that Ron’s ex-wife, Cindy, is nuts. Not fear-for-your-life nuts, just garden-variety nuts. The biggest problem is that you never know in what form the nuttiness is going to rear its ugly head. Like one day, a few months after Ron and I moved in together, six Costco-sized crates of diapers appeared on our doorstep with a card from Cindy saying, “Get the message?” I figured she was either calling us babies or suggesting that we have a baby. Ron said she was telling us we are full of shit.
Ron is a good fit for me. He’s what my father would call a solid guy, both physically and emotionally. He’s about five eleven (although he tells people he’s six feet, for reasons that are not quite clear to me) and fit without looking bulked up, and he has short dark hair that is thinning at the temples. He’s not what I had typically found attractive in the past—I mean, he doesn’t even have a tattoo—but he has immense charisma and just about the kindest face on the planet. Combine that with the voice, and I was a goner the moment I saw him. Our courtship was short and sweet, because when it’s right, it’s right, and why screw around? And thanks to crazy Cindy’s fear of vomit, they never had any children. So when he dropped the B bomb on me on our first anniversary I shouldn’t have been surprised.
We were having dinner at Garozzo’s, and over penne Victoria he casually mentioned that he would really like to have a baby. I stifled my first thought (Well, good luck with those labor pains!) and told him of course we would try. I pretty much counted on my aging womb to keep anything from happening, but wouldn’t you know it? I had one good egg left. And thank goodness for that, because Max is the dessert of my parenting life.
So now at the ripe old age of forty-six, I have two girls in college and one boy starting kindergarten. And I’m the oldest mom in the grade. Oh sorry, the wisest.
*
“Max! Get down here. Your toast is getting cold.”
I sit back down at my kitchen-counter office and slam out an email to my class parents that I hope they read before drop-off this morning.
* * *
To: Parents
From: JDixon
Date: 9/6
Subject: Questions answered
Dear Parents,
2
THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. Yup, all caps, bold and italicized. That’s how epic it is in my mind. Everyone is so clean and excited! Backpacks are fresh, sneakers are squeaky, and pencils are sharp. Take this same snapshot mid-November and it’s a whole different story.
We make our way down the well-worn hallways of Vivs’s and Laura’s old stomping ground, William H. Taft Elementary School. When we get to room 147, we find the prettiest and preppiest person I have ever seen standing at the classroom door greeting people. She has long blond hair, which is kept back by a pink headband. She is wearing light-pink-checkered pants and a white blouse with ruffles. I hope she owns a smock.
As we approach, she hits us with a dazzling smile and holds out her hands.
“Is this Max? Oh, my goodness, Max, I have been so excited to meet you! Is that a new shirt? Purple is my favorite color!”
Well, color me impressed. Miss Ward is a real charmer. She has obviously studied the pictures we all sent in at the end of the summer. Max hasn’t said a word, but wears the goofy smile of a man smitten. So does Ron when I look over at him.
“Hi, Miss Ward, so nice to meet you. I’m—”
“No, no!” Miss Ward interrupts me. “This is not about Max’s parents. It’s all about Max today. Come on in and find your name on your desk, sweetie.” She ushers Max into the room and he eagerly follows without a backward glance.
Ron and I look at each other. I shrug.
“It’s all about Max.”
As we head out of the school, Ron asks what I’m up to.
“I’m going to meet my new trainer.”
He looks at me skeptically.
“I know what you’re thinking, but after that debacle at your store I feel like I need to step up my workouts.”
“Or, just, you know, start them.” He smiles and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
Here’s the thing. Ron’s sporting goods store is one of the biggest in KC. A few months ago, they hosted a mini mud run to promote our governor’s “Get Fit” initiative. When he mentioned that he needed participants, I volunteered. That was my first mistake. I thought I was in shape, thanks to my twice-weekly visits to our neighborhood Curves, which I had joined shortly after Max was born. So when I got to Ron’s store that day and saw the course setup I was, like, “No problemo.” That was my second mistake.
Let’s just say that the upper-body strength you get from hauling a toddler around for a few years doesn’t exactly prep you to climb a rope or swing from monkey bars or even drop to your belly and crawl through mud, although that was the easiest part.
It was weeks before I could show my face down at the store again. I mean, it’s not great when the wife of the owner breaks down and cries because she can’t get over the wall. Plus I was sore for days in areas I didn’t know existed.
“Who’d you get to train you?” Ron asks when I don’t acknowledge his dig. I can tell he is annoyed that I hadn’t consulted him on the decision.
“Someone my mother recommended. He comes to your home and works you out. I figured I’d finally start using Ron’s Gym and Tan.” That’s my nickname for the home gym Ron has set up in our basement.
Ron gives a fake gasp. “You mean you’re going to give up Curves?” He’s never been a fan. Ron’s kind of a gym snob.
“See you later.” I give him a sly smile and head to my minivan. “Hot new trainer’s awaiting.”
Ron frowns. “Hot? You didn’t say he was hot.”
I laugh as I open my car door. I actually have no idea what he looks like. But with a name like Garth, I have high hopes.