There it is. The one-eyed monster shaped like a box on the floor of my bathroom. Where that eyeball looks will determine how I feel about myself today.
I hate that thing, but it’s a necessary evil, right?
Blowing out the last of the air in my body because surely it’ll make a difference, I step up on the scale.
155, 163, 158…. I quickly close my eyes as it swings back and forth to its destination. I can’t look anymore.
“Mama?” Maura meanders into the room, pushing her blond ringlets out of her face.
“Hi baby. No don’t stand up here with me, honey.” I gently push her backward off the scale while I take a gander at the results this morning.
Well, it’s not good. But I guess it could be worse.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Maura watches closely as the scale resets itself, now that I’ve stepped off.
“I’m weighing myself.”
“Why?” She stands up on it and starts bouncing up and down, excited that it keeps adjusting over and over again.
“Because I need to see how much more baby fat I need to lose,” I answer absentmindedly, grabbing my new dress out of the closet.
“Why?”
I grit my teeth before answering. It’s Maura’s newest favorite game. Sometimes the “why” game can be funny. Usually, though, she waits until the least opportune times to play it. Getting ready for my ex-husband and his new wife to come over for a birthday party is one of those times.
“Because I’m tired of being fat.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth to respond, but realize, I don’t have an answer for her. Why am I tired of being fat? Looking over, I see Maura has pulled her shirt up and is pinching the skin of her tummy.
That stops me cold.
I hate how my body looks now. I hate that it has lumps and bumps and cellulite. I hate that I’ll never wear a bikini and feel confident about it again. And I hate that my husband used my body’s changes as an excuse to cheat on me.
But that little girl right there, the one twisting her body so she can look at her rear, like I do when I’m looking at myself in the mirror, she doesn’t need me to start her down the rabbit hole of body image regrets. She’ll get enough of that from everyday peer pressure.
I don’t know if it’s seeing the big 4-0 looming in the distance, but it’s like I got smacked over the head with some wisdom. Well, shit. Looks like I need to figure out how to make peace with these lumps and bumps if I’m going to raise mentally and emotionally healthy girls.
I hate it when I’m a good mom sometimes!
“You know what, baby?” She untwists her body and looks over at me, big brown eyes full of trust. “Hop down. We don’t need this thing anymore.”
“How come?” She swings her arms back as far as she can so she can jump the three inches to the floor. This is why kids stay skinny. They overexaggerate all their movements. Every time. I should try that.
Once her feet hit the tile, I pick up the scale and turn to throw it away. “Because it doesn’t matter if I’m fat or skinny. It matters if I’m healthy. And this one-eyed monster here isn’t going to help with that.”
I toss it onto the trashcan. Of course, it won’t fit because bathroom trashcans are too small. And because of its bulk, it knocks the trashcan off balance and everything clatters to the floor.
Maura purses her lips and looks up at me. “It doesn’t fit, Mama.”
“Nope. It sure doesn’t.”
“Max is taking a nap, Mama.”
“Not anymore she’s not,” I respond.
Sure enough, within seconds, I hear the birthday girl raising holy hell in her bedroom.
Again, this is what I get for being a good mom sometimes.
I throw the dress over my head as I walk down the hallway to her room. Sure enough, snotty face McGee is screaming like her fingers are being cut off. As soon as she sees me, though, the crying stops completely and she smiles.
“Uh huh.” I grab her new big-girl panties and rip the sleepy time diaper off. “I’m onto you, you little twerp. You’re not actually hysterical, you just know I get here faster when you sound hysterical, right? Am I right?” I coo at her and tickle her tummy, making her giggle. I love that sound.
A quick glance over at the clock on the nightstand… shit.
1:55
Mom and Callie are going to be here any minute, and I’m still not ready to go.
We race back to the master bathroom, Max content to use the toilet scrubber to clean the bathtub. Not well, mind you. She’s only turning three. But that one spot, the spot she scrubs every time she’s in here, is starting to look really good.
A swipe of mascara and lip gloss, and some eyebrows painted on because otherwise you can’t see them. And now for my signature hair style…
A low messy bun in the back. It’s the only “updo” I know how to do when leaving my hair down isn’t an option. I don’t have time to flat iron. I don’t know how to use a curling iron. Scrunchie sprays don’t seem to work with my hair anymore. This is the best I’ve got.
I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror. Not for the first time, I can understand how James could trade me in for a newer model. The exterior package is looking ragged lately.
How did I get here? How did I go from being a pretty woman in my twenties to flat out frumpy and pushing forty?
A knock and the sound of the front door opening pulls me away from the pity party. I’ve got a different kind of party to focus on now.
Thank goodness my mom and Callie enjoy entertaining because I hate all the planning that goes with birthday parties. I have never been good at throwing parties. I never will be. I would much rather toss some money at Chuck-E-Cheese and let them do it all than implement one myself. And that says a lot because I loathe Chuck-E-Cheese.
Yet somehow, I was convinced that my own backyard would be perfect for a birthday barbeque for all our closest family and friends. That it would be cheaper or more intimate or something like that. Who knows. As long as they spearhead it all, I don’t really care.
“Oooh! You look pretty,” Callie’s carrying a giant cake box through the front door and heads straight for the kitchen. There’s no telling what’s in that box and I’ll admit, I’m almost a little scared.
“You look lovely, honey,” my mom reiterates, giving me a kiss on the cheek and carrying several bags of presents. “Is that your new dress? It’s really pretty.”
I smooth invisible wrinkles out of the front of my outfit. “Yeah. It’s not too short, is it? I don’t usually show this much leg.”
“Not at all. But what shoes are you going to wear?”
“I got your shoes, Mama!” Maura yells as she comes barreling down the stairs, the red Jessica Simpson stilettos that we lovingly refer to as “ketchup shoes” in her hand. Maura started calling them that the first time I wore them because of their color. I didn’t notice when I bought them, but they really are the exact shade of ketchup. Now I get hungry for French fries every time I wear them.
My mother shoots me an amused glance. We both know the heels are way too high for this short of a dress. They’re going to make me look like a hooker. But the huge smile and look of delight on Maura’s face makes it impossible for me to wear anything else.
“Thank you, baby,” I coo, as I take the shoes from her. “They’re perfect.”
By the look of delight on her face as she scampers away, I know I made the right decision.
“You are never going to last through the whole party wearing those shoes.” My best friend, folks. Always the realist.
“Shut up,” I say, as I stumble a bit, trying to balance on one foot to put the opposite on. Fortunately, my mother catches me and I hold onto her shoulder from that point on. Well, while I’m putting my shoes on, anyway. “And don’t give me any shit. You seem to have forgotten about last year’s Christmas card and the macaroni necklace you wore in the photo. What was the designer’s name again? Christoph? Christy-….”
“Christopher. And yeah, yeah, I get your point,” she acquiesces, and begins hanging pink streamers around my living room.
“What’s in the giant cake box, anyway? You didn’t go overboard did you?”
My mom laughs as she pulls a giant pink Happy Birthday sign out of her shopping bag.
I know that laugh. It means she did exactly the opposite of what I asked. “Oh no. What did you do?”
Callie has the audacity to look offended. “Why do you automatically think I did something?”
I point at my mother. “Because I know that snort laugh, and it means you went overboard.”
“It’s true,” Mom agrees. “It’s situation specific laugh.”
“You two are weird. It’s just a cake, Elena.”
“A two-tiered cake with bright pink fondant and a limited-edition Barbie sitting on top,” Mom declares.
I throw my hands in the air. “Callie!”
“What? She needed a kick-ass cake,” Callie argues.
“When she’s three?” I argue back. “Maybe when she’s sixteen. I’m gonna have leftovers for weeks.”
She waves me off like my concerns are ridiculous. “Whatever. Pass me those streamers?” She points to a purple roll that I pick up and hand to her while she continues to squabble with me. “You’ve got a lot of people coming to this party and most of them are adults. I guarantee you’ll need it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “We’ll see, friend. We’ll see.”
Sure enough, two hours and two dozen people later, it seems she was right about the cake. It’s been devoured with almost nothing left over.
I hate when she’s right about these things.
The shindig is still in full swing as I try to get things a little more organized. If I thought my mother and Callie overdid it on the food, again, I was wrong. These people can eat! I’ve already refilled all the trays of food more than once, but they’re empty again.
Kids are running around outside, playing on the swing set and shooting squirt guns at each other. James and Ben are manning the grill, which is why Callie and I are avoiding that area. Random neighbors are standing around conversing. It’s low-key. It’s relaxing. Max is happy she has presents. I got to eat a couple of my beloved hot dogs, which are my favorite. So far, there are no complaints from me.
Except that Keri is here.
She’s spending most of her time touching James. Rubbing his back while he grills, putting her arm around his waist while he carries on conversations, demanding kisses no matter what’s happening and who is watching, the way an insecure high schooler might do. And if I hear her talking about how much she loves my kids one more time, I might deck her.
Ok, that’s not true. I’ve never punched someone in my life. But I might seriously visualize it. Max has never even spent the night with them. I had it written up in the court order… no weekend visits until she turns three.
And now she’s three. That means Max’s first weekend away from me in the last three years and nine months will be this coming weekend. And she’ll be staying with her father and Keri. If that little reminder, who keeps shooting ugly stares at me, isn’t enough to make me crazy, nothing is. So I avoid coming in close contact with them as much as I can.
For the last year and a half, I’ve tried really hard to not put the girls in the middle of this divorce, even when my own heart was being shredded to pieces. I’ve not spoken an ill-word about him in front of them, even if he deserves it. I’ve not discouraged Fiona and Maura from their visits, even if a little part of me dies each time they walk out the door. I’ve always tried to make them think I’m excited about them spending time with their dad so they never feel like they have to choose alliances. It’s the right thing to do for the girls. But it also means at family events I get to watch Step Monster Barbie play the role of loving stepmother, a title she only gets by default. It can wear on a person after a couple hours.
Now, I’m bustling around the kitchen, refilling bowls with chips and cleaning out the remnants of dip, trying to regroup.
No such luck on that. Keri walks in.
“Do you need any help?” Her eyes are wide and she’s smiling sweetly at me. If I didn’t already know what a home-wrecking whore she was, I would think she was genuine. No wonder my husband, ex-husband fell for her shit. It’s probably the same pure innocent act she used on him.
But I’ve spent the last two hours catching her shooting daggers at me from a distance while she tries to play like my family is actually hers. I know she’s up to something. But I’ll play nice.
It’s for the girls… it’s for the girls… Keep reminding yourself of that, Elena.
“No, I’m ok. Thanks.” I brush her off and keep loading the dishwasher, hoping she’ll take the hint and go back to her asshole. I mean husband.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she saunters right over to the counter and opens a bag of chips. I roll my eyes to the heavens and say a quick prayer for patience. Yes, I allowed James to bring her, but not for us to “hang out”.
“It’s ok. The guys are talking business anyway,” she says pleasantly while I do my best to get this knife in the silverware tray and not launch it at her head. “You know how James is… all business all the time.”
“Unless he’s screwing his secretary,” I mumble under my breath.
She turns to look at me. “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I give her the same wide eyes and sweet smile she gave me earlier.
She briefly raises an eyebrow in irritation. It happens so fast, if I hadn’t been looking for a reaction, I would never have seen it. I admit, I’ve made a game out of ruffling her feathers sometimes. Knowing I still have at least that much control makes me excessively happy. But isn’t that true of every woman scorned? None of us like giving a shit. And for the most part, we don’t spend our days fixating on it. But to know you can get a little dig in here and there, it feels like taking back a tiny little piece of the dignity she stole from me when she stole my husband.
Not that he’s any prize. At least not anymore. Fifteen years ago, maybe he was. Turns out lying and deceit don’t help you age well. Too bad I didn’t see it until now.
“Max looks like she’s having a good time.” Keri tries again to engage me in small talk as she washes her hands of any chip crumbs.
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally.
She sighs and leans against the counter, crossing her arms and feet. “Elena, at some point we’re going to have to be friends.”
And there it is. The dead giveaway that there’s more to the sweet smile and puppy-dog eyes. She’s here to shake things up a bit. Create some drama. Pretend she has good intentions so I fall for her crap and she gets what she wants, when we all know how self-absorbed she really is.
As I turn around to have this conversation I’ve been avoiding, just to get it over with, I take a step back and trip over the open dishwasher door. Fortunately, I catch myself by grabbing the counter before I fall over and break the appliance. Forget looking like an idiot. I’m irritated, and maybe a little angry that Bend Me Over Barbie would try to make nice after upending my life, I don’t even care.
“What did you say?”
She sighs again, this time like she’s annoyed with me… with me… never mind that she’s a guest in my home. “Look, I know I’m not your favorite person…”
“You think?”
“But the reality is, we will be raising these children together. They’re my stepchildren. I have a vested interest in their lives.” I cock my head in disbelief. Surely, she didn’t say that. The anger is starting to take over the irritation.
For the girls… for the girls… for the girls… I keep trying to remind myself, but she won’t stop talking.
“And now that Max will be spending the night, it’ll work better for everyone if we were friends.”
Thank God for my best friend and her impeccable timing. Before I can open my mouth and go against the self-imposed rules I set up for this divorce, Callie walks in carrying an armful of dirty plates. She drops them in the sink, splashing just enough water droplets on our pretty, pretty princess that she squeals.
“Ugh, Callie, be careful! This is a three-hundred-dollar blouse I’m wearing,” Keri squeals.
Callie turns slowly and I take another step back… this time very carefully. I’d know that signature move of hers anywhere. It’s calculated. It’s cold. It means bad, bad words are about to come out of her mouth.
“Since you are now raising Elena’s children,” she emphasizes and I already know this isn’t going to go well for my friend. For me? It’s going peachy, so far. Especially when she picks up a fork covered in icing and starts running her forefinger over it, smoothing the icing down. “A good rule of thumb is to never wear expensive clothes to a three-year old’s birthday party. You never know when someone will accidentally get icing on you.” Quickly, Callie flicks the fork. Not hard. Just hard enough that a few tiny specks of icing fly out and land on Keri’s shirt.
Of course, Project Runway Barbie squeals again. Only this time she grabs a wet rag from the counter while she does it. “Was that necessary?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Callie says with her own fake innocence. I still haven’t made a move. Frankly, I’m too entertained by this whole episode. And it’s nice having a “bad cop” sidekick so I can stay true to my “good cop” desires.
“I get it, ok?” Keri continues scrubbing at the icing on her shirt. “You’re still mad because James chose me.”
Simultaneous gasps come from Callie and me. “She did not say that,” I whisper.
“Pretty sure she did,” Callie whispers back.
Keri rolls her eyes and tosses the rag back in the sink, positioning herself with her hands on her hips like she’s making a stand of some sort. “I can hear you, even when you whisper, you know.”
“We know,” Callie answers. “But it’s more fun to pretend we’re talking behind your back.”
“Look. We have to get along enough that we can help each other raise these kids. That’s what co-parenting means.”
Callie lets out a cackle and clutches her hand to her heart. “You think… you think first, third and fifth weekends is… is raising children?” She’s laughing so hard, she’s bent over to catch her breath. I assume this is an exaggerated laugh for dramatic purposes, because it really wasn’t all that funny. But knowing Callie, she’s about to go in for the kill, so I let it ride.
She finally pulls herself together enough to wipe the invisible tears from her eyes. “Oh, sweetie. Taking the kids to the movies and out to dinner isn’t raising them. It’s babysitting. You aren’t helping raise these children. You’re going on play dates so this one here,” she gestures to me with her thumb, “can go out and get a little R and R.”
Keri narrows her eyes. “That’s not fair,” she declares. “We do time outs and baths and… and family dinners as much as anyone else. It’s not our fault he only gets the kids three times a month and on Thursdays.”
Callie and I look at each other and we both start laughing this time.
“You think he takes them on Thursdays?” I ask.
“I know he does,” she says defensively. “We specifically set up Thursday nights as a night apart so he could go with the kids and I could go to hot box yoga.”
My eyebrows shoot up and Callie stops laughing. Suddenly, this conversation isn’t funny. As much as I despise Keri, it seems she’s becoming a woman scorned way faster than I was. I got almost fifteen years before my relationship caved. They haven’t even been married a year yet. “Keri, he hasn’t picked the kids up for Thursday dinner since the week before Christmas.”
Her face pales. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” Callie interjects, “but Elena cancelled her weekly book club meetings because he stopped showing up.”
If it’s possible, Keri’s face pales even further. I sort of feel sorry for her. Well, for a few seconds anyway. Then she straightens her spine, puts her hands on her hips, and opens her mouth.
“You think I’m going to believe what you tell me over what my husband tells me? We took vows of honesty and trust.”
Callie sniggers. I smack her arm, never looking way from Keri. If she wants to be delusional, that’s her problem.
“You are not going to sabotage my marriage by planting seeds of doubt in my mind. He loves me more than he’s ever loved anyone. He told me.” I cringe at her words. He told me the same thing at one time, too. But, of course, she’s not done with her rant.
“First the hooker shoes and short skirt. Now this. I know what you’re trying to do and it shows terrible character on your part that you would try to come between a woman and her husband.”
“Ok, time for you to go, Delusional Barbie,” Callie announces, grabbing Keri by the arm and dragging her to the back door. “You may have a lot of things, but room to judge someone on her integrity is not one of them.”
“Let me go!” Keri squeals as Callie opens the door.
“Gladly.” She practically shoves Keri out the door and slams it in her face. Through the window, I see her huff and stomp her way to James’s side where she demands, yet another kiss in front of the neighbors.
“You ok?”
I blink and jump when she startles me. “Geez, woman. How did you get close to me so fast?”
“I have the super power of speed. Now seriously, don’t go back into your head,” she warns.
“I’m not.” But I’m lying. I am. James used to tell me all the time that he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone. Even up to a couple of weeks before he left me. Now I question how long ago his eye, and his dick, started wandering.
“Bullshit. I can see your eyes glazing over.”
I sigh. “Is this skirt too short? Does it make my legs look fat?”
“What’s your definition of fat? Because if you’re comparing to chicken legs out there, that’s not a fair comparison. I could snap her thigh in half with my pinkie.”
I smirk.
“You know I’m telling you the truth.” She puts her hand on my forearm and goes into serious mode. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. “Elena, you’re a woman, not a child. You’re supposed to have curves and scars and embellishments.”
“Embellishments? Is that what we’re calling cellulite now?”
“Do you really want to drag serious mode out? Stop joking so I can finish my point.”
“Sorry.” I press my lips together and pretend I’m zipping them closed.
“Like I was saying, you’re a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman. You do not let her come in here with her passive aggressive bullshit and make this birthday party about anything other than a celebration of Max. Do you understand?”
I look at the floor and nod. She’s right. Today isn’t about me. Or Keri. Or James. It’s about Max and Max alone.
“What you’re saying is, you’d do me if you swung that way?”
“In a heartbeat.” We smile, knowing there is no better compliment than a straight woman telling another straight woman she’s ‘doable’. “Now let’s get this food out there to your guests before they mistake her chicken legs for buffalo wings.”
Serious mode is officially over. Birthday party mode is back on.