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Confessions of a Crispy Mom

By Laura Frances

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One
Confession #1: This is everything I wanted?

Sitting in the carpool line at West Elm Elementary, I was doing all I could to keep from nodding off. The last few days had been a blur of trying to take care of Bryson, who apparently caught the crud, and managing everything else on my platter—plates were for lightweights.

My rumpled Target shirt and day-old pants were witness to the fact I’d been up all night. His tiny body lay on the back seat, spanning across the tan leather, in the stretched Spiderman pajamas he’d clearly outgrown six months before. His plump little belly poked out, making me smile, followed by the guilty cringe of realizing a decent mother would buy her children pajamas that fit.

The floor was littered with small bits of trash from things I couldn’t recognize, accentuated by the lingering scent of old french fries that had established its territory no matter how hard I tried to remove it. Bryson moaned in his sleep and I turned to stare at my nursing-back-to-health-nemesis, a large red bucket sitting on the floor beside his head. I let out a sigh hoping the line would move and he wouldn’t need to use it—again.

Fripp had beaten me to the first spot in line. I began to wonder if she’d installed some sort of tracking device on my vehicle to let her know the precise moment I pulled out of the driveway each afternoon. Seriously. If I showed up five minutes early, Fripp arrived six. I’m telling you right now, it got on my very last nerve. Especially on days like this when they were thin and exposed to begin with.

A sparkle caught my eye as I watched Fripp casually drop her arm out the window. I mean, really. The temperature was in the twenties for goodness sake. Shaded areas of lawns still held onto snow from the storm the weekend before. She had to be freezing.

From one car length behind, I caught myself staring at the ring, wondering at the stone’s true size and imagining Fripp’s husband buying it from the Home Shopping Network and passing it off as real. I couldn’t help but smile. When I snapped out of it, I realized Fripp was watching me in her rear-view mirror. Busted.

Upon making eye contact, Fripp flung open her door and rushed out of her Mercedes SUV toward my deluxe blue minivan—the bane of my existence as a stylish woman. I cracked the window half an inch.

“Well, hey there, Delia,” she sang in her sweet drawl, one she’d tried to assume since junior high though she was a Yankee by birth and never quite adapted it. Adjusting her freshly styled hair with her left ring finger, she stopped when I didn’t continue rolling the window down. Her head tilted to the side, much like a confused puppy.

A plan formed quickly in my mind. “Hey, Fripp,” I whispered. “Bryson’s sick in the back seat. Caught something really nasty, I’m afraid. I’d love to talk with you, but trust me, you do not want this. I’m pretty sure he threw up a piece of his liver this morning.” I coughed once for good measure.

Fripp’s hand flew to her mouth. Not at the thought of poor Bryson, I was sure, but more likely her own need of self-preservation. “Ok, then,” she mumbled through her hand as she backed away from the van. Then, apparently realizing she’d used the unbedazzled hand, she switched them. “Um, good luck with that.”
I made the most convincing look of concern I could muster, and nodded to show as much disappointment as I could manage. I watched as Fripp reentered her car and seemed frantic as she searched for something. What appeared to be a fifty-gallon jug of hand sanitizer, was hauled from the backseat, squirted, and rubbed on her hands. Cooties rocked.

Since she hadn’t been able to show her new wares up close and personal, she exposed her arm once more out the window, moving her hand ever-so-slightly so prisms danced off of her ring finger from the largest rock this side of Graceland. A three-and-a-half carat diamond, I was told. Fripp’s “push present” from her last baby, though he was nearly six now.

Of course rumors flew about why her husband was making such an extravagant gesture this late in the game, but from what Fripp was telling everyone, it had taken nearly that long to wait their turn for the designer to make it. After all, she’d told Dixie, he’s in Beverly Hills and has a client list to die for. Bryson moaned once more in the back seat, and I turned to check on what was likely the last of my babies. I thought of my own push present: a two-day headache from an overzealous epidural.

Something sticky wiped across my face as I turned around, and I checked the mirror to find a smear of purple Tylenol across my collar. How could I spend my life managing my complicated speaking schedule at venues all over the country, yet not be able to remember the flavor of medicine my own children preferred?

A perky new kindergarten mom in an adorable white coat with faux fur trim waved at me as she passed between mine and Fripp’s cars. I missed having energy. And clean clothes. I wiped at the stain on my collar, and ran my fingers through my hair thinking myself lucky that more purple goo hadn’t ended up there—oh wait. There it was. I tucked the sticky strands behind my ear realizing brown hair had its advantages.

As I turned ahead, I caught Fripp adjusting her rearview mirror to apply another coat of lipstick. Really? In the pick-up line?

A bell clanging from the school building summoned children from the classrooms. They filed out of the old brick building in a ragged single line formation. Book bags, fleece scarves, and school projects filled tiny arms as random loose-leaf papers fluttered to the concrete walkway unnoticed. Teachers followed behind, glancing side to side in search of stragglers. I rolled my passenger side window down a few inches, enjoying the energy and fresh air as they moved my way.

Remi and Mason searched the end of the pick-up line, assuming I’d be late again. They hadn’t yet clued in to my new obsession as the early bird. “Hey guys!” I waved. When Mason spotted me, he sprinted forward only to be caught by the string of his monkey toboggan by Mrs. Wheeler, the third grade substitute known for taking her position a bit too seriously.

“Mason McColl, back of the line, this instant! I said no running, and I mean it!” She followed Mason’s pointing finger and met my weary eyes. I smiled a weak smile and nodded. She peered upward, let out a sigh, and pulled him to the front line instead. Mason’s brown eyes sparkled, victorious.

Remi—the defender of world sibling justice—watched the scene with disdain. As Mason giggled and misbehaved with the child behind him in line, Remi’s mouth dropped and she threw her hands up at me, as if I had something to do with him not being properly reprimanded. I noticed a hole in the underarm of her new fleece coat and watched as she quickly lowered her arms, glancing toward another group of girls to see if they noticed as well.

Behind them, sweet little Meredith Clayton stood by herself, watching her own shoe as she made a tiny circular path in the grass. She’d just lost her mother three months before and I wanted so desperately to help her. I’d tried, of course, but her father wouldn’t have it. I understood that too. Being without a mother was hard even at my age. My throat caught as a memory of Mama tried to come to mind, but I pushed it down. I had the kids to focus on now, they were enough.

When all grades lined in their places, another metal door opened from the side building. A row of tiny Pre-K kids stepped out in a rambling line, holding hands. Most were so overdressed for the cold; they could barely manage to hang on through puffy mittens, much less lower the arms of their winter coats. My heart ached, remembering my kids at that sweet age. They weren’t too old for another sibling. In fact, I’d always pictured us a family of six, not five. It seemed as if someone was missing. But, I wasn’t about to replay that conversation with Matt again. Not now. I couldn’t stand another fight.

“Jade and Jackson Fripp . . . Remi and Mason Gray . . . Amy and Carleigh Wright . . .”

Five students stood on three large painted rectangles, as the first three cars pulled ahead for pick-up. The kids knew the routine. This place remained so . . . organized . . . I could barely wrangle three kids in and out of a grocery store. How on earth could they manage hundreds?

I hit the button for the side door, which slid open, then closed, then open again—psychotic van. Attached to the dash by Velcro, the after-school list served as a constant reminder for my scattered thoughts. A typical Thursday, we had karate, and basketball practice. I needed to stop by the grocery store: milk, juice, peanut butter, toothpaste. A small spurt of time existed between basketball and karate, but I couldn’t forget to stop and pick up Remi’s shorts for this weekend’s tournament. Or, to get Matt’s dry cleaning. Or, to call the groomer about boarding Amos for Matt’s party.

A bell dinged on my dash—a little gas pump lit in orange. Maybe I could get to Billy’s before they closed. The last place on earth that still pumped gas and washed your windshield for you.

Remi plopped onto the front seat, filling the floor with seventh grade books, gym shoes, and various scraps of paper. She unloaded her coat, pushed off her boots, and pulled on new socks and basketball shoes. The smell of sweaty socks filled the car and I cringed as she wadded them and placed them next to my can of diet cola. Mason climbed into the back, talking non-stop about dinosaurs and a book they’d read in the library. I wondered if he cared if anyone listened. Up ahead, the traffic guard motioned for Fripp to move forward and a three-car-line of overpriced vehicles pulled ahead at once toward the nicest part of town.

“So, how was school, guys?” I always started home this way.

Remi stared ahead, her eyes filling with tears. She turned toward the window, gathering her dark hair into a rubber band she’d unwrapped from her wrist.

“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did something happen with Jade again?” And most days pretty much went like this.

“I hate her, Mama.”

“No, you don’t hate her, hon. We don’t use that word. Try to find a better one.”

“Ok, fine. I despise her. I loathe her. I regret her existence. Is that better?” Remi kicked her book bag and crossed her arms.

“Actually, impressive. Can I borrow that last one?” I turned to her and winked, as I placed my hand on her arm and squeezed.

Remi cracked a smile. She turned to face me and leaned her head against the seat. “She’s mean, Mama. All she ever does is poke fun at me. Today, she pointed out to the entire class my boots are from Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart, Mama. It’s like the kiss of death.”

“Remi, just last month she spent the night. Now you hate her? Besides, what’s wrong with Wal-Mart? Those are probably the exact same shoes they’re paying ten times as much for. They’d be smart to shop there.” I knew that wouldn’t cut it.
Remi stared at me, her mouth creating a straight, tight line. “These were your idea. I wanted the fur lined boots.”

“Ok. I know. It’s not the same. But, we have a responsibility not to waste our money. I’m not going to buy you a $150 pair of boots when there are perfectly good ones on your feet. Besides, those are from Target, not Wal-Mart.”
That last point was wasted on Remi.

Pulling to a stop light, I realized Fripp sat in the turning lane to my left, with her daughter in the passenger seat. Jade smiled and waved at me as if she were actually polite. I smiled and waved back, but couldn’t keep my eyes off her impeccable makeup, as if prepped for a photo shoot.

Remi leaned over to glimpse at who it was, and I caught the slightest change in Jade’s eyes. Subtle, but effective, and I knew she meant it for Remi. They rolled into the intersection, readying to turn as we pulled forward and drove across. How could someone so young know how to play mind games? Fripp seemed to train her daughter to be exactly like her.

“Oh!” Mason shouted out from the back seat. “Did you, mom?” His wide grin made me realize I’d probably missed something. A promise made, maybe, and quickly forgotten. I searched my mind trying to remember. I thought of him watching the clock all day, counting the very minutes until he got into the car to ask for something I was too inept to remember.

“Did I . . . what, buddy?” I scanned his eyes quickly, turning to watch the road.

“Did you get it?” He clapped his hands twice and pulled his toboggan off, revealing a mess of brown tangles. It just made me love him.

I tried a playful tone. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I need a better description, mister.”

He smiled, wiggling his front tooth with his finger—a motion he’d been doing constantly since he realized it was actually moving.

The umbrella! “Dixie said we could pick it up whenever we wanted. We’ll head over there right now.”

“Yes!” Mason pumped his fist. The only kid in the third grade who hadn’t lost a single one, his first loose tooth was no small matter. My best friend, Dixie, tried to make him feel better by telling him the tooth fairy needed cornerstone teeth for her new pool house, and those were required to come from nine year olds. The craftiest person I knew, she promised him a mini-umbrella custom made for the tooth fairy’s pool side so Mason could put it under his pillow along with the tooth. I didn’t need to call her to make sure she’d remember. She never let anyone down.

We pulled into the business district of downtown, heading to her studio, when a man with a briefcase ran across the street while talking on his phone. He never noticed my van. I slammed on the brakes and took a hard right, trying to avoid careening into the antique light posts recently decorated with garland and lights. From the back seat, a lurching sound carried through the car as Bryson threw his head into the bucket. Three young voices simultaneously screamed, “Mama!,” while two of them scurried as far away from the back seat as they could get.

Just perfect. Another banner day.

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