didn’t know anything was wrong.” This is not entirely true. A person can’t drink the way I did and not suspect she might be completely screwed in the head. Crazy, even. Like the grandmother I didn’t want to tell Martin about on our first date.
Jess takes a deep breath, registers the expression on my face, then asks, “Should we talk about something else?”
“Yes, please,” I say with a faltering smile.
And just like that, we do. We talk about the twins, her latest deal, the lack of intelligence she perceives in the Mommy and Me pool. We talk about our mother, who has a new boyfriend with a funny-looking mustache. The sense of normalcy around our conversationcalms me, distracts me from the whirling tornadoes in my mind. I am exhausted of thinking, of examining every tiny scrap of information and emotion that flows through me. I long for a shutoff switch for my brain, a way to halt the never-ending supply of synaptic chatter.
Natalie goes home around noon, and Jess and I make lunch for the boys: toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and for us, mandarin grilled chicken salad. Jess gets Charlie’s jeans washed while the twins take a nap, and Charlie and I walk to a nearby park so we don’t disturb their rest. Charlie wears a pair of sweats he left at his aunt’s house the last time he slept over; the elastic hems hit just above his ankles now. Watching him play, it strikes me just how quickly he has grown.
After we return from the park and the boys wake up, Jess and I decide to get out of the house for a few hours. We take the boys to Tube Time, a venue filled with well-padded, obstacle course-like tunnels and cushioned slides, both designed to wear out even the most energetic kid. Jess and I take turns crawling in after our children when they refuse to get out of another child’s way, or when Jake is too frightened to go down the bigger slide. For a while, chatting with my sister and seeing the kids play, I almost feel like myself again.
The afternoon passes and the light starts to fade as we pull into Jess’s driveway. Derek calls and tells Jess he has to go out to dinner with his clients to write up an offer on a house. Jess growls playfully at her loss of their bet, happy, I know, to have another commission coming in. Lured by the promise of Jess’s cheesy lasagna and garlic butter-drenched bread, I agree to stay for dinner. My nephews have gone downstairs to play, but Charlie runs around the house, alternately clinging to me, then spinning in circles, arms spread wide in the middle of the living room.
“Hey, champ,” I say, “knock it off, would you? You’ll break something.”
“No I won’t!” he exclaims. “Look at me! I’m Spida-Man!” He leaps onto the couch and pretends it’s a trampoline. Even after abusy day of playing, his energy levels are insane; not hyperactive, exactly. More kinetic. He’s pretty much been in constant motion since he learned how to walk. This has been somewhat disconcerting for me to deal with as a woman who views exercise as punishment for her private, passionate love affair with ice cream.
“Wow,” Jess observes. “Too much sugar?”
“Too much Alice, more like it. She completely clamps down on him so he freaks out when he gets away.”
“I do
not
!” Charlie screeches, the slender cords in his neck standing out like rope. He jumps across my sister’s couch, feet together, cushion to cushion. “Don’t call me a freak!”
“I didn’t call you a freak, I said you freak
out
. Big difference. Now, get down.” I try to keep my tone calm, but there is an itch in my chest, a tightening that feels all too familiar.
“No!” He jumps again, once, for emphasis, then looks at me defiantly.
“It’s really okay,” Jess says. “The boys do it all the time.”
“No, it’s not okay.” I stand up, step toward him, and grab my child around his skinny bicep, maybe a little harder than I should have. “I told you to get down.
Jess takes a deep breath, registers the expression on my face, then asks, “Should we talk about something else?”
“Yes, please,” I say with a faltering smile.
And just like that, we do. We talk about the twins, her latest deal, the lack of intelligence she perceives in the Mommy and Me pool. We talk about our mother, who has a new boyfriend with a funny-looking mustache. The sense of normalcy around our conversationcalms me, distracts me from the whirling tornadoes in my mind. I am exhausted of thinking, of examining every tiny scrap of information and emotion that flows through me. I long for a shutoff switch for my brain, a way to halt the never-ending supply of synaptic chatter.
Natalie goes home around noon, and Jess and I make lunch for the boys: toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and for us, mandarin grilled chicken salad. Jess gets Charlie’s jeans washed while the twins take a nap, and Charlie and I walk to a nearby park so we don’t disturb their rest. Charlie wears a pair of sweats he left at his aunt’s house the last time he slept over; the elastic hems hit just above his ankles now. Watching him play, it strikes me just how quickly he has grown.
After we return from the park and the boys wake up, Jess and I decide to get out of the house for a few hours. We take the boys to Tube Time, a venue filled with well-padded, obstacle course-like tunnels and cushioned slides, both designed to wear out even the most energetic kid. Jess and I take turns crawling in after our children when they refuse to get out of another child’s way, or when Jake is too frightened to go down the bigger slide. For a while, chatting with my sister and seeing the kids play, I almost feel like myself again.
The afternoon passes and the light starts to fade as we pull into Jess’s driveway. Derek calls and tells Jess he has to go out to dinner with his clients to write up an offer on a house. Jess growls playfully at her loss of their bet, happy, I know, to have another commission coming in. Lured by the promise of Jess’s cheesy lasagna and garlic butter-drenched bread, I agree to stay for dinner. My nephews have gone downstairs to play, but Charlie runs around the house, alternately clinging to me, then spinning in circles, arms spread wide in the middle of the living room.
“Hey, champ,” I say, “knock it off, would you? You’ll break something.”
“No I won’t!” he exclaims. “Look at me! I’m Spida-Man!” He leaps onto the couch and pretends it’s a trampoline. Even after abusy day of playing, his energy levels are insane; not hyperactive, exactly. More kinetic. He’s pretty much been in constant motion since he learned how to walk. This has been somewhat disconcerting for me to deal with as a woman who views exercise as punishment for her private, passionate love affair with ice cream.
“Wow,” Jess observes. “Too much sugar?”
“Too much Alice, more like it. She completely clamps down on him so he freaks out when he gets away.”
“I do
not
!” Charlie screeches, the slender cords in his neck standing out like rope. He jumps across my sister’s couch, feet together, cushion to cushion. “Don’t call me a freak!”
“I didn’t call you a freak, I said you freak
out
. Big difference. Now, get down.” I try to keep my tone calm, but there is an itch in my chest, a tightening that feels all too familiar.
“No!” He jumps again, once, for emphasis, then looks at me defiantly.
“It’s really okay,” Jess says. “The boys do it all the time.”
“No, it’s not okay.” I stand up, step toward him, and grab my child around his skinny bicep, maybe a little harder than I should have. “I told you to get down.
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