learn to play an instrument.” She pauses as the parents begin to talk among themselves, waits for them to quiet. “Our music teachers will ask for your child’s preference, but you should know, they do some aptitude testing, too. There’s no point in a tiny girl playing the bass if her arms won’t reach around the instrument, or a boy playing the tuba if he can’t blow enough air into the mouthpiece. Instrument assignments happen the end of this month. More information will be coming.”
Books, reports, essays, musical instruments. The list overwhelms me. Not because kids shouldn’t learn and do these things, but because I know Jemma, and just like last year, this year she will fight me every step of the way. I excelled in school. Jemma either can’t or won’t. As I learned last year, Jemma will do anything to get out of homework, including lying about her assignments.
I close my eyes, exhausted. Blue. I don’t even know why I feel blue. I have everything I ever wanted, and as a sixteen-year-old I wished for a lot. Beauty. Wealth. Success.
I wanted a handsome, rich husband, one who was good in bed but not so sexy that I’d worry about him. I wanted him to have good values and a great family. I wanted him to be ambitious and successful. I wanted us to live in a big, beautiful house and know beautiful, glamorous people. I wanted 2.5 beautiful children; the .5 was a baby. (In my mind the baby never grew up, just gurgled and cooed like a precious pink or blue bundle in the pram, and it was a pram because we were going to be a family like those in
InStyle
, people who could afford a proper English nanny, and the proper English nanny would of course want one of those huge, solid English prams.)
I wanted all this. And jumping ahead sixteen years, I realize, I’ve got it.
All of it.
The gorgeous husband, the house, the 2.5 kids (although the baby did grow up; she’s four and a half now). I even got the nanny who once pushed the proper pram.
And the problem—if there
is
a problem, and I even hesitate to call it a problem—is that this life, my life, looks good from the outside, but it’s not so fun on the inside. On the inside, it’s intense. On the inside, it’s endless stress.
Sighing softly, I look up, straight into Marta Zinsser’s eyes. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me, but our gazes collide and then lock. For a moment, I feel like crying. The day rushes at me: Nathan leaving abruptly, the declined credit card, the conversation with Lucy, the American Express statement. But just as quickly, I remember my friends and my commitment to the school and my family. I lift my chin, square my shoulders. I’ve got nothing to apologize for. I’m doing the best I can.
Marta looks away. Good.
The next morning when my alarm goes off, I hit snooze twice. I don’t want to wake up. And then I remember that Nathan’s not here. I roll out of bed and stumble down the hall to wake up the girls, still wearing the pink-striped nightshirt the girls gave me for Valentine’s Day. It has a big heart on the chest and another big red heart low on the back hem, the heart dancing just over my butt cheek.
Brooke is my light sleeper and morning person. I wake her first because it’s easy. Tori rolls over to go back to sleep. Jemma glares at me, her thick honey hair a tangled mess on her pillow. “I don’t want to get up,” she says, her beautiful face creased by her frown.
“I didn’t want to get up, either,” I answer, “but I did.”
“I hate school.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Come on.” I haul the covers off her. “Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“And if I’m not?”
I look at her over my shoulder. Her skin is a light gold from the last of her summer tan, and her long hair has shimmery sun streaks. With her dark lashes and light eyes, she’s pretty, too pretty. She’s going to wrap the wrong people around her little finger, I think, people who will cater to her instead of
Books, reports, essays, musical instruments. The list overwhelms me. Not because kids shouldn’t learn and do these things, but because I know Jemma, and just like last year, this year she will fight me every step of the way. I excelled in school. Jemma either can’t or won’t. As I learned last year, Jemma will do anything to get out of homework, including lying about her assignments.
I close my eyes, exhausted. Blue. I don’t even know why I feel blue. I have everything I ever wanted, and as a sixteen-year-old I wished for a lot. Beauty. Wealth. Success.
I wanted a handsome, rich husband, one who was good in bed but not so sexy that I’d worry about him. I wanted him to have good values and a great family. I wanted him to be ambitious and successful. I wanted us to live in a big, beautiful house and know beautiful, glamorous people. I wanted 2.5 beautiful children; the .5 was a baby. (In my mind the baby never grew up, just gurgled and cooed like a precious pink or blue bundle in the pram, and it was a pram because we were going to be a family like those in
InStyle
, people who could afford a proper English nanny, and the proper English nanny would of course want one of those huge, solid English prams.)
I wanted all this. And jumping ahead sixteen years, I realize, I’ve got it.
All of it.
The gorgeous husband, the house, the 2.5 kids (although the baby did grow up; she’s four and a half now). I even got the nanny who once pushed the proper pram.
And the problem—if there
is
a problem, and I even hesitate to call it a problem—is that this life, my life, looks good from the outside, but it’s not so fun on the inside. On the inside, it’s intense. On the inside, it’s endless stress.
Sighing softly, I look up, straight into Marta Zinsser’s eyes. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me, but our gazes collide and then lock. For a moment, I feel like crying. The day rushes at me: Nathan leaving abruptly, the declined credit card, the conversation with Lucy, the American Express statement. But just as quickly, I remember my friends and my commitment to the school and my family. I lift my chin, square my shoulders. I’ve got nothing to apologize for. I’m doing the best I can.
Marta looks away. Good.
The next morning when my alarm goes off, I hit snooze twice. I don’t want to wake up. And then I remember that Nathan’s not here. I roll out of bed and stumble down the hall to wake up the girls, still wearing the pink-striped nightshirt the girls gave me for Valentine’s Day. It has a big heart on the chest and another big red heart low on the back hem, the heart dancing just over my butt cheek.
Brooke is my light sleeper and morning person. I wake her first because it’s easy. Tori rolls over to go back to sleep. Jemma glares at me, her thick honey hair a tangled mess on her pillow. “I don’t want to get up,” she says, her beautiful face creased by her frown.
“I didn’t want to get up, either,” I answer, “but I did.”
“I hate school.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Come on.” I haul the covers off her. “Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“And if I’m not?”
I look at her over my shoulder. Her skin is a light gold from the last of her summer tan, and her long hair has shimmery sun streaks. With her dark lashes and light eyes, she’s pretty, too pretty. She’s going to wrap the wrong people around her little finger, I think, people who will cater to her instead of
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