seeing you in pain, so can you just take it out of my sight, please, and come out of your room when you’re ready to slap a pretty little smile on and tell me that everything is just peachy?”
Chapter 12
As Jack predicted, Anjoli wasn’t much help around the house. She and I stared at Adam’s scab of a belly button in a state of mutual puzzlement. “How did you remove mine?” I asked.
“I can’t remember. I don’t think you had one of those, darling,” she said, looking disgusted with it. I had to admit, it was a pretty awful sight. But I didn’t want to yank it off prematurely simply because I was uncomfortable looking at it. Then I remembered that Adam had a pediatric appointment that afternoon.
“We’ll ask the doctor,” I suggested. Anjoli rolled her eyes as if to say, Ah yes, let us all bow to the altar of the medical establishment, for they know all. Yet she was as clueless as I was about what to do with this grotesque belly scab.
Changing gears, Anjoli told me that in a few days some of her friends would be coming to see the baby. “Oh, um, okay. That’s fine.” I liked all of Anjoli’s friends, but I knew my mother prided herself on entertaining properly—a task I wasn’t up to in the best of circumstances. Plus, I knew she wouldn’t be any help while she was fluttering around pouring herbal tea and regaling her drama posse with tales from the crib. She would characterize herself as the over-worked grandmother, when the truth was she had yet to even hold Adam. She certainly hadn’t changed a diaper, nor had she volunteered to watch him so I could take a nap or go to a movie. And Jack was right—she was creating more housework. All of her clothing needed to be washed separately in the gentle cycle (by me). And every time she was finished preparing a meal (for herself), she left vegetable scraps all over the kitchen floor. She had her moments where she tried to help, but on these rare occasions, the assistance was utterly worthless. Once, while she toiled away at the kitchen sink, I overheard Jack ask Anjoli why she didn’t wash the backs of the plates. “The backs don’t get dirty, darling,” she lilted.
“They do, Anjoli,” Jack returned. “When I cleared the table, I stacked the dishes on top of each other, so you see, there’s a pat of butter stuck to the back of this plate and a bit of corn on this one.”
“Hmmm,” Anjoli said, noticing Jack had a point. “So they do.” And yet, she changed nothing. The next morning, there was a drying rack filled with butter-backed plates perched on a counter sprinkled with stray seeds.
As we drove to Dr. Comstock’s office, Anjoli asked what types of pie people eat.
“What?” I asked.
“Pie. What types of pie do people eat?” She repeated the question, giving me no more information.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Thursday, Kiki, Felix, Alfie, and Fiona are coming out to see me. I need to put a little coffee and pie out to serve.” Oh God, here we go.
“I don’t know, Anjoli. What kind of pie do you normally serve people?” She already knew exactly what kind of pie she planned to serve. We were going through this ritual so she could remind me that she was from this non pie-eating species, and had no idea what people ate.
“Remind me that we need to pick up pie on Thursday morning. They’re coming all the way out to New Jersey, the least we can do is serve a decent pie. Where can we purchase a pie, darling?” Mother always seemed to think that the trip from the city to Caldwell was somehow longer and more burdensome than the other way around.
“A bakery, I guess,” I rolled my eyes. “Mom, Jack is going to be home on Thursday. How long are your friends visiting for?”
She put her hand to her chest, hurt by the question. “Do you have issues with my friends visiting?”
“No, it’s just that Jack is taking the day off to be with Adam, and I want to figure out when he can get some father-son
Chapter 12
As Jack predicted, Anjoli wasn’t much help around the house. She and I stared at Adam’s scab of a belly button in a state of mutual puzzlement. “How did you remove mine?” I asked.
“I can’t remember. I don’t think you had one of those, darling,” she said, looking disgusted with it. I had to admit, it was a pretty awful sight. But I didn’t want to yank it off prematurely simply because I was uncomfortable looking at it. Then I remembered that Adam had a pediatric appointment that afternoon.
“We’ll ask the doctor,” I suggested. Anjoli rolled her eyes as if to say, Ah yes, let us all bow to the altar of the medical establishment, for they know all. Yet she was as clueless as I was about what to do with this grotesque belly scab.
Changing gears, Anjoli told me that in a few days some of her friends would be coming to see the baby. “Oh, um, okay. That’s fine.” I liked all of Anjoli’s friends, but I knew my mother prided herself on entertaining properly—a task I wasn’t up to in the best of circumstances. Plus, I knew she wouldn’t be any help while she was fluttering around pouring herbal tea and regaling her drama posse with tales from the crib. She would characterize herself as the over-worked grandmother, when the truth was she had yet to even hold Adam. She certainly hadn’t changed a diaper, nor had she volunteered to watch him so I could take a nap or go to a movie. And Jack was right—she was creating more housework. All of her clothing needed to be washed separately in the gentle cycle (by me). And every time she was finished preparing a meal (for herself), she left vegetable scraps all over the kitchen floor. She had her moments where she tried to help, but on these rare occasions, the assistance was utterly worthless. Once, while she toiled away at the kitchen sink, I overheard Jack ask Anjoli why she didn’t wash the backs of the plates. “The backs don’t get dirty, darling,” she lilted.
“They do, Anjoli,” Jack returned. “When I cleared the table, I stacked the dishes on top of each other, so you see, there’s a pat of butter stuck to the back of this plate and a bit of corn on this one.”
“Hmmm,” Anjoli said, noticing Jack had a point. “So they do.” And yet, she changed nothing. The next morning, there was a drying rack filled with butter-backed plates perched on a counter sprinkled with stray seeds.
As we drove to Dr. Comstock’s office, Anjoli asked what types of pie people eat.
“What?” I asked.
“Pie. What types of pie do people eat?” She repeated the question, giving me no more information.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Thursday, Kiki, Felix, Alfie, and Fiona are coming out to see me. I need to put a little coffee and pie out to serve.” Oh God, here we go.
“I don’t know, Anjoli. What kind of pie do you normally serve people?” She already knew exactly what kind of pie she planned to serve. We were going through this ritual so she could remind me that she was from this non pie-eating species, and had no idea what people ate.
“Remind me that we need to pick up pie on Thursday morning. They’re coming all the way out to New Jersey, the least we can do is serve a decent pie. Where can we purchase a pie, darling?” Mother always seemed to think that the trip from the city to Caldwell was somehow longer and more burdensome than the other way around.
“A bakery, I guess,” I rolled my eyes. “Mom, Jack is going to be home on Thursday. How long are your friends visiting for?”
She put her hand to her chest, hurt by the question. “Do you have issues with my friends visiting?”
“No, it’s just that Jack is taking the day off to be with Adam, and I want to figure out when he can get some father-son
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