time.”
“Oh good, Jack can drive me to the pie shop that morning!” Anjoli said. The poster child for adult attention deficit disorder, my mother looked out the car window and offered, “Look at those kids waiting for the bus, Lucy. Where are they going?” This wasn’t some sort of creative improvisation game where we’d make up stories about where we thought the kids were headed. She actually expected me to know. “Chicken Joe’s,” she read the sign from a fast-food restaurant. “Do they make good chicken?”
“I really don’t know, Mother,” I said flatly. “I haven’t eaten there.”
“International House of Pancakes,” she lilted. “How very cosmopolitan. Tell me, darling, do they only serve pancakes or is there more on the menu?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The International House -”
“I heard you. Why are you acting as if you’ve never heard of IHOP? I’m your daughter, you don’t have to impress me with how disconnected you are from mainstream culture. I happen to know that you know exactly what an IHOP is.”
“Darling, I have no idea! You certainly are moody these days.”
“Mother, Daddy told me that on your honeymoon you two ate every breakfast at IHOP and that he’d never seen anyone shovel in quite as many waffles as you could.”
“I was a dancer,” she humphed. “I had to eat large meals.”
“At IHOP! My point is not that you ate large meals, it’s that you ate at IHOP, you know good and well what the International House of Pancakes is—and that they serve waffles, eggs, bacon, and even grits in the South—not just pancakes.”
“Oh yes, now I remember. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re so huffy about, darling. I came out here to help and you’re downright abusive. I’m simply trying to make conversation.”
“Well let’s see. So far, we’ve talked about pie, where kids are going on the bus, Chicken Joe’s, and IHOP. Riveting. How ‘bout asking me how I’m adjusting to motherhood? How ‘bout asking if I’m dying inside watching Jack go off to his separate bedroom and call me ‘kiddo’ every morning? Were you at all curious why we’re going to the pediatrician this afternoon? Might you want to know why I’m sweating and gritting my teeth every time I nurse, which just FYI is every two hours?”
After a few minutes of silence, Anjoli returned from gazing out the passenger window and asked, “So, darling. How’s it going?”
I laughed. It was impossible for me to stay angry with my mother. “Promise me something, okay, Mom?”
“Anything, darling. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Do not be rude to Dr. Comstock.”
“Rude?” She looked seriously perplexed.
I lifted Adam from his car seat and placed him in a baby sling that Zoe gave me as a shower gift. All this kid ever did was sleep, but at our last checkup, Dr. Comstock assured me that this was normal and my son was not bound to be a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker as I’d feared. I suppose I should have done more in terms of educating myself about infants, but I always felt that in doing so, I was tempting fate.
When Dr. Comstock entered the exam room, his eyes shot directly to my mother. I was used to this. She was a stunning-looking woman who drew even more attention to herself by wearing colorful scarves, feathered hats, and low-cut blouses. “Well, hello, Mom,” he said, more excited to see me than he’d ever been. “I see you brought your sister with you today.” Oh God, how cheesy! He glanced at her left hand and I saw the beginnings of a smirk on my mother’s face. She glanced at his wedding ring and smiled dismissively at it. Oh no! I smelled pheromones in the air. Gross.
“My daughter didn’t tell me she had such a charming pediatrician,” Anjoli leaned forward in her seat and extended her hand. “Anjoli.” God strike me dead if the old white-coated geezer didn’t kiss her hand.
“What an unusual name,” he said, still holding her
“Oh good, Jack can drive me to the pie shop that morning!” Anjoli said. The poster child for adult attention deficit disorder, my mother looked out the car window and offered, “Look at those kids waiting for the bus, Lucy. Where are they going?” This wasn’t some sort of creative improvisation game where we’d make up stories about where we thought the kids were headed. She actually expected me to know. “Chicken Joe’s,” she read the sign from a fast-food restaurant. “Do they make good chicken?”
“I really don’t know, Mother,” I said flatly. “I haven’t eaten there.”
“International House of Pancakes,” she lilted. “How very cosmopolitan. Tell me, darling, do they only serve pancakes or is there more on the menu?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The International House -”
“I heard you. Why are you acting as if you’ve never heard of IHOP? I’m your daughter, you don’t have to impress me with how disconnected you are from mainstream culture. I happen to know that you know exactly what an IHOP is.”
“Darling, I have no idea! You certainly are moody these days.”
“Mother, Daddy told me that on your honeymoon you two ate every breakfast at IHOP and that he’d never seen anyone shovel in quite as many waffles as you could.”
“I was a dancer,” she humphed. “I had to eat large meals.”
“At IHOP! My point is not that you ate large meals, it’s that you ate at IHOP, you know good and well what the International House of Pancakes is—and that they serve waffles, eggs, bacon, and even grits in the South—not just pancakes.”
“Oh yes, now I remember. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re so huffy about, darling. I came out here to help and you’re downright abusive. I’m simply trying to make conversation.”
“Well let’s see. So far, we’ve talked about pie, where kids are going on the bus, Chicken Joe’s, and IHOP. Riveting. How ‘bout asking me how I’m adjusting to motherhood? How ‘bout asking if I’m dying inside watching Jack go off to his separate bedroom and call me ‘kiddo’ every morning? Were you at all curious why we’re going to the pediatrician this afternoon? Might you want to know why I’m sweating and gritting my teeth every time I nurse, which just FYI is every two hours?”
After a few minutes of silence, Anjoli returned from gazing out the passenger window and asked, “So, darling. How’s it going?”
I laughed. It was impossible for me to stay angry with my mother. “Promise me something, okay, Mom?”
“Anything, darling. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Do not be rude to Dr. Comstock.”
“Rude?” She looked seriously perplexed.
I lifted Adam from his car seat and placed him in a baby sling that Zoe gave me as a shower gift. All this kid ever did was sleep, but at our last checkup, Dr. Comstock assured me that this was normal and my son was not bound to be a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker as I’d feared. I suppose I should have done more in terms of educating myself about infants, but I always felt that in doing so, I was tempting fate.
When Dr. Comstock entered the exam room, his eyes shot directly to my mother. I was used to this. She was a stunning-looking woman who drew even more attention to herself by wearing colorful scarves, feathered hats, and low-cut blouses. “Well, hello, Mom,” he said, more excited to see me than he’d ever been. “I see you brought your sister with you today.” Oh God, how cheesy! He glanced at her left hand and I saw the beginnings of a smirk on my mother’s face. She glanced at his wedding ring and smiled dismissively at it. Oh no! I smelled pheromones in the air. Gross.
“My daughter didn’t tell me she had such a charming pediatrician,” Anjoli leaned forward in her seat and extended her hand. “Anjoli.” God strike me dead if the old white-coated geezer didn’t kiss her hand.
“What an unusual name,” he said, still holding her
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