If You Only Knew(60)

It’s time to go; one of the frustrations about these special school events, of which there are at least three a month, is that they warrant early dismissal. No Me Time today. Good thing we pay thousands of dollars for the girls to come here.

No one mentions my cupcakes. I was up till three last night, finishing them, taking care to sterilize the counters, the muffin tins, the bowls, the mixer, the spatulas, so Aria Temkowsi wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, so Cash Boreas wouldn’t get a rash. I frosted them in a swirl using my special Williams-Sonoma set, and they’re beautiful, these damn cupcakes.

But all anyone can do is make cow eyes at Adam in a rush of good-daddy hormones.

“I have to run,” he says as we go into the parking lot. “Girls, you were so wonderful!”

“Who was best, Daddy?” Rose asks. This is something she’s picked up recently. Competition. I wonder if she senses something from me, and my resentment toward Emmanuelle.

“You’re all my favorites,” he says. “You’re all the best.” He kneels down and kisses and hugs them.

He is a good father. I know that.

“See you at home,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me, gently, on the lips. “Love you.”

“See you later.” His eyes flash disappointment that I didn’t say the words back. Words I used to tell him four or ten times a day.

His patience isn’t going to last long. The thought hums like a tuning fork next to my ear.

I buckle the girls into their seats, and get into the driver’s seat. “Wait!” Grace bellows. “We didn’t get cupcakes! Where are cupcakes!”

“Nooo!” Rose wails.

“Mommy! No!” Charlotte adds.

There’s no way I’m going back inside that building to hear more about how wonderful Adam is. “You know what?” I tell them. “We’re getting ice cream instead! Who wants ice cream? I know I do! And guess what else? You can get whatever you want on top!”

This stuns them into silence. “Really?” Grace asks.

“Yes. Whatever you want. Two things, even!”

They go a little crazy at Ben & Jerry’s. Chunky Monkey with gummy bears and broken Oreos for Charlotte. Phish Food for Grace with chocolate-covered almonds and graham crackers. Cotton Candy for Rose, topped with rainbow sprinkles and more gummy bears.

I ask them questions and say silly things while they eat, and they’re clearly delighted with me, not wiping their hands or faces, not telling them to slow down—though it’s a physical battle to stifle the words. No, I’m the fun parent now, that’s for sure. Who cares about vegetables?

We get back in the car after gleefully using way too much soap in the Ben & Jerry’s bathroom, because Ben & Jerry’s soap is much more fun than the soap from home. No need for lunch. I’ll just run them around the yard a little bit, and you know what? It may be time for a puppy. I’ll be the one to tell them that, and to take them to the pet store to pick one out—or three, so they can each have one—and I get to be the fun parent, thank you very much.

And then, nap time. Me time. And today, maybe I’ll actually do something for me. I’ll order stuff online. Watch The Avengers for the eye candy. I’m almost forty. I’m not dead.

“Mommy?” comes Charlotte’s voice. “I don’t feel good.”

And then comes the sound that every mother knows.

The sound of a little stomach expelling its contents.

They puke like falling dominoes, three in a row, bing, bang, boom.

“Mommy! Charlotte threwed up and me, too!” Rose says, outraged. She gacks again.

“Mommy! Mommy, help!” Grace commands. “Mommy! Make it stop!” Another very juicy-sounding vomit.

I pull over as soon as I can, but I’m already dry-heaving myself. God, the smell, so thick I can taste it. Sour dairy and sugar and who knows what else, oh, yes, oatmeal for breakfast and flecks of the carrot sticks, along with the hummus I packed for snack.

“Oh, babies, Mommy is so sorry!” I say, leaning into the backseat. Grace vomits on my chest, almost on purpose, it seems.

“Mommy!” she demands, outraged at the indignity.

“Mommy! I sick!” Rose says.

“Mommymommymommy,” Charlotte moans, not to be outdone. She retches again, as if knowing I doubt her sincerity.

I carry Wet-Naps at all times, so I mop up the girls. Rose is crying because she threw up on her favorite dress, and Grace is crying with rage because she’s got puke in her lap and “it’s too hot, Mommy!” and Charlotte is crying because one of her gummy bears came up whole, and this is freaking her out.

“I’m so sorry, sweeties,” I say, struggling not to cry myself. “We’ll get home as soon as we can, okay?”

I slide their door shut, and then I’m bawling, that dreadful Eh-heh-heh-hegggghhh kind of crying, and luckily, the girls can’t hear me because they’re still wailing, but I’m sobbing, my hands are shaking and I can’t stop crying. Me, in a meltdown, covered with vomit on the side of Route 9. I can’t drive like this. I think I may actually be hysterical, and the noises coming from my mouth and throat are horrible. My God, listen to me!

I want things to be the way they were before. I miss Adam. I miss loving my husband. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard. It’s just too hard.