By the Numbers (10 page)

I look back at her again. “‘Everyone' and ‘everybody' are absolute terms. Can you be specific? What do you need that you don't have? Your dad and I aren't unreasonable, Jessica; your life isn't
Oliver Twist
.”

“You want a list? Fine. Serena just had backstage passes at an Avril Lavigne show, Casey went to a Linkin Park concert, and Kathryn saw Eminem.”

I can't stifle my snort of derision. “You're too young for a concert, especially Eminem. What is wrong with Kathryn's parents? An Eminem show? At thirteen? What, no reservations available at the crack den?”

“This is why I don't tell you things.” Jessica pinches her lips together.

Shoot. I need to apologize and proceed. How does Karin get her kids to tell her everything? “I'm sorry. That wasn't very empathetic listening on my part. What else do your friends have that you don't?”

Jessica begins to tick off items on her fingertips. “Ashley has an iBook, Bethany has her own horse, and Patrice's parents take her on cool vacations
all the time
. They went to Turks and Caicos for Easter, Hawaii over the summer, and the Winter Olympics in February this year. She and her parents sat in the first row behind the judges at the ladies' singles figure-skating finals and afterward they met Sarah Hughes. She won the gold medal, you know. And Bode Miller was on the plane on the way home with them. He signed Patrice's shirt. Where'd we go for vacation again this year? Oh, yeah,
nowhere
because Princess Kelsey needed braces. I'm tired of being the only poor people in town.”

How do I explain to my kid that just because we happen to be in a Honda in a parking lot full of Range Rovers, we're not poor? In fact, we're doing better than many of her peers, because we live within our means. We're not leveraged to the hilt or surviving on credit, and before we spend a cent of my salary, I immediately allocate a portion to various savings and retirement accounts.

Speaking of which, I slow down to let a Range Rover pass in front of me, largely because the driver was going to cut me off anyway. Early on I learned that math is really the science of patterns. A pattern I've noticed again and again is the more expensive the car, the less courteous the driver. I pretty much pull over whenever I see a Bentley; it's just easier.

I say, “Listen, Jess, I grew up here, too. I know what it's like to
be from a town where there's an abundance of wealth. You'll always run into kids who have more than you. There was a girl a year behind me who lived in that one gigantic house on Rockgate Lane? With the big iron gate? Her dad had a private jet. John Cougar played at her graduation party before he was Mellencamp.”

She rolls her eyes. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“John Cougar Mellencamp was my generation's Eminem. Sort of. Honey, I'm saying if you constantly compare yourself to others, you'll never be satisfied. The trick is to find a way to be happy with what you have.”

“Whatever.”

The car is quiet as we turn down the street to Barnaby's, save for ambient bits of sound escaping from Kelsey's headphones. Now and then Topher tries to catch the tune and hum along. Topher's a perfect example of what I'm trying to illustrate—I could buy both the girls new bikes and Topher would be thrilled to play with the boxes the bikes came in, never once demanding to know where
his
new ride might be.

I break the silence by saying, “Your father and I are working really hard to balance everything, Jess. Do you want to grow up in a family like so many of your classmates, being raised by nannies? A lot of your friends have all those toys because their folks feel so guilty for never being around. I mean, do you really want a horse, or do want your dad with you every day after school to help you with your homework?”

She perks up. “Is a horse an option?”

“Jess, we made the choice to be parents first,” I say. “Your father takes smaller projects so he can be there after school. For me, I'd make significantly more if I were to travel like the firm wants me to; my career would be fast-tracked. I hate how much I've been
away because of the Omaha project, and I'm so glad it's over. You don't want me gone Monday morning until Thursday night, right? I mean, didn't you guys miss me as much as I missed you?”

“Yes!” Topher offers. Jessica pokes him, which makes him giggle. See? He even likes when his sister is being mean to him.

“We were fine,” Jessica says. “More than fine. Dad knows what he's doing. We get to ride in his SUV, and he's way better at a lot of stuff than you, especially cooking.”

“You guys like my omelets.”

“Yeah, once in a while, not, like, every day. When you were around all the time, you messed us up by doing everything wrong. No offense, but Dad's a better mom than you are.”

Huh.

I'm torn between feeling hurt and feeling . . . a tiny bit exhilarated by having Jessica confirm my suspicions. The whole time I was a stay-at-home mom I felt as though I was failing in some respect, although maybe that's because my focus was split between child-rearing and preparing for my series of actuarial exams, and later, a part-time job. Staying at home with the kids was isolating and, honestly, kind of dull and repetitive, so diving into my prep material was needed intellectual stimulation. Often, kid duty and studying overlapped, and I'm sure somewhere in their synapses, these three recall stories of
Snow White and the Seven Life Contingent Risks
and
James and the Giant Exposure Rating.

Chris was a champion in those days, always stepping in to assist with the kids in one way or another, much like I'd jump in to help him balance his books or manage his subcontractors. I was always seeking a problem to solve more complex than, “Who's got your nose?” because, spoiler alert, it's me; it's
always
me who's got your nose.

Am I somehow disloyal to admit that I much prefer having a
career outside of the house? I was so excited to have a few days of vacation, but I found I missed going to work today. Is that awful to say? I revel in the predictability of what I do for a living, knowing that if I apply the rules consistently within, say, financial modeling, I will always produce the same outcomes. Try that with an eleven-year-old girl. Go ahead, I dare you.

I derive such satisfaction from my work, yet a part of me feels guilty for enjoying that at which I excel. Of course I love my family a million times more than I could care for a profession, but in some ways I feel like I'm actually better at solving problems for clients than I ever was at running my household, if the past twenty-four hours are any indication.

Is it wrong to derive more satisfaction from research and analysis than I ever did from domestic duties? That's not to belittle anyone who excels at homemaking, because it's such an important job. In fact, it's too important a position for
me
to hold. Honestly, I'm as awkward with some household stuff as I used to be on the tennis court; it's just not the best fit for our family. I am so fortunate to have an outstanding doubles partner. As that's the case, why not have the Boris Becker of the home returning the domestic serves, if that's what he wants to do, too?

Now Jessica has me thinking—what if I
did
take on more responsibilities at work? A lot of consultants have stepped back their travel in the past year, unwilling to be away from their families for any amount of time given the state of the world. While I understand their reticence, would I be foolish to pass up the opportunity to leapfrog ahead? In a few years of being a road warrior, I could double or triple my salary. That's not insignificant. With everything I'm stashing into savings right now, we have little left over at the end of the month for frivolity.

With four solid walls, clean drinking water, and plenty of food, our standard of living is practically criminal, given the state of every other country in the world, and, of course, material goods are no indicator of satisfaction. (See:
Bancroft, Marjorie
.) Yet being an adolescent in this particular town is hard, and Jess doesn't have access to the extravagances that Foster and I took for granted as children. In fact, I used to look at whiling away the summer at the club as an obligation and not the tremendous luxury that it was. I was so fortunate back then and I didn't even realize how blessed I was. More than anything, I was annoyed to be a pawn in my parents' status-seeking game.

Things were particularly easy for me, and I realize that now. When I was Jessica's age, I didn't want for any material trappings. More important, I had math, which was the great equalizer for entirely different reasons. Math taught me how to fit in. And at Jessica's age, fitting in is generally just a matter of not standing out.

For example, neither Karin nor I had sisters, so we were clueless about wearing makeup once we hit high school. (Patrick had distinct ideas about what we should do, but we didn't yet know to listen to him.) I told Karin we should spend the first week watching what everyone else did, so we tracked the patterns of data we observed. We noticed that sixty-eight percent of the girls in our classes wore four types of cosmetics or fewer (lip gloss, mascara or eyeliner [not both], pressed powder, blush or eye shadow) on a daily basis.

In addition, I noted that the girls who wore more than five types of cosmetics were more likely to be catcalled in the hallways by boys on the football team, be yelled at more severely by teachers for the same offenses as girls in less makeup, and be shunned by groups of girls in the lunchroom, especially when wearing a skirt
cut above the knee. What was so ironic is that these young women thought they were doing something to make themselves more attractive, but instead, with every brushstroke, they were singling themselves out for negative attention.

But because I was fourteen and didn't know any better, I didn't befriend those girls who'd done nothing wrong. Instead, I bought Maybelline Great Lash, Clinique Black Honey lip gloss, and Covergirl pressed power and simply blended in with everyone else.

But how do I explain any of this to Jessica?

If our family had more financial breathing room now, if we weren't quite so tightly budgeted, would Jess have an easier time navigating middle school? And if middle school is a challenge because she feels inadequate, like she's being left behind, then how difficult will high school be for her if we don't make some changes?

Will these kids grow up to be well-adjusted adults who make the best choices if I don't provide them every opportunity? What if the theater camps or the French-club trips or the photography classes or the voice lessons or the private tennis coaching or any of the myriad requests I've rejected due to cost are the key to these kids being happy and successful later in life?

I feel like I owe it to them to find out.

Obviously, I'll run any professional changes past Chris before making irreversible decisions, but if we were to start making adjustments, now seems like the time to do it.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, Jessica?”

“Did you see that sign?”

“Which one?”

“To the right. That Toyota dealership over there is having a Minivan Madness event. Looks like they're taking huge markdowns on
the 2002s before the 2003s come on the lot. Thought you'd want to know.”

I find myself clenching the steering wheel. “Why would I want to know?”

“Just in case.”

“Jessica, we're not buying a new car.”

“But there's no harm in stopping in.”

The kid could use a win today, and this feels a lot like a pick-your-battle situation. Plus, I bet the dealer would give Topher a balloon, and that would delight him to no end. I loosen my grip on the wheel. “Fine. We'll take a look after dinner. But we're not buying anything, and that is final.”

• • • •

“You hated the minivan,” Chris says.

“I didn't
hate
it,” I reply.

“Yeah, you did. You quoted the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., word for word when we signed the trade-in paperwork. ‘Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, we are free at last,' you said. You hugged strangers in the parking lot of the Honda dealership. You cried hot, salty tears of joy. You rolled down the window and shouted, ‘See you in hell!' as we drove away, much to the confusion of Steve, our salesman. He thought you were talking to him. When we got home, you and Patrick christened the Honda by breaking a bottle of champagne over the bumper.”

“I feel like you're exaggerating. Also, the payments are the same, and I got a lower APR.”

“Pen, I'm not saying a word about the finances; that's your department. If you say we can afford a 2002 Toyota Sienna, then
I trust you. If you say we can afford a 2002 turbocharged BMW 3 Series with spoilers and a sunroof, then I
really
trust you.”

“We can't.”

“Damn. Too bad. I would look
fine
in that car. Anyway, my concern is you're rewriting history and I'm trying to understand why. You were unhappy with the minivan but you stuck it out until it made sense to trade it in, and I was proud of your self-restraint. Now we don't need a van, but we got another one anyway. I suspect you let the kids bully you into it, and I'm worried you're going to be unhappy again. I don't want that.”

“Point taken.” I'm not offering much by way of counterargument in the hope that he'll drop the conversation.

“I don't want to set a precedent. The girls are both at an age where they're starting to push their boundaries. If they see you're an easy mark, we're going to have trouble with discipline down the line. If they find they can push you around, they aren't going to respect you.”

I'm starting to feel like Chris is disciplining
me
. He's given me a fair amount of grief since he came home, first over the van, then over the iPods and all of Jessica's new clothes, and also Kelsey's, and the whole Harry Potter Lego setup I bought for Topher. Technically, he didn't ask for anything, but I wanted to be fair.