Keep Me Posted (6 page)

Singapore

April 21

Cassie!!!

You’re nuts! I hope you are joking. Every time I saw you in a bikini, I would think, damn, why did I quit ballet? Remember Evan Rogers, the football captain and my junior-prom date? He once told me that he thought you had the best body in the whole school. If he hadn’t been such a meathead, I might have told you at the time. You are beautiful. And seriously? Your husband hasn’t seen you naked in more than three years? Get over yourself! He’ll just be happy to see boobs. Trust me. Sorry this is so short. I am running out and just wanted to get this note to you as soon as I read your last one. Will fill you in next time!

Love,

Sid

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that story about Evan Rogers did give me a little thrill. And the same day the letter arrived, my big box of new clothes finally showed up after two failed delivery attempts, and so did a notice from Little Oaks Preschool: The boys had made their way up the wait list and were being offered two mornings a week, immediately. It was like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one: a twenty-year-old compliment, a letter from Sid, two spots in a great preschool, and the largest wardrobe upgrade to which I had ever in my whole life treated myself.

The timing was perfect because I’d spent the morning being annoyed with Leo, who had reminded me he would be spending most of the coming weekend in a “boot camp” for turophiles at Murray’s Cheese, which meant the boys and I would be on our own, just like every other day. Plus, I knew he’d be bringing home the world’s rankest cheese to sit in our refrigerator and smell up the entire apartment. I’d blown up at him about it that morning, so to get those letters and the ShopBop box that day was a welcome distraction. I called Leo right away about the preschool. When we’d put them on the waiting list, I was still working. Leo seemed surprised, but the cheese-boot-camp episode worked in my favor after all, because he didn’t dare suggest that since I was at home now, perhaps the
boys didn’t need to be in school just yet. (In fact, that’s exactly what I was thinking, but I was so overjoyed at landing the two spots that I pushed on through those doubts.) Nor did he balk at the astronomical deposit we’d need to pay in the next seventy-two hours, bless him. Instead he commented that it was strange that the school still sent notices via mail, especially with such a tight deadline. But in my world important things came in the mail all the time, so to me it made perfect sense.

“So we can do it, right?” I asked him.

“Do they really need to start now? There are only two months until summer break. Couldn’t they just start in September?”

“It’s now or never. There are hundreds of people waiting for these two spots.”

I told him I’d let Wanda go as soon as she found another family for Tuesdays.

“All right.” He sighed. “We might have to eat beans and rice for the rest of the month, but you can drop off a check today.”

“Yes! Thanks, hon. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye, Cass.”

But my hands shook as I dropped off the pile of paperwork and the check that afternoon. And I cried like a baby when their first day of school arrived. I waited until I was home, but once there, I curled up on Joey’s bed and sobbed into his pillow for a good twenty minutes. Leo, who could tell I was barely holding it together when we’d said our goodbyes to the boys that morning in the light-filled welcome zone, called to check on me.

“They’re just growing up so fast,” I choked out, the way every mother must on her child’s first day of school.

E
very Wednesday my closest mommy friend, Monica Jones, and I take our kids to a playground or a museum or a free music class or something like that. I met Monica in a twins baby group. Hers are Ana and Jonny. We bonded because neither of us was superexcited about being there, and it showed. Our eyes caught each other on a roll after another mom got all verklempt at the “incredible bond she feels with all of us.” I was still working at the time, and my need to be out of the house and around other adults wasn’t as fierce as it is now. Still, I had forced myself to go since I’d already taken the morning off for the twins’ checkup, and it was in the basement of a church that was on my way home from the doctor’s office.

I pinned Monica as a potential friend from the second I laid eyes on her. She was beautiful and stylish; her jet-black hair and intricate eye makeup made her seem like some exotic creature among the other haggard, no-time-for-makeup moms. (Never mind that I
more closely resembled them than I did Monica, despite the fact I was headed into the office after the playgroup.)

Leo grew up in a big, extended, tight-knit family, so he’s most comfortable when he’s surrounded by a bunch of people. Me, I’m in my element around beautiful and fabulous people. I think that’s why I love New York. Being Sid’s sister, I’d grown comfortable in my role as the plain sidekick. So while the others drifted toward their fellow messy and mousy moms, regarding Monica from afar as some freak of motherhood, I went right up to her and introduced myself.
Silly slobs
, I thought.
Don’t they know that they should latch onto someone like this any chance they get?
Life is just easier for good-looking people, and if you can align with one, good on you, as Grandma Margie would say. Monica turned out to be warmer and more open than her eye roll suggested. Within minutes, I learned that her husband is an artist who is at home a lot (so that’s why she has time for makeup). She lived around the corner from me on Leroy Street, on the first floor of a brownstone next door to the house that served as the facade for
The Cosby Show
. I was immediately eager to see her apartment, and told her as much—as one can do without shame upon learning a fellow New Yorker’s address. She invited me and the kids for a playdate that weekend.

We turned out to be kindred spirits, potty-mouthed foils to the overearnest moms around us. Don’t get me wrong—we love our kids as much as the next gal, and we want them to have a magical childhood and grow into balanced, kind, and productive members of society. We just think that this is achievable without all the hand-wringing and obsessing over their every transgression.

Monica grew up way up on 116th Street in Spanish Harlem, and then studied fashion design at Parsons, where she met TJ, a painter. They’d lived with three roommates in a sixth-floor walk-up
on Avenue D, and then through a friend of a friend of a friend, TJ ended up painting a mural for Liv Tyler’s kid’s room, and it got into
domino
magazine. Now every parent on UrbanBaby wants one of his murals, which he now charges a fortune for. Monica helps TJ run his business and is also a mommy blogger. About 70 percent of all full-time moms in New York have a blog. Monica’s is my favorite. Her posts have titles like “Show Me a Mom Who Brings Sugar-Free Brownies to the Halloween Party, and I’ll Show You a Real Asshole.” She hosts a weekly caption contest for photos she takes at playgrounds around the city, eyes blacked out like in
Glamour
Don’ts and sends the winner goodies from swag she’s always getting. California Baby sent her an enormous basket of products to review. And LeapFrog sent two of those LeapPad things that no one could get two Christmases ago. She is positively wicked when it comes to the more sanctimonious mommy bloggers like my neighbor Jenna, who I’ll get to later.

I love Monica because she reminds me of Sid in her confidence and quick laughter and always-on-ness. But where Sid looks first for the good in someone, Monica looks first for the ridiculous or pathetic, and then homes in on it for her own amusement.

Monica’s posts were often picked up by
Babble
,
The Huffington Post
, and other mainstream websites. She even had a following among the hipster, baby-opposed crowd.
Gawker
profiled her with the headline “Our Favorite Breeder.” Once, we went to hand-deliver the prize to her photo caption winner and it was this fifty-year-old unshaven guy in a bathrobe, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t have kids. His prize was a My Breast Friend nursing pillow, and we roared with laughter, imagining the uses he might find for it. (In fact, I had used my own as a snack tray as often as I’d used it as a nursing aid.)

When I rounded the corner onto Hudson, Monica was already there waiting for us, which was a first. I’m perpetually punctual and she is always late. It felt nice to have someone waiting for me for a change.
So this is how the other half lives,
I thought. In addition, I was feeling refreshed to be out of my black leggings, Frye boots, and oversized V-neck T-shirt combo, and upbeat because of the sunshine and determined daffodils promising warmer days to come. Café tables dotted Hudson Street for the first time since October, and my new striped maxi dress was comfortable and casual and magically skimmed my breasts and hips but not my stomach. If I’d had any money left, I would have ordered three more. I’d even taken forty-five seconds to apply mascara and lip gloss. I felt like making the most of this day.

Monica was always put together. She was never without makeup and a bona fide outfit—and usually overdressed for a day at the playground, if you ask me. Today it was skinny jeans with an expensive-looking sheer white oversized tank through which you could see her salmon-colored lacy bra when her ikat-print scarf moved around. The brown leather moccasin booties were an unusually practical footwear choice for her. Layers of thin gold bangles and intricate eye makeup in shades of peach and gold pulled the whole thing together.

I do always look forward to her outfits. She’s one of those people who dresses to reflect her mood, making her fashion choices all the more fun to observe, especially for someone like me, who tends to wear the exact same thing every day. Last week she wore one of those N
EW
Y
ORK
F
UCKING
C
ITY
T-shirts you see in all the schlocky stores on Bleecker Street and totally pulled it off. And she wore it to the playground—under a jacket, but still. Maybe it’s because she can accessorize like nobody’s business, or maybe it’s because she has
a unique brand confidence mixed with defiance that comes with having been born and raised on the island of Manhattan. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel like her sloppy sidekick.

We were walking the long way to the park to take advantage of the streets with wider and smoother sidewalks. The kids ate their lunch while we pushed along and did our best to have a conversation. We were on West Eleventh, two blocks from the river, when we were approached by a sheepish young guy in a faded black T-shirt and ripped jeans.

“Hi there. I’m so sorry,” he said. “Could I get you to cross the street? We’re just doing a photo shoot here.”

“No,” said Monica. “That’s not happening.”

I was typically accommodating in these situations—there were always film crews around, and they had the nicest border patrol people—but with our double strollers and the street lined with parked cars, there was no way to get across without backtracking to the corner. I stood beside Monica and shrugged at the guy apologetically.

“Okay, um, maybe you could just wait here a second,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’ll just check and see . . .”

I bent down to pick up a sippy cup that had been flung from my stroller and heard a familiar voice calling my name.

Walking toward me was Jake Brunner, the guy I’d dated on and off for three years before I met Leo. (When I replay this scene in my head, I’m equal parts flattered and weirded out that he must have recognized me by my ass.) He wore blue jeans and a chef’s coat, and as he got closer, I could swear he was wearing mascara. His new restaurant, the Pig, had recently opened in a narrow two-story spot on West Eleventh. With three-hour waits and an effusive
New Yorker
review, everyone was talking about it.

“Jake. Hi. Congratulations—I keep hearing about you,” I said.

He leaned in for a peck on the cheek, and I surprised myself by going weak at his scent: vetiver cologne tinged with bacony kitchen smells. The combination of his nascent star power, my new clothes, and the lovely spring day turned me into a nervous schoolgirl. I stammered and tittered my way through some chitchat, and then he said, “Hey. Have you guys eaten?”

Monica, still in bold and brassy mode, stuck her hand out. “Actually, we’re starved. Hi. I’m Monica.”

I apologized for having failed to introduce them, and then, when I floundered awkwardly to give Jake a designation—I think I went with “old friend”—he interrupted. “Listen, we’re about finished here, and I just made all this food for the photo shoot, so why don’t you come in and eat?”

“Oh, that’s very tempting,” I said, regaining some level of coherence. “But we can’t. Got to get these kids to the park before they combust.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monica’s head snap back in what I guessed was objection.

“At least let me send some with you,” he said, glancing down at my kids for an uneasy second but not really acknowledging them. “Come on. I’ve got Brussels sprouts,” he said, drawing out the words playfully.

He had wooed me with those Brussels sprouts, and he knew it. On our second date, he made me a sexual bet—which he’d won—that he could make me (a proclaimed Brussels sprouts hater) love the tiny cabbages. With an excitingly foreign tingle in my stomach, I realized that he was flirting.

Jake went inside, and Monica, the kids, and I stood out there while the photographer and his awkward assistant waited
impatiently. I was nervous and buzzy while he was away, and I could feel Monica’s eyes on me, but I refused to look at her. Instead I busied myself with the kids, wiping their peanut-butter-smeared faces and hands until Jake returned with a large white shopping bag.

“Here you go. I threw in a couple of invitations to this opening party we’re having next month. You guys should come.”

“Oh, thank you. Sounds fun,” I said.

He pecked me on the cheek again and gave my arm a light squeeze, then told Monica it was nice meeting her.

Monica and I walked the three remaining blocks to the West Side Highway in silence. Waiting for the traffic light, I could feel her eyes on me, but I kept looking straight ahead, trying to hide the smile that was creeping onto my lips.

Finally, Monica blurted out, “Well?”

The noise of the traffic meant that the kids probably couldn’t hear us.

“He’s cute, right?” I said, still refusing to look at her head-on.

“Yeah,” she said, still staring at me expectantly.

“My ex. Serious. Right before Leo. Didn’t want kids.”

“We’re going to that party, right?” said Monica.

“No.”

“Yes! Please!”

“Maybe,” I whispered. I normally would have said,
Sure, why not?
, but the butterflies in my stomach were a red flag.

“You already have the perfect outfit in that ShopBop box, don’t you?”

Actually, I had two possible outfits in mind. “We’ll see, okay? I don’t know,” I said.

Leo and Monica’s husband, TJ, had never met. We rarely got together without the kids, but when we did, it was always just the
two of us. So it went without saying that if we did go, the guys were not coming.

We arrived at the playground, found an empty bench, and set the kids loose before tucking into our bag from Jake. It contained a heaping box of the famous Brussels sprouts braised in beer and bacon fat, six grilled lamb chops, and a box of short ribs in a thick and gooey sauce. He’d also included two bottles of sparkling water, which he knew I regarded as a special treat.

Besides being mothers of twins, Monica and I are also both married to vegetarians. My dinners this week so far had consisted of cereal and milk, an Amy’s frozen pizza, and vegetable lo mein from the Chinese takeout.

At first I’d admired Leo’s vegetarianism. He had stopped eating meat for ethical reasons when he studied land management at Ithaca College. I was in awe of his commitment and didn’t disagree with anything about it, but I also couldn’t imagine my life without the prospect of a great burger. Leo never made me feel bad or judged for that. I’m not sure he’d say the same about me. In fact, there were times when I found his vegetarianism annoying—like when I was pregnant and starving and just wanted to pop into any old restaurant but had to study the menu first to make sure there was something he could eat. He always insisted he could find something to eat anywhere. But I hated to see him order a side of rice and steamed vegetables while I enjoyed a nice club sandwich.

A giddiness took hold of me and Monica as we beheld the spread before us. “Beats the granola bar I planned for lunch today,” I said, selecting a rib.