Momzillas (18 page)

On my way home to see Violet, I realized what a beautiful day it was outside with the cool air and changing leaves. I paid Amber and packed Violet in her stroller for a long walk. Violet and I cut through the park, down by the old Plaza Hotel, where she studied all the horsies and their carriages. We walked down Fifth, past the Disney store (also a hit), all the way down to the Empire State Building. Before I knew it, we were crossing Houston Street into Soho. I looked at the hip kids and fashion-istas. With models and students aplenty, it was just an overall younger scene.

“Mommy, my store!” Violet said suddenly.

I turned to see the most adorable kids' boutique, Makie, with a teeny tiny sign tied onto the door in twine. We went inside and the designer was there, and I gushed about how sweet and original her creations were. Violet ran around for about fifteen minutes as I selected some new clothes for winter. She didn't have any real coats and heavy sweaters, and everything uptown was so outrageously priced I couldn't bear to slap the plastic down. We tried on the cutest boots that looked circa 1928, fully Little Orphan Annie, and Violet looked beyond adorable in them.

We went to a little girls' lunch at KinKhao and shared dumplings (her fave) before saddling up for our walk back uptown. The little nugget passed out in the stroller en route, and it was chilly so I'd switched her little T-strap sandals to the shiny new brown boots we'd just bought at Makie. She looked like a little angel out cold, and I decided to take advantage of the
zzz
's and maybe try a little shopping for myself.

I went into Barneys and scoped the racks of beautiful things. I spied Kelly Osbourne with Richie Rich, the Heatherette designer I admired from afar, and ten minutes later I saw Liv Tyler delicately handing a saleswoman her purchases with her long fingers.

Suddenly, as I was waiting for a dressing room, I heard, “Oh my God!”

I turned to see one of the moms from Kidsplosion, who was on her cell. “Hold on,” she said into her phone, turning to me. “Where did you get those adorable shoes?”

“Um, this place downtown…”

“Where? Name! Address!” She practically looked like she was breaking a sweat, her tone so urgent she may well have been on a vital nation-protecting fact-finding mission for the CIA.

“Um, this place called Makie? On Thompson between, I guess, Prince and Spring?”

“Milos, it's me,” she barked into her cell. “I need you to go drive down to this place Makie. Ask for these brown leather boots in size 8 for Calliope. Yes…size 8. Then drive back uptown and pick us up at Via Quadronno. Bye.”

She snapped her cell shut and walked away. No thank-you, no nothing. Just a dispatch to her driver to go get the same boots. Ugh.

Violet was asleep in her stroller when we got home, and I enjoyed a simple luxury I hadn't yet experienced in New York, a hot, late afternoon bath. Ahhh. My legs were killing from the long-ass walk, but I actually felt really good. And as I soaked in the lavender bubbles and looked out my window, the sun was starting to set into an electric blue, Maxfield Parrish sky.

Thirty-five

The next day, inspired from my marathon walk with Violet, we decided to hit the West Side and visit the Natural History Museum. Violet could name every dinosaur known to man, so I thought checking out dem bones would be fun. She was overjoyed and euphoric to say the least. The exhibit was truly incredible, and we wandered the halls looking at “buggies” and “wabbits” and “fishies,” until Violet's little gams were about to give out.

Under the big whale, a cute mom and daughter with knitted scarves looked up in wonder.

“I love dis place, Mommy!” the little girl said in awe.

“Isn't it great?” the mom responded. “We can come here whenever you want.”

Violet sauntered up to the little girl and gave her big hug.

“Awwww, she's so friendly!” the mom said to me sweetly. “Give her a hug, Amy!”

The girls hugged and we cooed at the cuteness factor of their embrace. The mother reminded me of a friend I'd had in grad school who had a baby and who was always very relaxed; she'd pass her baby around a party or I'd find her in the library with the baby hanging in the Baby Björn as she read. I remembered promising myself I'd be carefree and mellow like that. And this mom had that same chill vibe.

“You guys live around here?” she asked.

“Just across the park. It's not far, though. We had such a nice walk,” I said.

“We take the cutest class ever, Broadway Babies, on the East Side. Do you guys do it?”

“No. What's that, like, making the kids into Macaulay Culkin child stars or something?”

“No,” she laughed. “It's so cute you want to die. It's all Broadway actors and they do a different show every week, so it's like world-class entertainment for the parents.”

“No way! I love the sound of that!” It sounded more rambunctious and alive than the sedate glockenspiels and triangles of Milford Prescott.

“You have to check it out. It's amazing how talented the teachers are, and it just makes you feel so lucky to live in New York.”

“Mommy!” her daughter suddenly wailed.

“Okay, honey, we'll go to lunch now. I'm Holly Appleton, by the way. If you guys want to join our class, just ask for Heather Stone when you call, she's so sweet.”

“Thanks so much for the tip.”

“Your daughter's so cute—”

“So's yours!”

We left the museum and I called information for the Broadway Babies number and signed Violet up right then and there. They told me they had one spot left in Holly's section and that the next class would be the show
Chicago
. I wondered how they would perform a show about a sex-slaughter/double homicide with imprisonment and a crooked legal system for two-year-olds, but I did know one thing: I was psyched.

Thirty-six

The next day, I was reorganizing Violet's drawers (thanks to piles of outgrown clothes, sad!) when the doorman buzzed. Mrs. Dillingham was on her way up. Fuck, I looked like I had just come out of the ring with Mike Tyson. I tore off my grody Urban O tee and threw on a little white dress I hadn't ever worn, ripping the tag off just as the doorbell rang. It was so contrived, I mean, I would never be just lounging around the house in the dress but I knew Lila and her cronies always were decked out and probably never even let their staff see them in something as plebeian as blue jeans.

“Lila! Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “What a surprise.” I hoped my highlighting of the ambush factor would make her think about barrel-assing into our apartment sans phone call, but no.

“Hannah, I'm concerned,” she started, looking me over. I could detect a note of pleasant response to my outfit, though nothing was said of it. “I saw Bee this afternoon, and well, we got to talking about Violet.”

Uh-oh. Didn't these people have better things to discuss than
my daughter
? Apparently not.

“And she mentioned that you…took her to the outer boroughs,” Lila choked, practically near the point of vomiting. “On the subway train.”

“Yes.” I knew where this was going. “We had a playgroup there.”

“Well, to be honest, she also mentioned Violet watches a lot of television and while I can't say I'm happy about that—Weston watches none, you know—I am extremely distressed that you took it upon yourself to bring my grandchild
underground
like that on those horrible cattle cars! They are all graffiti covered and dreadful. And the
people
! Why, it's the absolute dregs of society! God knows what could have happened to her. And it's a clear terrorist target, you know. What if these crazy bombers boarded your train? It's simply irresponsible!”

My blood boiled. I wished Josh had been there to dive in and stand up for me, but he was always at work and here I was yet again alone with his mother having to defend myself while trying to avoid confrontation.

“Lila, the trains are no longer graffiti covered—”

“No matter! I simply am not comfortable with that at all and if you truly
must
leave Manhattan, I will send my chauffeur.”

I was livid. But I had to take a deep breath and exhale my need to club her over the head with a Big Bertha golf wedge. I felt the ire slowly seep away and I nodded calmly, not wanting to escalate the situation by saying, for example, that she was a nosy cow who should mind her own business. So I said nothing. She made fake small talk for the ten minutes afterward (asking “the latest” on our nursery school process, blah blah blah) then announced she had to go because she had the black-tie gala for Help Foreign Frescos Ball at the Burden Mansion in three hours and she had “not a thing to wear” (apparently there were painted ceilings abroad in dire need of our aid). Hmph. When she left I was desperate to get out of the house and I decided to take Violet outside to blow off my steam. We had walked a few blocks when I heard Violet say “Mommy, dat store!” and per her wish, we ended up at famed toy emporium F.A.O. Schwarz.

A mistake. Hordes of platinum-card-swiping moms lined up at the registers with bags full of big dollies and indoor cars, though we were nowhere near Christmas, and I felt like I was moving through the store as if watching everything through a fish-eye lens. In a distorted haze, the children's lollipops seemed warped bigger than their heads. The
vroom-vroom
s of the trucks seemed as noisy as the real rush hour outside, and Barbies seemed blonder than ever, and suddenly a huge clown seriously made me think it would lurch toward us and strangle me. I had to get out. I quickly took Violet and walked toward home. Maybe there would be a sweet message from Joshie, whom I was dying to talk to and regroup with.

Thirty-seven

Alas, no word from Josh save for a quick text message that he was in meetings “'til late.” But curiously, Troy Kincaid had called three times. There was a sudden private listing from a family who had to move back to Portugal in two months. The wife recently had a kidney transplant and was convalescing at home and didn't want people traipsing through the pad. She listed it under the radar with Troy Kincaid as the exclusive broker and because it was in our budget (just barely) I jumped at the chance to see it; he asked if we could come over right then.

Having looked at dozens of hovels with Troy, I walked through and looked around, and I knew. It's like with men: you kiss a ton of frogs and you frigging
know
when it's your husband. And this place was home.

I walked the hallway, seeing what would be Violet's room, and another little room adjacent that could be baby number two's room one day down the road. Everything was just perfect.

“Done,” I said, resolutely. “This is it. This is home.”

But naturally, it wasn't that easy. In New York City, the land of co-op apartments, you don't just plonk down the dough and get handed the key. No, no, no, in the land of vertical neighbors, where stacked upon each other are twelve New Yorkers with twelve opinions, we would have to go through the infamous co-op board.

Now, on top of Violet's schools, we also had to prep for our board package—a hundred-page application slash tome demanding all our IRS records, forms up the wazoo, and letters of recommendation—not just financial ones from Josh's boss and our accountants, but also social references to prove we were of good standing in the community, with friends in high places (i.e., other nice co-ops nearby).

It was a very tricky building to get into—very private with a lot of “nice” families, including a local NBC newscaster and a star trial lawyer. It wasn't some blingy fancy address, just a quiet tree-lined street, a true “preppy” building, complete with worn-in leather chairs in the lobby and old doormen who'd worked there for forty years.

The next day, after Violet and Josh came back to the apartment to see it and we formally gave our offer, we sat down with Troy at Payard nearby and made a list of who we could approach for our letters. The financial part was easy; Josh had a great pal who was a mortgage broker so that element was a slam dunk, as were his social letters from Parker Elliott and his other old pal, Milton McDermott.

“What about you, Hannah?” Troy said. “We need to have some social references written by your friends.”

I looked at Josh nervously, not quite knowing how to tell Troy I didn't have any in the city yet. Leigh lived in a rental downtown, hardly a glossy reference for these kinds of people. Bee, who wasn't even my friend, wasn't eligible because her husband was writing for Josh. “Maybe I could ask…my friend Tate Hayes. He's a professor at Columbia, and taught me at Berkeley.”

“Okay, that will do,” Troy said. “Perfect. What about any other friends? You'll need another, maybe a female friend?”

Shit. Zilch. I thought for a minute and guessed maybe Maggie Sinclair would write for me? All these girls knew the drill, maybe she could bluff a little and say she'd known me since Bee's wedding? Ugh. “I think I can ask someone else, Maggie Sinclair?”

“Oh, yes, I know Maggie, she'd be perfect, just perfect.”

Great. Now all I needed to do was ask her.

AND GOOD NEWS TRAVELS…INSTANTLY

Instant Message from: BeeElliott

BeeElliott: I heard the Allens are bidding on a place.

Maggs10021: Really? That's great!

BeeElliott: Dunno, I heard it's—gasp—east of Third.

Maggs10021: So?

BeeElliott: Kind of a B building but whatev. Hey, did you hear about Tessa's kid?

Maggs10021: No, what?

BeeElliott: Supposedly did badly on ERBs—Lara told me he has Homework Resistance.

Maggs10021: What's that? He doesn't wanna do homework?

BeeElliott: School therapist says it's a big problem; Hallie says he'll get rejected everywhere—sucks.

Maggs10021: Gotta sign—am feling v. tired today, baby's kicking like crazy + have been up all night…

BeeElliott: 'K, bye!