Momzillas (26 page)

Fifty-six

It was the morning of New Year's Eve, and the city was filled with fanny-pack-wearing tourists. I remembered how out of place I felt when we'd arrived, but now seeing people from all over wide-eyed and absorbing the flux and crunch and pulse of the city, I truly felt like a real New Yorker. Josh was worried I couldn't handle the Nine Inch Nails concert that night because I looked slightly Kermit-green and felt flu-ish when I woke up. But I told him there was no way I would miss it and would pull myself together. I felt a pang as he went to work in his perfect man suit (never a day off still, unfortunately), fastening each cuff link, inserting the collar stays. I loved watching his dressing routine, except that I was a slob sacked out in bed with Violet. He kissed us good-bye and we each took a ticket, ready to reunite twelve hours or so later on the Madison Square Garden floor. I was happy to see that he'd left me a note on the kitchen table of new porn titles:
Bi-Curious George
,
Snatch Point
, and
Girl with a Pearl Necklace
.

After two hours of lounging and zoning in front of the Nickelodeon lineup, we finally got motivated to go to the park. The weather was cold, the first truly biting day. And then, mid-walk, downy snowflakes started to fall on us. As the nipping air rouged Violet's cheeks and the snow fell on her tongue, I felt so elated to have seasons.

“Mommy, it's knowing!” which was how she said “snowing.”

“I know, isn't it beautiful?”

My little girl would soon sled in the park. We'd make snowmen and snow angels. I felt good, at peace, and when I saw Bee Elliott walking toward me (why she was even in town instead of St. Tropez I had no idea), I didn't even wince. Despite everything she'd done, I didn't hate her. Okay, I fucking loathed her, let's be honest, but it wasn't an active, boiling hatred. Why? Because she was so incredibly sad and pathetic. Because she didn't even know her own kid, because she was always trying to be the Queen Bee and not just keep up with everyone but surpass them. Because she didn't have Josh and never could, despite her efforts. Because she didn't have real friends.

As she got closer and closer on Madison Avenue, I felt a small pit and walked by saying nothing. I never saw her again.

See, she wasn't the queen of New York anymore, not because she'd fallen from grace and was a gossip's dream scandal now that Parker had left her cheating ass, but because I realized New York didn't have queens. Any girl who loves her life and her city can take it by storm. Her throne and court of followers vanished the day I heard how she decimated me behind my back, and the reason I didn't actively hate her and let her drain my energy is that I just stopped caring about her at all. I had her number, and now everyone else did, too. She was like a cancerous tumor that had now been excised from New York, her power cut off, her ability to poison terminated.

After a while in the cold air, Violet passed out in her fluffy stroller sleeping sack and I hit the drugstore to get some loot to help what was potentially ailing me. We came home and no sooner did we enter than the flakey snow turned into a blizzard, complete with biblical hail and a snowstorm that shut down the city. It reminded me of Seattle and how I took comfort in the pounding rain on my window; it always made me feel safe inside, curled up and cozy. The phone rang and it was Sheila Stone, Troy Kincaid's associate broker, telling me that we were accepted by the board into the co-op. Hooray! I exhaled a huge breath of relief, literally feeling the weight come off my shoulders. I surveyed the Ethan Allen–filled corporate apartment.
It's been fun, but adios
, I thought.

When Amber arrived that evening, I decided to blare music pre-date psych-up-style like the old days. I put on my coolest black skirt and blouse with some jet earrings and boots, and yes, maybe I was a tad overdressed, but despite the flu feeling I felt kind of sexy. Ready to go, I showed Amber where Violet's fish for dinner was and kissed my nugget good-bye. But as I headed for the door, something dawned on me. There was one more thing I had to do before the concert.

I arrived at the Garden to find masses upon masses of goth kids, face-pierced peeps sleeved in tattoos, and perhaps not so shockingly, yuppies. Beaming, I made my way to my seat, turning around to anxiously scan all the ticket-rippers to see if Josh was coming. I was starting to grow stressed that maybe he was trapped at work, when I suddenly saw his boyish face emerge among the metal. He came over and hugged me just as the light went out and the crowd roared. I yelled that we got into our building as the masses cheered, and Josh's thrilled shout added to their euphoric chorus.

As heated guitars opened the show, you could feel the ecstasy of the twenty thousand fans. The energy was so intense that every single soul felt utterly high. Josh wrapped his arms around me and we listened to the music and I started to think how perfect the moment was. Instead of feeling thirty and haggish, I felt twenty-two again. I truly felt younger than I had ever felt since motherhood, and I realized two very important things. One, you can have a sexy side and a life and interests post-stork. Babies tend to eclipse that for a while, but the moment beamed me back to pre-Violet days where I was so
me
, strong and centered. The second thing was that all the hipsters around us may have been really edgy and supposedly cool, but I had the coolest thing of all, a daughter at home who loved us, who we cherished more than anything on the planet. I felt unique; probably no one in our parent world was also at the show, and no one at the show looked like they had little critters sacked out in cribs at home. But as with everyone you see in New York, you just never know.

Suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I looked at Josh, worried that Amber was buzzing that something had happened to Violet. I nervously whipped out the phone to see a text message which read: “I love my wife.” Grinning, I texted back and Josh put his hand on my hair. Seconds later his phone buzzed. “I love my husband, and…” He was turning to look at me when his phone buzzed again with a new message: “I'm pregnant.” Yes, I'd found out two hours before. I peed on the stick, and saw the little plus sign. And unlike Bee, Hallie, and Lara, who would have been speed-dialing Lucky Me Under Three before they even pulled up their lace thongs, I simply exhaled happily, knowing the only person I wanted to tell was the love of my life, Josh. Ecstatic, he bear-hugged me and we kissed, knowing little Violet would be a big sis in about nine months, and I couldn't have been in a better place to welcome the stork.

Follow-ups

sm
ART MOMS:
My company, smART Moms, launched the following winter and was instantly sold out. That spring, I added three more sections, all filled to capacity, with field trips visiting artists' studios galleries and museums in all five boroughs.

BEE ELLIOTT:
Bee is still hot and heavy with Troy Kincaid, though she'll no doubt cheat again. After finalizing their divorces, they moved to London, leaving Weston behind with Parker. Bee never was truly connected with her son anyway, but before you grieve for mommyless Weston, see
Mr. and Mrs. Parker Elliott
.

CARNEGIE NURSERY SCHOOL
offered Violet a place in their fall class. We passed and enrolled at the more charming Browne-Madison School. And something tells me Harvard's not automatically counted out because of it.

COUNT ALEXEI VON HAPSENFÜRER
became so enamored of Josh's talent, he poached him away from his firm to be his main money manager in the States, setting him up with an office two blocks away and his own hours.

DR. EMILE POUNDSCHLOSSER
was arrested on seven counts of tax evasion. Through the press of the trial it was revealed that the renowned parenting expert never even had children. He was cured of his Affluenza in an upstate jail.

MR. and MRS. PARKER ELLIOTT:
After nursing his wounds and getting used to life as a single dad, Parker began spending a lot of time at our house. As did Leigh. Through the months they grew closer, and when I went into labor, they both took Violet for us. Leigh was crazy about Weston and Violet, and Parker saw how loving she was with his kid and ours, and by the end of the year, they were together, madly in love and happier than ever.

LUCY SLOANE ALLEN
was born September 14, weighing in at seven pounds exactly.

VIOLET GRACE ALLEN
loves her baby sister, New York, her new school, and her very happy mommy.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to genius editrix and do-it-all-mom Stacy Creamer for getting the idea, giving me ideas, and commiserating on some of the daunting aspects of dealing with Big Apple parenting. A big thanks as well to Joanna Pinsker and Julia Coblentz, for getting the word out, and to Laura Swerdloff plus the ICM gang: Amanda Urban, Jennifer Joel, Katie Sigelman, and Left Coaster Josie Freedman, as well as superlawyers Steven Beer and Mary Miles of Greenberg Traurig.

To the mellow moms: thank you for helping me laugh at the Momzillas, for sharing insane anecdotes, and showing me how it's done: Teresa Heinz, Laura Huang, Tara Lipton, Jane Timberlake, Alexis Mintz, Marisa Fox Bevilacqua, Liz Carey, Laura Hammam, Britney Spears-Federline, Isobel Case, The Group 3
P.M.
-ers, Leslie Coch, Carrie Karasyov, Robyn Foreman, Abby Gordon, Jennifer Nordstrom, B. J. Blum, Olya Thompson, Julia Van Nice, Lynn Biase, and Jenn Linardos.

Gracias also to sounding boards and supporters whose humor I worship: Richard Sinnott, Frances Stein, Alice Ryan, Liz Herzberg, Andrew Saffir, Daniel Benedict, Clara Pang, Kathryn Wender, Karen Quinn, Chris and Sasha Heinz, Andre Heinz, Michael Kovner, Jean Doyen, Naomi Waletzky, and especially Jacky and Jada Davy.

And to my sisters, the
chère
clan, I love you guys: Vanessa Eastman, Jeannie Stern, Dana Wallach Jones, Lauren Duff, and honorary
chère
Trip Cullman. And to the greatest note-giver on planet Earth, the brilliant Dr. Lisa Turvey, without whom this book would not have been possible.

Last but not least, thank you to the fam: the Kargmans, Robert, Sophie, Bess, Dana James, and my MiL Marjie (who is nothing like Lila!), and to my nana, Ruth Kopelman.
Merci mille fois
to my beloved mom, Coco, aka “Gwammy,” who devotes so much to her kids and is the best role model I could ever have as a mother; to Arie Kopelman (Dad slash Poppy), thanks for your sage guidance and for always showing us that humor is the best medicine; and broddow Will for all your amazing love, support, and constant inspiration. To li'l Ivy and Sadie, any mommy stresses are worth it in spades with you two delish nuggets as my reward, and extra-special thanks to Harry, my beloved LC.

Also by Jill Kargman
(WITH CARRIE KARASYOV)

THE RIGHT ADDRESS

WOLVES IN CHIC CLOTHING

BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN

SUMMER INTERN

PUBLISHED BY BROADWAY BOOKS

Copyright © 2007 by Jill Kargman

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.broadwaybooks.com

BROADWAY BOOKS
and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

While some elements of New York City parenting described on the following pages may seem familiar, this book is entirely fiction! No mommies, kiddies, schools, clubs, or real estate snafus are based on anyone or anything real.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kargman, Jill, 1974–
Momzillas / Jill Kargman.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Motherhood—Fiction. 2. Rich people—Fiction. 3. Upper East Side (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3611.A783M66 2007
813'.6—dc22
2006024568

eISBN: 978-0-7679-2730-7

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