Something New (4 page)

Matthew does his best to kick the ball toward the opposing goal, and I find myself thanking God that he makes it all the way down the field without tripping over his own feet. At ten, my second son is in the middle of a painful and somewhat awkward growth spurt. His feet are two sizes larger than the norm for his age, and he hasn’t managed to synchronize them with the rest of his body. It is almost as if they have little brains of their own, which are constantly firing opposing synapses to the ones shooting from the brain in his skull. It is painful for a mother to watch, and I try to be sympathetic to his plight. But I am hard-pressed to say the right thing to him to make him feel better. When I make light of his situation, he gives me a lower-lip quiver like he’s about to burst into tears. And when I make supportive statements, as in “You’re going to tower over your peers in six months,” he merely shrugs disbelievingly and tells me that six months is
forever
. So mostly, I just say nothing. I applaud his successes (like now, when he’s gone ten whole minutes without falling on his face) and overlook his failures (like when his left foot got caught in his bicycle spokes and he took a major
header onto our driveway). They say that the key to successful motherhood is choosing your battles. In my opinion, the key to successful motherhood is knowing when to shut the fuck up.

As my attention wanders from the soccer field to the group of onlookers, I am once again struck by the way in which my fellow parents interact. There are clear demarcation lines drawn around the small groups of moms, and I think that no matter how far we advance as a species, socially, human beings never really evolve beyond high school. The cliques for thirty- and forty-somethings are as powerful as they were in our teens. I remember my Grandma Phyllis, who spent the final ten years of her life in a seniors’ community, telling me that even octogenarians have cliques. (She was proud of the fact that she belonged to the group of “easy ladies” who claimed that sexual intercourse was the best possible way to pass the time while you were waiting to die. To this day, I can’t pass the Rolling Hills complex without thinking of my Nana having sex. Ewww!)

I see Nina Montrose, most likely homecoming queen of her alma mater, relay some juicy tidbit of information to Gloria Gisler and Jenna McCray, and I assume it has something to do with her recently enhanced, gravity-defying breasts. Gloria touches a finger to her collagen-inflated lower lip and Jenna conjures an expression of surprise and delight while placing her hands on a waist so tiny it would make Scarlett O’Hara seethe with jealousy. Meanwhile, on the bottom bench of the bleachers, I overhear Tina Sinclair and Maddy Holmes try to carry on a conversation about the virtues of composting while their toddlers takes turns sliming each other with their half-eaten yogurt pops. On the far side of the field, Weight Watchers compatriots Lily Reyburn and JoAnne Malloy watch practice from their beach chairs and
surreptitiously binge on their sons’ bite-sized Nutter Butter sandwich cookies.

Still, I far prefer the soccer moms to the baseball parents who take the whole sport so seriously you’d think they were watching the majors. Those people are ferocious! The Beach Cities League (yes, Garden Hills is a beach town, despite its incongruous name) is well known around Southern California for the number of professional baseball players it produces. Therefore, all of the parents take the process very seriously, and there is a certain tension that permeates the practices and games (even though ninety-five percent of the kids are taking part in the sport merely as a hobby or a way to get out of afternoon chores). Most of the moms and dads stand along the fence line shouting encouragement or, more to the point, yelling criticisms, at their children; erupting into fits of hysterics when their child hits a home run; and falling into vociferous despair when one of the kids, God forbid, makes an error. I once heard a T-ball mom offer her son twenty dollars if he hit the ball past second base. Twenty dollars! To a five-year-old. The mother was inconsolable when her little boy’s hit made it only as far as the shortstop, at which point her husband told her she should have offered him a puppy.

Today, I am sitting next to Rita Halpern, who is the maternal grandmother of Peter, a classmate and pseudo-friend of Matthew. Rita took Peter in and will serve as his guardian until his mother’s stint in rehab is complete. Apparently, Roberta became a slave to OxyContin and had even gone so far as to set up an online “companionship” service for the Garden Hills male population in order to support her habit. I find myself inexplicably envious of her. It’s not that I condone excessive drug use or that I am a staunch supporter of prostitution. But Roberta certainly can never complain
that her life is boring. Criminal activity, arrests, convictions, and the county lockup followed by withdrawal tremors and group therapy—her life can be compared to a gigantic roller coaster. Dangerous and frightening, yes, but definitely not dull. And now, she gets the added benefit of not having to sit through seven tedious hours a week watching her children attempt to play sports.

On the surface, Rita has a cavalier attitude about most things, including her daughter’s plight, but I sense that deep down, she feels things very intensely and uses humor to hide it. Right now, she is joking about one of the kids on the field (thankfully not Matthew) who is struggling to catch his breath and has to keep going to the sidelines to puff on his inhaler.

“Jiminy Cricket, someone get that kid an oxygen tank!” she says in her usual strident tone.

“Rita, he’s asthmatic,” I tell her.

“Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, then why the heck is he playing soccer? Is his mother writing a book?
My Life in the ER
? For God’s sake. Take him home and put him in front of the TV!”

I laugh. I can’t help it. Rita is one of those people who says whatever she is thinking, consequences be damned. I like to think it’s because she has reached an age where she no longer cares what other people think. I myself will never reach that age, of course.

“And look at that chunky kid,” she continues, ignoring the sharp look that Maddy Holmes casts in our direction. “Couldn’t they find a uniform that fits him?”

It’s true, Lionel Malloy’s shorts constantly ride up, exposing his generous thighs to the world. He pulls them down every few minutes, then proceeds to yank his underwear free of his crack in one violent motion. It is an ongoing display,
and I often wonder if JoAnne even sees it happen or if she’s too busy pilfering his snacks to notice. Maybe someone ought to write her a note:
Get Lionel some new shorts!

“You shouldn’t joke about it, Rita,” Maddy admonishes sweetly. “Lionel has a problem with his thyroid.”

“He has a problem with
Cheetos
, more likely,” Rita fires back, then cackles with glee. Maddy promptly turns around and continues her discussion of banana peels and apple cores and this wonderful new product she found that keeps the compost stink to a minimum.

“Peter’s playing well today,” I venture, and Rita gives me a sideways glance.

“Honey, the only time Peter touches the ball is when he gets hit with it. But it’s nice of you to say so.” She nods to herself. “I noticed that Matthew hasn’t tripped at all today.”

“Not yet,” I say, and immediately feel guilty for having been so insensitive. But Rita just cackles.

“You’re a good mom, Ellen,” she says. “You recognize and accept your children’s limitations.”

By putting it that way, I am able to absolve myself of guilt. But I wonder if she’s right. I love my children fiercely, and I do accept them for who they are. And although I strive not to draw comparisons, sometimes I cannot help it. All three of Jill’s kids, for example, are all-around hyperachieving kids. No matter what they are playing at, they succeed. Now, Connor is great at baseball and water polo, but karate and ice hockey, not so much. And Matthew struggles with both soccer and baseball (which I choose to blame on his feet). And he’s absolute crap (if I have to be completely impartial) at Wilderness Scouts, having earned only three badges so far while the rest of the scouts in his troop have at least seven apiece. He does excel at putting models together (since that has absolutely nothing to do with his feet) and has shown an
aptitude for science. Jessie plays tennis and has a mean forehand for an eight-year-old. She’s also a terrific swimmer. But she wants to be the next Hannah Montana, and unfortunately she cannot carry a tune in a bucket.

I am concerned that none of my children will achieve greatness. I am concerned that they will all be forced to settle for mediocrity and it will somehow be my fault. I am concerned that I am not pushing them hard enough, that I am not nurturing their dreams or supporting their aspirations. Or perhaps I am merely projecting onto them my own feelings of complacency, inadequacy, and mediocrity. God. My poor kids.

And then, like an apparition out of a nightmare—like the one where you are naked in the middle of a crowded room, or you’re uncontrollably urinating in a pool full of people—I see Ben Campbell sauntering across the parking lot toward the soccer field, with a fair-haired boy of about ten in tow. As I watch the father and son approach one of the coaches, I am silently thankful that I altered my appearance since our meeting this morning. I traded my holey sweats—which are currently lining a trash bin in the garage—for a pair of jeans, and my peace shirt for a collared rose-colored blouse that complements my figure to the degree that any article of clothing can. I have also applied a smattering of makeup and a pair of earrings. I don’t know why I took even a small amount of care with my appearance this afternoon. (At the time, I didn’t correlate my embarrassing dialogue with Mr. Handsome-Next-Door-Neighbor to my wanting to look halfway decent.) But I am awfully glad I did.

The coach nods and shakes the boy’s hand. Then the boy shrugs shyly and trots onto the field with the coach as introductions are made all around.

“Oh my,” Rita says, and I assume she is talking about Ben
Campbell, who is wearing a pair of Levi’s—these look slightly less faded than the ones he wore earlier, although how I remember that, I cannot tell you—and a blue V-neck cotton sweater. But when I turn to her, I see that she is concentrating on a spot on one of the lower bleachers and hasn’t even noticed Ben Campbell.

“That bran muffin is working like Roto-Rooter on my intestines.”

She eases herself down to the lawn and makes a beeline for the bathrooms on the far side of the field. Meanwhile, Ben Campbell has meandered over to the bleachers. When his chocolate eyes find me, I expect him to execute a swift about-face and hightail it for the other side of the field. But instead, he smiles a greeting at the moms on the lower level of the bleachers, then begins to climb toward my seat.

What is the matter with this guy?
I think, wondering if he has a soft spot for stray dogs, orphaned children, and unsettled middle-aged women.

“Hi,” he says warmly, pretending I am normal, pretending that I did not make the most unspeakably pathetic impression on him only hours ago.

“Hi.” Uh-oh. Another one-word sentence. Not a good way to reverse his impression.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Three words. I’m on a roll.

He lowers his delectable bottom onto the wooden bench and smiles. “It’s Ben.”

“I know. Ben Campbell,” I say, as if to prove that although I have difficulty constructing complex sentences, I have no problem with recall.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” he says.

“It’s Ellen. Ellen Ivers.”

“Well,” he says. “Nice to meet you…again.”

“Yeah. You too.” I take a breath and blow it out. “I’m sorry if I, uh, seemed a little standoffish this morning.”

He gives me a grin. “I thought maybe I was offensive.”

I look over at him with surprise. He has to be one of the most inoffensive men I’ve ever met. “You’re kidding. You were very nice.”

“I meant sweaty and smelly offensive. After all the furniture-lugging, my wife wouldn’t get near me until I showered. I figured you were reacting to my rankness.”

“No,” I say, laughing. “I think I was just having a little aneurysm.”

“Ah. That explains it, then.”

We share a moment of companionable silence. I notice that Maddy and Tina are constantly glancing back at us with curiosity, and a part of me is pleased by this. It’s that “little thrill” thing at work again. Of all the moms present, this particular piece of fresh meat chose to sit next to me. (Who cares that he probably did so initially because he felt sorry for me or was planning to offer me the business card of his therapist?) This moment will fuel me for at least the rest of the day, and I allow myself to bask in it.

The slight breeze carries the scent of his aftershave to my nostrils. I try to ignore the effect that it’s having on me.

“Is your son out there?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Dumb question, right?”

“Not at all,” I reply with a straight face. “I could be one of those weirdos who watches kids’ sports for the sheer enjoyment of it.”

“That
would
be weird,” he agrees, grinning broadly.

I chuckle, then point at my son. “Number six. That’s my Matthew.”

He nods. “My son’s Liam. He just turned ten.”

I watch as Liam makes a charge toward the goal, weaving through the other players effortlessly, the ball like an extension of his own (normal-sized) feet.

“He’s good,” I comment.

“Yeah, he’s pretty coordinated for his age.”

Of course, Matthew chooses that moment to fall on his butt, becoming a tangled mass of prepubescent limbs flailing on a sea of green grass. In my peripheral vision, I can see that Ben is stifling what would surely be an expression of amusement.

“He gets that from his dad,” I say.

He looks at me and unchains the smile. “Of course.”

It occurs to me that I have reverted to the confident, intelligent woman I used to be. Then it occurs to me that in the two conversations I’ve had with the man beside me, I’ve gone from social misfit to gregarious funny gal. Ben Campbell is probably thinking that I’m schizophrenic. But what the hell?