Page 146 of Woman on the Verge

“Who’s Jane Lazarre?”

“A writer. She said that ambivalence is pretty much guaranteed and even natural in motherhood.”

“Do you therapists collect tidbits of information like this in a secret online forum or what?”

She smiled. “That’s actually a brilliant idea.”

When Grace continues to whine and I feel myself getting impatient, I take another deep breath. I remind her again, calmly, that we are done with breakfast.

“What I can do is make an Eggo waffle as a snack for you to eat in the car,” I say. “But we do have to get going.”

Grace sighs. “Fine.”

She is four, which I hope is better than three. I talked to a mom at the playground the other day who has twin four-year-olds, and she referred to this stage as “the Fucking Fours,” so we’ll see. I like this park mom. Her name is Gabby, and I have identified her as a potential friend. Crystal wants me to work on friendships—as in having them. Crystal wants a lot from me.

“I want Eggo too!” Liv says as I place her still-chubby little legs in the holes of a clean pair of underwear.

“Okay, little one,” I tell her.

I put two waffles in the toaster as Grace starts whining again. She is sitting on the floor, putting on her shoes. I buy only slip-on shoes, nothing with buckles or shoelaces. I consider this an act of self-preservation.

She throws one of the shoes across the floor. I take yet another deep breath.It’s okay, sweetie.

“What is it, lovebug?” I ask her.

“I think my feet growed,” she says. “These shoes feel weird.”

Someone on Twitter wrote, “Nobody has more grievances than a toddler on the way out the door.” So I’m not alone in my Morning Routine angst, though I do feel like Grace and Liv are particularly challenging. Crystal says it’s a type of separation anxiety, and she didn’thave to explain why my girls would feel more intense separation anxiety right now. Bedtime is also grueling—even more so than before. Some nights, I let both of them sleep in bed with me to avoid the Hour of Despair. It’s another act of self-preservation for me, and necessary comfort for them. At some point, there will be a rule about sleeping, but for now, our bodies need each other.

I help Grace find a more suitable pair of shoes, which are, of course, the exact same size as the other ones. She approves. I grab the Eggo waffles, lift Liv into my arms, and head for the door.

“Do we go to Daddy’s today?” Grace asks, still lingering behind.

She asks this every day, noticeably anxious about the schedule, the back-and-forth.

“He’s picking you up at school today, but he’s bringing you home here. You’ll go to his house tomorrow night.”

She sighs.

I put Liv down so I can hug Grace. The girls and I hug all the time now. As I said, our bodies need each other. It’s like we are reconfirming each other’s presence—You’re here, right? Are you here?—on a daily basis.

“I know it’s hard sometimes,” I say to her.

For today, that little validation is what it takes to get her to follow me out the door.

After drop-off, I rush back home only to discover that my eight-thirty call has been moved to noon. I check my phone, tend to neglected texts. There is one from Kyle, asking if we are on for tomorrow. We are hiring a babysitter so we can go out on one of our prescribed dates. We schedule these outings every two weeks in an attempt to connect. So much remains uncertain. There is the basic question: Do we like each other? We haven’t had sex, and I feel no desire to do so. Kyle says he feels desire, but when pressed, he admits it’s a more generalized desire, not specific to me. I take no offense at this; the radical honesty is refreshing.I told him we feel more like comrades in arms than anything, bonded by the battles we’ve survived so far. He didn’t disagree, but said, “Aren’t all married people with kids like that?”

I never feel particularly excited about our dates, but I don’t dread them either. We usually talk about the kids, despite promising not to. We might not have anything else to discuss anymore. Maybe that’s okay.

On our last outing, I suggested that he might want to try a dating app, to see if he feels something with someone else. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he laughed it off, but there was a twinkle of intrigue, of hope, in his eyes. I want him, and us, to be happy—with each other or apart. He asked if I wanted to try a dating app, and I guffawed. I cannot imagine dating, cannot imagine presenting myself to a stranger—“So I’m less than a year out from a complete psychotic break. What’s your story?”

Yes, we’re on! Meet you there at 5?

Therebeing the new local brewpub we both want to try. He texts back a thumbs-up.

There’s a text from Merry too.

Emailed you some photos from the memorial, FYI

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