Page 2 of Woman on the Verge

“Okay. Let’s crunch the numbers and figure it out.”

That’s my husband for you—always the pragmatist.

My boss, Michelle Kwan (“like the figure skater,” she’d tell everyone upon meeting them), a woman with no kids, was supportive of me going freelance, but I sensed disappointment, like maybe she was thinkingAnother one bites the dust. I told her I’d come back full time when the girls were a little older, and she said, “Of course,” not unkindly, but with a tinge of pity. I promised myself I would prove her wrong. I was not abandoning my career; I was simply taking a scenic detour. She would see.

I worked about thirty hours a week, which covered the cost of day care and left us with about $1,000 extra each month. It wasn’t as much as I was bringing home before, but it was fine. The crunched numbers satisfied Kyle, and I was feeling like maybe I could do the elusive thing of having it all. Then, a few months ago, Michelle called me into her office and said the agency had lost the poison-in-the-face client and needed to make some “staffing adjustments.”

“We need to prioritize the full-time employees, make sure they have enough billable hours on other accounts,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

I didn’t understand, not at first. She must have seen the blank look on my face because she added, “We don’t need any freelance help. For now.”

When I told Kyle, he said, “Well, we can take the girls out of day care until you find something else. That will mean we won’t see much of a dent financially.”

Ever the pragmatist.

So that’s how I got the title “stay-at-home mom” affixed to me, following me around like a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

It took us thirty-five minutes before we were ready to leave the house. Grace wants me to do either everything for her or nothing at all. I never know which is right in any given moment. If I attempt to help her with her shoes, she screams, “I can do it myself!” If I do not offer assistance, as I didn’t on this particular day, she yells that her socks “don’t work” with the urgency of someone witnessing the arrival of a colossal asteroid from outer space. Liv is easier, for now. She just puts her feet in my lap helplessly.

I don’t know why the “terrible twos” are a thing. Two is easy. Three threatens to annihilate me. So many mothers lament the passage oftime. They say “Time is a thief” and “They grow up so fast.” When I look at baby photos, I understand what these mothers are saying, but some days, I cannot wait for the girls to be older so they can tend to their own shoes and socks (and teeth, for the love of god). Their independence will be synonymous with my own. People say things get easier by kindergarten. On really bad days, I fantasize about going into a coma until then. There’s probably a company on the dark web that offers this type of thing—VoluntaryComa.com or something. I have no idea how to access the dark web.

Grace insisted on stuffing her backpack full with trinkets and treasures necessary for our outing. These included a doll-size teacup, a fistful of Paw Patrol Band-Aids, and two baby dolls that had been touched with so many filthy fingers that their plastic skin had turned an odd shade of gray. Liv contributed the torso of a Barbie to the backpack, and Grace did not object.

Grace hung her backpack on the handle of her toy stroller, then put the dolls in the stroller. There was not enough room for both of them, as I warned her there would not be, but she was determined to make them fit. She grunted and whined, and I offered to help, but she said “No” and swatted my hand away. I decided it did not qualify as hitting, though Kyle would have disagreed. He thinks the girls need more discipline. I don’t disagree, but discipline involves an ongoing cycle of reprimanding and redirecting, which would require a reserve of energy I do not have.

I closed my eyes. I told myself to breathe. I pretended to be a yogi, someone enlightened. But I couldn’t get a full breath into my lungs, just fast, shallow ones. It’s like I’m in a perpetual state of hyperventilating. There are many times I wonder if I should smoke weed. Or take edibles. Instagram keeps serving me ads for a THC-infused sparkling beverage. There are so many options for dissociating these days.

When I opened my eyes, Grace had made the dolls fit, one sitting on the other’s lap, their legs weirdly bent and contorted in a way that did not bother her at all.

“Ready?” I asked with a smile that any adult would identify as fake, forced. The girls are not that sophisticated yet. They take upturned lips for what they look like.

“Ready,” Grace confirmed.

“Ready,” Liv repeated.

“Can we say bye to Daddy?” Grace asked.

I sighed again.

“He might be on a call, but we can check.”

We went to his office. Kyle is a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company. He has always worked from home (in between on-site meetings with customers). Before, when I went into an office every day and the girls went to day care, he worked at the kitchen island, on the living room couch, anywhere he pleased. Now, he’s holed up in the guest-room-turned-office, hiding from the chaos that is his family.

I pressed my ear to the door and heard nothing. It’s usually obvious from several rooms away if he’s on a call because his voice is unnaturally loud.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” I told Grace.

She clasped the doorknob with both her tiny hands, still chubby with dimples instead of knuckles, and my heart swelled with so much affection for her that I thought I could cry. There is nothing like the emotional whiplash of motherhood.

She opened the door and walked in, Liv toddling behind her. I brought up the rear, which was strategic. If I walk in first in these instances, Kyle gives me a look of annoyance before transforming his face for the girls’ benefit. If the girls walk in first, there is no opportunity to give me the Look.

“Daddy!” Grace said.

“Daddy!” Liv repeated.

Grace climbed into his lap, and Liv wrapped her arms around his legs.

He had his wireless earbuds in, ready and waiting for his next call. He is the most successful sales rep in Southern California. I’m proud of him, I am. From the moment I met him, he wanted to be exactly who heis now. He works hard. He takes his role as primary provider seriously. I just wish his accomplishments didn’t make my own impossible.

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