There are a few women I know with whom I share a similar child birth pattern, a least concerning the oldest of my children. We were the ones who were among the first of our peers to have kids, not the first to get pregnant but definitely the first to keep the babies and attempt to raise them. A couple of them I feel a kinship for, the ones who looked at their situations, accepted them and said, “Fuuuuuck, all right then. I guess that means no Peace Corps or Tibetian prayer holidays for me.” We married our partners and set out to make a life for ourselves.
That would have been the end of it all except that for most of us the story didn’t end with a happily ever after. By the time our kids were about five we were all separated or praying for a divorce to come our way. And once that happened we took varying paths to cope with it all. I ended up reconciling with Matt for another go or two. Another woman moved back East to her family’s property to get away from her partying ex-husband and to raise her two young boys. Another woman came to see me one day in my office when I was slinging mortgages for the Big Red Wagon. Our sons had been born within months of each other, she married a guy I knew from childhood, up to that point our stories were nearly identical. She was looking to sell her home to her ex and wanted some advice from me. We chatted rates and financing options until the conversation slid into personal stuff. After informing her that I had returned to Matt for another go she updated me on her plans. She was using some of the proceeds from her home sale to get plastic surgery and to pay for her personal trainer. After that she planned to work as a hostess at a swanky cocktail lounge and keep her eyes peeled for a man. An older man. With stability and a giving personality. “Hmmm, ” I thought to myself, “I never knew what a calculating bitch you were. But, okay, it’s your life.” I didn’t see her for several months after that conversation until one day I ran into her at the gym. She looked amazing. Rejuvenated. A few sizes bustier and perkier. And fan-fucking-tastic. She was also sporting a gigantic stone on her left ring finger. Turns out she snagged her daddy-man. With two nearly grown children and a very large household to run she had landed just the right fellow. She disappeared into her new life and I didn’t see her again for ages.
I would have forgotten about her all together were it not for the fact that our sons now attend the same high school. A few weeks ago I went to Loren’s open house night to meet and greet his teachers, a good thing since we will be emailing one another on a regular basis regarding his mediocrity in the classroom, when Loren said to me, “Yo, did you know Preston goes to my school now? Yeah, man, he’s over there. But who’s that chick he’s with? She’s pretty hot for a mom.” It took me about a millisecond to figure it all out before I had the presence of mind to duck around a corner. I peeked back at them and sure enough, there she was in all her glory. As Loren observed, she was hot. Hot in the way no woman should be after bearing kids. Hot in the way that fades once you tip over the age of 35 and start sliding towards 40. And I froze. I had two inches of gray roots, no make-up and let’s not even discuss my midsection area. There was simply nothing in the world that could make me go say hello. I know now, as I knew in that moment, that I am shallow and petty, exactly the words I used to describe her back when she upgraded her body and man status all those years ago. But now, as I face 40 with three kids to support and no man, I wonder if perhaps she saw some wisdom that I missed at the time. How did she figure it out while I perched in the morals tree and tisk-tisked her calculated ways? I’m not saying her path is the better choice but it sure does look like a comfier one.
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