If You Only Knew
Page 59
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They go a little crazy at Ben & Jerry’s. Chunky Monkey with gummy bears and broken Oreos for Charlotte. Phish Food for Grace with chocolate-covered almonds and graham crackers. Cotton Candy for Rose, topped with rainbow sprinkles and more gummy bears.
I ask them questions and say silly things while they eat, and they’re clearly delighted with me, not wiping their hands or faces, not telling them to slow down—though it’s a physical battle to stifle the words. No, I’m the fun parent now, that’s for sure. Who cares about vegetables?
We get back in the car after gleefully using way too much soap in the Ben & Jerry’s bathroom, because Ben & Jerry’s soap is much more fun than the soap from home. No need for lunch. I’ll just run them around the yard a little bit, and you know what? It may be time for a puppy. I’ll be the one to tell them that, and to take them to the pet store to pick one out—or three, so they can each have one—and I get to be the fun parent, thank you very much.
And then, nap time. Me time. And today, maybe I’ll actually do something for me. I’ll order stuff online. Watch The Avengers for the eye candy. I’m almost forty. I’m not dead.
“Mommy?” comes Charlotte’s voice. “I don’t feel good.”
And then comes the sound that every mother knows.
The sound of a little stomach expelling its contents.
They puke like falling dominoes, three in a row, bing, bang, boom.
“Mommy! Charlotte threwed up and me, too!” Rose says, outraged. She gacks again.
“Mommy! Mommy, help!” Grace commands. “Mommy! Make it stop!” Another very juicy-sounding vomit.
I pull over as soon as I can, but I’m already dry-heaving myself. God, the smell, so thick I can taste it. Sour dairy and sugar and who knows what else, oh, yes, oatmeal for breakfast and flecks of the carrot sticks, along with the hummus I packed for snack.
“Oh, babies, Mommy is so sorry!” I say, leaning into the backseat. Grace vomits on my chest, almost on purpose, it seems.
“Mommy!” she demands, outraged at the indignity.
“Mommy! I sick!” Rose says.
“Mommymommymommy,” Charlotte moans, not to be outdone. She retches again, as if knowing I doubt her sincerity.
I carry Wet-Naps at all times, so I mop up the girls. Rose is crying because she threw up on her favorite dress, and Grace is crying with rage because she’s got puke in her lap and “it’s too hot, Mommy!” and Charlotte is crying because one of her gummy bears came up whole, and this is freaking her out.
“I’m so sorry, sweeties,” I say, struggling not to cry myself. “We’ll get home as soon as we can, okay?”
I slide their door shut, and then I’m bawling, that dreadful Eh-heh-heh-hegggghhh kind of crying, and luckily, the girls can’t hear me because they’re still wailing, but I’m sobbing, my hands are shaking and I can’t stop crying. Me, in a meltdown, covered with vomit on the side of Route 9. I can’t drive like this. I think I may actually be hysterical, and the noises coming from my mouth and throat are horrible. My God, listen to me!
I want things to be the way they were before. I miss Adam. I miss loving my husband. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard. It’s just too hard.
Then a car pulls over, and a man gets out. “Rachel?” he says, coming closer.
I’m still crying, so it takes me a minute to figure out who he is. Then he smiles, his eyes turning into merry little arcs, and I do know.
“Gus... Hi,” I sob. “It’s so nice to see you. How’ve you been?”
The girls’ volume inside the van has risen to shrieks of rage.
“I’m...I’m great,” he says. “But you’re not, I’m guessing? Unless you always wear vomit.”
“My girls... I gave them too...too much ice cream, and they...they threw up.” My sobbing intensifies.
He grimaces. “Nasty.”
I nod and try to control myself. I sound like a cat being slowly strangled to death.
“Want some help?”
“What?”
“Want me to help? It sounds like you have rabid weasels in there.”
“Um...no. I mean, no, I’ve got it.”
“Can I open the van door?” he asks.
I nod. He slides it open, and the girls all fall silent immediately at the sight of a stranger.
“You must be the Puke Sisters,” he says.
“You not funny,” Rose says, and her own comment makes her laugh, then puke again.
“You’re gross,” Gus says. He reaches in the back for something—Rose’s backpack, opens it up and takes out her lunch box. “If you need to puke again,” he says, “do it in here. Okay? You too, Princess Pukey.” Charlotte accepts her Hello Kitty lunch box from him, and I grab Grace’s backpack and give her hers—Matchbox cars... She’s not the girliest girl.
“Mommy, why you crying?” Rose asks.
“Oh, honey,” I say, not aware that I still was, “I’m just sorry I let you have all that ice cream. I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry you feel bad.”
“It okay,” she says kindly, and my tears surge hotter and harder.
“Tell you what,” Gus says. “I’m gonna follow you home.”
“No, that’s—”
“Oh, come on. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”
* * *
An hour later, the girls and I are clean again. I’ve given the girls a bath, put them in their jammies and tucked them into bed for nap time. “We love you,” Grace says sleepily, speaking for her sisters as she often does.
I ask them questions and say silly things while they eat, and they’re clearly delighted with me, not wiping their hands or faces, not telling them to slow down—though it’s a physical battle to stifle the words. No, I’m the fun parent now, that’s for sure. Who cares about vegetables?
We get back in the car after gleefully using way too much soap in the Ben & Jerry’s bathroom, because Ben & Jerry’s soap is much more fun than the soap from home. No need for lunch. I’ll just run them around the yard a little bit, and you know what? It may be time for a puppy. I’ll be the one to tell them that, and to take them to the pet store to pick one out—or three, so they can each have one—and I get to be the fun parent, thank you very much.
And then, nap time. Me time. And today, maybe I’ll actually do something for me. I’ll order stuff online. Watch The Avengers for the eye candy. I’m almost forty. I’m not dead.
“Mommy?” comes Charlotte’s voice. “I don’t feel good.”
And then comes the sound that every mother knows.
The sound of a little stomach expelling its contents.
They puke like falling dominoes, three in a row, bing, bang, boom.
“Mommy! Charlotte threwed up and me, too!” Rose says, outraged. She gacks again.
“Mommy! Mommy, help!” Grace commands. “Mommy! Make it stop!” Another very juicy-sounding vomit.
I pull over as soon as I can, but I’m already dry-heaving myself. God, the smell, so thick I can taste it. Sour dairy and sugar and who knows what else, oh, yes, oatmeal for breakfast and flecks of the carrot sticks, along with the hummus I packed for snack.
“Oh, babies, Mommy is so sorry!” I say, leaning into the backseat. Grace vomits on my chest, almost on purpose, it seems.
“Mommy!” she demands, outraged at the indignity.
“Mommy! I sick!” Rose says.
“Mommymommymommy,” Charlotte moans, not to be outdone. She retches again, as if knowing I doubt her sincerity.
I carry Wet-Naps at all times, so I mop up the girls. Rose is crying because she threw up on her favorite dress, and Grace is crying with rage because she’s got puke in her lap and “it’s too hot, Mommy!” and Charlotte is crying because one of her gummy bears came up whole, and this is freaking her out.
“I’m so sorry, sweeties,” I say, struggling not to cry myself. “We’ll get home as soon as we can, okay?”
I slide their door shut, and then I’m bawling, that dreadful Eh-heh-heh-hegggghhh kind of crying, and luckily, the girls can’t hear me because they’re still wailing, but I’m sobbing, my hands are shaking and I can’t stop crying. Me, in a meltdown, covered with vomit on the side of Route 9. I can’t drive like this. I think I may actually be hysterical, and the noises coming from my mouth and throat are horrible. My God, listen to me!
I want things to be the way they were before. I miss Adam. I miss loving my husband. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard. It’s just too hard.
Then a car pulls over, and a man gets out. “Rachel?” he says, coming closer.
I’m still crying, so it takes me a minute to figure out who he is. Then he smiles, his eyes turning into merry little arcs, and I do know.
“Gus... Hi,” I sob. “It’s so nice to see you. How’ve you been?”
The girls’ volume inside the van has risen to shrieks of rage.
“I’m...I’m great,” he says. “But you’re not, I’m guessing? Unless you always wear vomit.”
“My girls... I gave them too...too much ice cream, and they...they threw up.” My sobbing intensifies.
He grimaces. “Nasty.”
I nod and try to control myself. I sound like a cat being slowly strangled to death.
“Want some help?”
“What?”
“Want me to help? It sounds like you have rabid weasels in there.”
“Um...no. I mean, no, I’ve got it.”
“Can I open the van door?” he asks.
I nod. He slides it open, and the girls all fall silent immediately at the sight of a stranger.
“You must be the Puke Sisters,” he says.
“You not funny,” Rose says, and her own comment makes her laugh, then puke again.
“You’re gross,” Gus says. He reaches in the back for something—Rose’s backpack, opens it up and takes out her lunch box. “If you need to puke again,” he says, “do it in here. Okay? You too, Princess Pukey.” Charlotte accepts her Hello Kitty lunch box from him, and I grab Grace’s backpack and give her hers—Matchbox cars... She’s not the girliest girl.
“Mommy, why you crying?” Rose asks.
“Oh, honey,” I say, not aware that I still was, “I’m just sorry I let you have all that ice cream. I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry you feel bad.”
“It okay,” she says kindly, and my tears surge hotter and harder.
“Tell you what,” Gus says. “I’m gonna follow you home.”
“No, that’s—”
“Oh, come on. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”
* * *
An hour later, the girls and I are clean again. I’ve given the girls a bath, put them in their jammies and tucked them into bed for nap time. “We love you,” Grace says sleepily, speaking for her sisters as she often does.
