Feeding the Tasmanian Devil
an excerpt

Copyright 2007 5amwriter All rights reserved
Feeding the Tasmanian Devil
I was standing near the dining room table, sifting through the pile of junk mail and bills when it happened. I’d already put the hamburgers and fries in the oven to warm while I sorted through E.J.’s backpack and played back my answering machine messages. I’d already sent E.J. to use the potty, something I always did after we got home from a long day. If she didn’t pee first thing after coming home, she get so involved with watching Ariel or Dora or playing with her Legos that she’s forget to go and wet herself.
I sat down at the dining room table and put my head in my hands. I was so tired. Our trip to the library after daycare had been a disaster. E.J. had wanted to check out nine books—she’d just discovered she could read easy Dr. Seuss—but I’d set the limit at five. When I bent down to explain that I was only checking out five books, she’d given a great leap and collapsed on the floor shrieking and kicking. It has taken all my strength to pick her up—all 40 pounds of her—and carry her from the library, screaming, “I want all my books! I want all my books!” She’d calmed down by the time I’d wrestled her into the car and pulled out of the library parking lot. Of course, we’d left all nine books, plus my dignity, on the library floor.
I gave a sigh and picked up the pile of mail when I heard it. A terrified scream, a thud, then silence. I jumped up, knocking the chair over and raced to the bathroom. E.J. was lying on the floor, her head near the toilet, a tube of squeezed toothpaste in each hand. Toothpaste was everywhere—smeared all over the mirror with a childish E and J scrawled in it. It covered her face, especially around her mouth, and was caked in her hair. I gasped and ran to her. At the sight of me, she began howling. Piercing, incoherent yells reverberated around the bathroom.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” I asked gently, my heart pounding wilding in my throat. I gently slid my hand around to feel the back of her head, and her screams doubled in intensity. I could already feel the knot forming, and when I pulled my hand away it had blood on it.
“E.J.,” I said again, willing myself to speak in that same gentle tone of maternal calm. I carefully lifted her into a sitting position, and she promptly vomited.
“Oh, baby,” I whispered, real fear pulsing through me. I grabbed a towel to mop it up and threw the towel in the bathtub. Then I took the other towel from the rack, placed it carefully under her chin and lifted her in my arms. Slowly, I got to my feet. With great difficulty, I caught hold of my keys and my purse and backed out of the door to my apartment. It wasn’t until I’d strapped the still screaming E.J. into her car seat that I realized I’d left the oven on.
I backed out the parking space, fishing in my purse with one hand for my cell phone. I called my mother.
“Mom,” I said, through the sobs that had started at the sound of her voice.
“What is it?” Her voice was tense.
“E.J.’s hurt. She must have climbed on top of the toilet tank and gotten into the high cabinet in the bathroom. She fell and hit her head and I think she has a concussion.” I sniffled. “Plus, I think she ate some toothpaste. Both my new tubes were about half squeezed out.”
“I’ll meet you at the emergency room,” she said.
“No, no, no! You need to go to my apartment and ask the super to let you in. I left the oven on.”
“Dennette, why did you leave the oven on?” she demanded.
“Well, I was just concentrating on getting E.J. in the car to take her to the ER. I just forgot.”
“And why was she climbing on top of the toilet tank? You should have been watching her.”
I pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. “Mom, could you just please go and turn off my oven?”
“Dennette, I am tired of bailing you out. It’s just one problem after another. You’ve got to grow up.”
“Mom, please,” I sobbed. “The oven, okay? I’ll call you from the hospital.”
I clicked off before she could say anything more. I knew she was just venting her worry about E.J., but I really didn’t have the time or energy to listen to her tirade.
E.J. had subsided to a whimpering by the time I got her the emergency room. I parked, gathered her up with the towel, and ran through the front door. A triage nurse met me, gave E.J. a once over, and directed me to the waiting room. She handed me a clipboard. I struggled over to a chair and tried to scribble on it while balancing E.J. Before I could finish, another nurse came and brought me to an examining room.
“You can stay here and finish that,” she said, while a doctor gray temples started working on E.J.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked over her screams as he felt around the back of her head.
“She climbed on top of the toilet tank and got into two tubes of toothpaste. I think she ate some before she fell and hit her head. She threw up when I sat her up so I think she might have a concussion.”
“I’ll do the diagnosis,” replied the doctor coolly.
I shut my mouth. The doctor and nurse took E.J.’s vitals and applied ice to the back of her head. E.J. yelled and thrashed until the nurse brought her a small, pink teddy bear. Then she turned to me, “We’re going to give her something to neutralize the toothpaste she ingested. You can stay or you can wait in the waiting room.”
“I’ll stay.”
The doctor came over with a file folder. He frowned at me. “This is the third visit this month,” he stated.
I sighed. “Yes, I know.”
He looked over the file, then back at me. “Are you under any stress?”
I nearly laughed, the question was so ridiculous. “Yes, I’m under stress.” Then I stopped. I waited, tense and wary.
The doctor stared me down and asked in a carefully level tone, “Do you have trouble managing your anger?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Only when people start making idiotic insinuations,” I replied, through clenched teeth.
“Yes.” The doctor made a brief note in the file. “Have you ever struck this child?”
“Of course not!” This was not true. I had no problem tapping little hand or bottoms, but I had no intention saying this to the doctor. “She fell.”
“She seems to fall a lot these days.”
“She’s a climber,” I choked over the tears that had started. “She climbs up to my top cabinets in the kitchen and bathroom regularly. And if you’ll check that chart of yours, you’ll notice that one injury took place while she was at school.” I paused to take a deep breath and sniffle. “I do not abuse my child!”
“Certainly not,” replied the doctor with evident sarcasm. “Are you married to the child’s father?”
I turned to the nurse. “Get him out of here! I want another physician!”
The nurse pulled the doctor aside, whispered something, and then he left. I collapsed into a chair and bawled. Then a small voice said, “Mommy?”
I dashed over the E.J.’s side and smoothed her hair. “I’m right here, baby.”
“Ms. Dawson?” It was the nurse.
I looked up and she had another man with her, a younger man with sandy blond hair. He walked over and held out his hand. “I’m the social worker,” he said, as I shook it.
I bit my lip. “Are you going to go on about some nonsense of child abuse?” I asked.
A woman with short graying hair entered the room and introduced herself as another doctor. She began a conversation about what to give E.J. to neutralize the toothpaste.
The social worker looked at E.J. and then back at me with a small smile. “I certainly hope that won’t be necessary. You have been in here three times this month with this child, which shows us that there may be cause for concern. You, yourself, must be concerned that she keeps injuring herself.”
“Yes,” I said. “I am concerned. She’s so quick, and she climbs all over everything. I try to keep up with her, but it’s so difficult.” My fears swept over me and I felt that tears coming again.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he said, reaching out and taking E.J.’s hand. “You can stay right here with her. It’s probably going to take some time for the nurse to get their concotion ready.”
A couple of tears trickled down my face, but I didn’t speak.
“She must be a handful if she climbs a lot,” he said.
“Yes.” And I told this complete stranger all about my beautiful Elizabeth Jane. I told him about how she was talking in complete sentences before she was two and reading when she was barely four. I told him about her relentless energy, her inability to sleep through the night, her climbing, her biting, her tantrums, her grabbing of anything and everything she wanted within reach—including other children’s cookies and cups of juice. I told him about how embarrassed I was to take her out in public because she behaved like such a spoiled child who had no discipline. I did set limits. I offered choices in a calm, quiet voice. I was firm and consistent. Yet E.J. was a wild child much of the time, and I felt helpless and defeated by my lack of ability to control her and teach her to control herself.
The social worker listened and wrote an occasional note on his clipboard. He frowned thoughtfully when I finished talking. “Have you ever heard of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder?” he asked finally.
“I don’t want to put her on Ritalin,” I said automatically. “Her preschool teachers want me to medicate her. E.J.’s bright and she’s a good girl. There’s nothing wrong with her. I just need—need to be a better parent.” I muttered this last bit almost under my breath.
“You’re doing a fine job with her,” said the social worker, and I could tell he meant it. “A diagnosis of ADHD doesn’t just result in prescribing medication although I’m sure that happens a lot. If you have your daughter evaluated and properly diagnosed, you open yourself to many opportunities that can help her. Especially when she starts kindergarten.”
I nodded but said nothing.
“Let me get you some information,” he said, and left me there next to E.J.’s bed. She had fallen asleep.
The new doctor walked over, offered her hand, and smiled at us. “Your daughter is going to be fine,” she said. “She does have a concussion and it looks like she ingested some toothpaste. The nurse is going to bring something for her to drink to neutralize the toothpaste, and we’ll want to keep her here for observation for several hours.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling a sudden weariness overtake me.
The social worker returned with a brightly colored folder with the letters ADHD emblazoned on the front. He handed me the folder. “You’ll find several copies of a questionnaire to fill out. You’ll want to fill it out yourself and then give copies to teachers and caregivers—whoever spends a lot of time with your child. Return the forms to your pediatrician and proceed from there.”
I nodded, hoping I could remember these instructions on top of everything else I had to keep track of. The social worker left, and the nurse approached me. “Do you think we can wake her up to drink this?” She held out a plastic sippy cup.
I gave a sigh. “We can try.”
E.J. shifted slightly in her sleep. I put an arm under her shoulders and lifted her up so her head rested on my shoulder. The nurse put the cup to E.J.’s lips.
“Just drink this, sweetheart,” I said softly. The nurse tipped up the sippy cup. E.J. stirred and murmured something unintelligible and began to drink sleepily. I whispered a prayer of thanks. Ten minutes later we were able to lay E.J. back down on the hospital bed.
“You can rest here if you want,” the nurse offered. “Or there’s a little coffee and vending area in the waiting room.”
“Thanks. I think I get some coffee. I’m beat.”
I found my way to the waiting area and nearly ran smack into my mother. “Dennette! Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes,” I told her. I had no intention of going into any details.
“Well! I appreciate your finally coming out to tell me,” she snapped. “I’ve been waiting out here for over an hour.”
I just looked at her. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Where else would I be with my precious granddaughter in the hospital?”
“Mom,” I said. “You can go home now. E.J.’s resting and she’s going to be fine. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay? Talk to any doctors or anything?”
“I’m fine.”
I pulled her into a hug, which she returned. She released me quickly and blinked rapidly, sniffling. She backed away and fired a parting shot. “You’re going to be a mess in the morning, Dennette.” She turned on her heel and nearly ran out of the door. My mother—she would rather run a needle through her eyeball than break into tears in front of anyone.
It was depressing to think of, but I was glad to be rid of her. She was bossy and overbearing on the best of days, and under stress, she became unbearable. I wandered over to the coffee bar, which consisted of a coffee maker, powdered creamer, small packets of sugar, Splenda, and Nutra-Sweet, and larger packets of powdered cocoa. Dried spills and grains of sweetner covered the counter. I took a Styrofoam cup, dumped a packet of cocoa in it, and added coffee with extra creamer and sugar. I was stirring the evil concoction when I heard a voice next to me.
“This is a hell of a way to spend a Friday night.”
I looked over and found a man standing next to me, filling his own cup with coffee. He looked to be a few inches taller than me, with brown skin, a shaved head, and small round glasses. His tie was hanging half undone around his neck. I put him anywhere from late twenties to early thirties.
I gave him a tired smile. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is a hell of a way to spend a Friday night. I was planning on watching The Little Mermaid for the 137th time but my daughter decided to fall off the top of the toilet tank and hit her head. They want to keep her for observation for the next several hours.” I gave him a quick once over and guessed that whatever it was that had brought him to the ER waiting room hadn’t waited for him to change out of his work clothes. “What about you?”
He winced. “That sounds painful.” He stirred his coffee, though he hadn’t put any creamer or sweetner in it. “My son’s come down with a cold that’s triggered his asthma. He was coughing and wheezing this afternoon so his daycare called. I figured I’d bring him in now rather than wait till after midnight.”
“That’s hard,” I said.
“That’s him over there with my mom.” He pointed to a woman holding a toddler bundled up in blankets. The child stirred and coughed.
“At least your mom is helpful,” I remarked ruefully.
The man’s eyes strayed to my folder. “A kid in my son’s daycare has ADHD,” he said. “Both kids in their family have it, and they do some special diet so they don’t have to take meds.”
“Really?” I perked up at this.
“Yeah. Do you want me to get you some information?”
“That would be great,” I said. “I don’t know anything about ADHD except that they put the kids on Ritalin.”
“Then you might find it helpful.” He glanced around. “Is your husband here?” he asked, reaching into his pocket.
I gave a shrug. “Single mom,” I said, trying to sound cheerful about it.
“Oh, yeah? I’m a single dad. Bill Walters.” He held out his hand.
I shook it. “Dennette Dawson. And I left my purse in the room with my daughter so I don’t have a card on me.” He had just handed me his card.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Well, thanks,” I said, waving the card. “I’d better finish this and get back to my daughter.”
I went back to the room where E.J. was sleeping. I sat down in the chair and nodded until the nurse came in and told me I could take her home.
***
“Here’s the information I promised. There’s this book with instructions and recipes and an outdated Foodlist. It’ll give you an idea of how to proceed.”
Bill Walters was handing me a couple of slim spiral bound booklets. We were sitting in a diner the following week having agreed to meet for lunch. I’d called him first thing on the Monday after our emergency room meeting. I’d spent the weekend reviewing the ADHD information I’d received from the hospital while E.J. did her best not to convalesce after her concussion. In desperation I’d taken her out to Blockbuster to rent some new movies. It kept her from coloring on the walls.
I took the booklets from Bill. “Thanks.” I riffled the pages of the larger booklet before tucking them both into my shoulder bag. “I hope your weekend improved after such an awful beginning.”
“Ethan’s better,” Bill said. “He’s back in daycare so my mom’s free to go to her Bible study.” He peeled a straw and put in his glass of water. “I was never going to hear the end of it if she had her miss her Bible study again.”
“So your mom helps out a lot?” I asked.
He gave a small shrug and smiled. “It’s her first grandchild and all, so she’s into it.”
“My mother helps out, too, but it comes with a price,” I told her, stirring my own glass of water. “I get treated to long lectures on how I’m not raising my children as well as she did.”
He grinned. “I get that a lot, too.”
I couldn’t help wondering where the child’s mother was, but I’d decided if he’d tell me if he wanted me to know. “Also, she’s never forgiven me for not marrying E.J.’s father. Being a single parent is tough, but I figure being a bad marriage must be worse.”
“Not a risk you wanted to take, huh,” he observed.
Just then the waitress came over to our table. She was young and pretty, and her big eyes swept first over Bill, then over me. She must have decided I wasn’t much because she turned a bright smile on Bill. He cleared his throat and glanced at the menu. “What’s the soup, today?” he asked.
“Minestrone,” she replied, gazing at him from under her lashes, her smile still glowing.
“I’ll have the soup and a tuna melt,” he told her. Looking at me, he asked, “What would you like?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“And the same for the lady,” he told the waitress, who hadn’t spared a glance at me.
She dimpled at him. “I’ll bring that right out, sir.”
I took a sip of my water. “I’ll bet you get that a lot,” I said.
Bill regarded me with shrewd eyes and a small smile. “I’ll bet you come in for your fair share as well.”
“I guess,” I said. “But it’s having a child is definitely a deterrent.”
“Having a child makes you break it down to reality and forget all the nonsense. I figure if a woman can hang with my kid, she can hang with me, but my kid comes first. It’s hard for some women to compete with that.”
“Well, yeah. No one wants to deal with baby mama drama.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got none of that. Ethan’s bio mom gave up all her parental rights right after he was born. He’s all mine.”
“Wow,” I said. “You mean she just walked away?”
He put his palms up. “It was over between us, and she was starting law school. She carried him to term for me, so I have to hand it to her for that. But I don’t have baby mama drama.”
Our soup and sandwiches arrived, with more smiles and fluttering eyelashes on the side for Bill.
“So can you tell me anymore about this ADHD diet thing?” I asked.
“A little. These two kids in Ethan’s daycare are on it. They can’t have a lot of food the sitter makes, so the mom brings a lot of special stuff for them. Especially when they have birthday parties. They get special cupcakes and ice cream and other treats.”
“So it can’t be no sugar if they bring their own cupcakes.” I made a mental note. E.J. has a sweet tooth like nobody’s business.
“No, they can have sugar. I think it’s just processed stuff that sets them off.”
“What do you mean, ‘sets them off?’” I wanted to know.
“Apparently those boys turn into holy terrors when they eat the wrong stuff. The sitter told us she’s never tempted to give them what everyone else is having just to keep the peace, since there’s definitely no peace to be kept after they eat it.”
“Hmm.” My fingers were itching to go into my shoulder bag.
“The parents swear by this diet, so they were happy to give me the information when I told them about you. I’ll be interested to see how it works out.”
“Do they have to make everything from scratch?” I asked. “I can’t cook my way out of a paper bag.”
He laughed. “Maybe you’ll be motivated to learn.”
We finished the meal and the waitress brought the check. When she left, I reached for it. “I’ll take care of this,” I said, pulling the check toward me with one hand and digging around in my shoulder bag for my wallet with the other. “You were nice enough to bring me this information.”
He pulled out his own wallet. “Are you sure?”
I looked at the bill and couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll pay for lunch,” I told him, “but you can have her number.”
Bill gave me a look. “Her number isn’t the one I want,” he said seriously.
I blushed. To hide my face, I bent over my shoulder bag and finally found my wallet. Then I had to stare at the check while chewing on my lip in order to do the mental math to figure out the tip. When I finally looked back at Bill, he was still holding his wallet and watching me.
“I’ll let you pay for this one as long as you let me pay for the next one,” he said.
By now my face felt as though it were on fire. “Sure,” I managed to say in a reasonably casual tone.
I made sure to leave a generous tip, even though the waitress flounced away in a huff when she saw me paying the bill. Bill held the door open for me as we left, and I handed him my business card. He tucked it in the breast pocket of his jacket and gave me a smile that made the blood rush to my belly.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
***
E.J. was curled up next to me in bed, having fallen asleep over Beauty and the Beast. She had a toddler bed that my mother had picked up at a garage sale, but she never slept in it. I knew what I had to do in order to get her out of my bed. I’d read all the books. I could sit her down in a calm moment and explain that it was time for her to sleep in a big girl bed and patiently escort her to it every blessed time she crawled out. Anytime I was ready I could do this, but I simply wasn’t ready to face the temper tantrums and sleep deprivation that would follow. I pulled the quilt over the side of E.J.’s face to block the lamp light while I read through the blue booklet that explained this ADHD diet program.
I skimmed through the explanations and went straight for the recipes. It was cooking, plain and simple. I couldn’t see anything special or fancy about the recipes, with the exception of making fake tomato sauce and ketchup to avoid tomatoes. It looked like straight-forward stuff if you were used to preparing meals the old-fashioned way. Sometimes I used the oven to bake cookies that no one but E.J. and myself would eat, and often I used the stove to heat up cans of soup. Otherwise, I was pretty much a microwave and toaster oven kind of girl. I’d given up on doing anything more when E.J. started walking.
What if this program didn’t work? I didn’t relish putting a lot of effort into preparing food if I wasn’t going to see any results. How was I going to cook anything with E.J. underfoot? When was I going to find the time for cooking when I worked all day and it was all I could do to get E.J. fed some kind of frozen kid meal before dumping her into the tub and dropping into bed next to her, exhausted?
I got up and found my datebook and brought it back to bed. I flipped to one of the blank pages at the back and wrote:
How to work this program:
1. cook on weekends – get Mom to keep E.J. on Saturdays
2. get up early and cook in the morning before E.J. wakes up
3. ?
The phone rang. I snatched it up quickly so as not to wake E.J. and whispered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Dennette. It’s Bill.”
My insides turned over at the sound of his voice. “Hey,” I said quietly, slipping out of bed and crossing the room to the dining room table. I curled up on one of the chairs with one knee under my chin.
“I’m not calling too late, am I?” he asked.
“No. Not at all.” I didn’t care if he’d called at midnight. It had been years since I’d cared whether a man was interested in me. “I was just reading over the material you gave me. It looks really healthy.”
“Good,” he said. “So you’re going to try it?”
“I think so,” I said. “If I can manage the cooking.”
“If you can read, you can cook,” he said.
“Do you cook much?” I asked.
“I can follow the directions on the back of the box,” he answered, a smile in his voice. “I haven’t poisoned anyone yet.”
“Have you ever tried cooking while your toddler is pretending that your kitchen cabinets are a climbing wall?”
“Aha,” he said. “What you need is some middle school kid to come over some Saturday and entertain your daughter while you cook. Even a sixth grader would do.”
“Now that’s a fantastic idea,” I said. “Do you know any middle schoolers you’re willing to throw into my lion’s den?”
“I might,” he said, teasingly. “Once I’ve had a chance to check out your lion’s den myself.”
I gave an inaudible sigh and snuggled the phone closer to my ear. “Do you always flirt with women this shamelessly?” I asked.
“Nah. I only flirt with the ones I really like.”
“And how many do you really like?” I persisted. It was my turn to tease.
“I’m telling you—and it’s hard to admit it—but I’m only one man with a job and a kid and life. It’s all I can do to handle one woman. I’m not trying to be Super Player.”
I laughed. “Okay, okay.”
“So, listen, what about this Saturday night? If you can get a sitter, would you like to have dinner with me?”
“Sure, I’d like to have dinner with you.”
“Good.” He actually sounded relieved, and I felt such an intense rush of affection that it almost startled me. “Do you want me to pick you up or would you rather meet me somewhere?”
“I can wait in the lobby of my apartment building,” I said. I gave him the address, and then we exchanged cell phone numbers so we could get in touch with each other just in case one of our children got sick or something came up.
“I know how it is when you have something planned and then your kid starts throwing up so you have to stay home,” Bill said.
“I’m glad you understand,” I told him.
“Yeah, I’m glad you can relate,” he replied. “So, I’ll see you Saturday.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” I wasn’t ready to hang up, but I’d said all there was to say.
“Well, good night,” he said, sounding as reluctant as I felt.
“Good night.” I clicked off the phone and gently replaced it in its cradle. I was no longer in the mood to concentrate on planning menus and shopping. I turned off the lamp and let the memory of Bill’s voice cover me like a blanket.
***
By Saturday I had a plan. I’d spend my lunch hours putting together a menu of what looked like the easier dishes to prepare and typing up a shopping list. Foil-Baked Fish, Easy Tacos, Quick Turkey Cutlets, Chicken Soup, Stir-Fry. Plus I thought I’d try some sweets. I knew E.J. would enjoy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and brownies. I was ready to go grocery shopping.
I’d asked my mother to keep E.J. that Saturday morning, and she’d grudgingly assented.
“Why do you need someone to watch E.J.?” she asked. “You’re only going to the grocery store.”
“It’s just easier without her,” I explained, groping around for my patience.
“You’d find her easier to manage if you used a good old-fashioned switch every now and then,” she remarked. “I took you to the grocery store all the time when you were a child.”
I remembered my mother’s good old-fashioned switch, and it was enough to make me vow never to use one on my child. I’d rather swat her with a wooden paddle, but I knew that few punishments were as effective as holding her down in the corner while she howled. She hated time outs.
“You hardly ever took me to the grocery store when I was a child,” I argued. “You always went while I was in school.”
“Well,” she replied smugly, “that’s because I had a husband with a good job and I didn’t have to work.”
“Are you available or not?” I asked, making an attempt to cut this conversation short.
“Of course I’m available for E.J.,” she said. “You can just bring her over when you get up and I’ll feed her breakfast and lunch.”
My mother might be hard to take from time to time, but she always came through when I needed her. I wasn’t, however, foolish enough to ask her to watch E.J. on a Saturday night. I’d get the third degree about who I was seeing, what did Bill did for a living, what kind of car he drove. I knew she wouldn’t approve that I’d met him in the emergency room, that he had a son by a woman he’d never married, that he wasn’t a doctor (although he did work in hospital administration). I wasn’t ready for her to ruin anything that I might be starting with Bill, so I was determined to keep him a secret for as long as I could.
Instead, I called my friend, Lauren, who had enthusiastically agreed to come over and watch E.J. She was one of the few I trusted with my daughter. I felt—horrible as it may sound—that I couldn’t inflict my child on just anyone. Lauren was bringing some new videos for E.J. to watch, and she was ready to dish on my date. I told her everything.
“It’s about time you went out with someone,” she said. “You deserve somebody good.”
So my Saturday was set—the first Saturday I’d looked forward to in a long time. I dropped off E.J. and took myself to Whole Foods Market, the place I figured I’d have the best luck finding all the special food I was looking for. I parked, pulled out my list, and grabbed a cart. When I got inside, however, I could feel an internal battle starting up. My stomach starting cramping and my heart started pounding.
I can’t do this, I thought in a panic. I stared down my list, which was two pages long. I’d never done this much shopping at one time. I wasn’t even sure I had enough money in my bank account to pay for it all. And then I had to cook it all up. No way. No way. I couldn’t do it.
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t go through with my carefully worked out plan. But I couldn’t leave, either. We were out of most of the basics—milk, bread, eggs, and cereal. I needed an exit strategy.
I stuffed the list in my purse and took off. First to produce to get pears, bananas, kiwi, and melons. Then to the basics. I pulled out the Foodlist in the cereal aisle and grabbed a box. Then I scanned the Foodlist for convenience meals. I tossed those in my cart, and then went for beans, rice, pasta, and finally meat. I could always freeze meat. I had know idea what I do with the hodge-podge I’d collected, but as I zoomed through the check out line, I didn’t care. I had two hours before I needed to pick up E.J. and I was going to make the most of it.
I sped home and raced upstairs a few times, dragging bags of groceries with me. As though the apartment were on fire, I raced around and put the perishables away, leaving the rest in bags on the floor. I’d deal with those later. It was as though a part of my brain had been forming Plan B all along without telling me. Without really thinking about it, I grabbed the fat, blue Harry Potter book I’d been meaning to read for a month and ran out the door. Then I jumped in my car and fled to IHOP, where I lost myself in the magical world while enjoying French toast and sausages. Motherhood is tough, I told myself when my virtuous side started throwing guilt darts. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing like a healthy dose of fat, sugar, and a good fantasy novel to balance out the trials of parenthood. I’d burn off the calories chasing E.J.
I was calm when I arrived at my mother’s. E.J. was parked in front of the television with a plastic cup of pudding in her lap watching Wonder Pets. Her cornrows that I’d carefully braided to curl around her neck were gone, replaced by a sleek, shiny ponytail of perfect round curls.
“Mom, what have you done to E.J.’s hair,” I asked evenly.
“I took her over to Laura’s to get her hair done,” my mother answered casually, as if we hadn’t argued for years over whether to straighten E.J.’s hair.
“But I didn’t want to have her hair done,” I said, clutching desperately at my patience. “I like her hair the way it is.”
My mother gave me a condescending smile. “Just because E.J. got your nappy hair doesn’t mean she has to go around in those ghetto braids.”
“Ghetto braids?” This came out a little louder and more aggressive than I’d meant.
“I notice you take the time to get your hair done,” she said. “Why not spend a little effort on your daughter?”
“I do spend some effort on my daughter.” I tried not to clench my teeth while keeping my voice down. “I would just appreciate it if you would check with me before you take her to the hair salon.”
“It’s just a hard press. You can wash it out as soon as you get home if it bothers you that much. I just thought she’d appreciate having a pretty hairstyle for a change.”
She knew good and well I wasn’t about to go through the trouble of washing and braiding up E.J. hair. And it could have been worse. She could have had Laura put a kiddie perm in.
“How was your shopping trip?” my mother asked. “Did you get everything you needed?”
“Oh, yes. I got everything I needed,” I said truthfully. I went over to E.J. “Come on, sweetheart, it’s time to go.”
“No, Mommy, I’m watching,” she said absently, around the plastic spoon in her mouth. I looked at the television. The Wonder Pets were saving the baby tree. With a sigh, I sat down on the hassock next to her. “I’ll finish this one with you and then we have to go.”
She slid back and leaned against my legs. I bent over and picked her up and cuddled her against me. She snuggled back and continued licking her spoon, though the pudding was long gone.
“You’ve been such a good girl, E.J., I’ll get you your lollipop,” I heard my mother saying.
E.J. shrieked and wriggled off my lap. “A lollipop! Oh, Grandma, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Mom,” I called, “I thought I told you I was trying to stay away from that stuff.”
“Oh, Dennette, she deserves a treat for being so good with me today. It’s only one.”
“But it might be the lollipop that makes her act up,” I said.
“That’s nonsense,” my mother retorted. “You just need a firmer hand with her, that’s all. She was no trouble at all for me, were you sweetheart? And that bank teller was so nice.”
I watched as she gave E.J. her lollipop and a hug and a kiss. E.J. hugged and kissed her back, tore the wrapper off the bright blue lollipop, and popped it in her mouth. I took advantage of the moment.
“Time to go, darling,” I said, hitching my purse up on my shoulder.
I picked E.J. up in my arms, four year old that she was, just to get her out of the house with a scene. I strapped her in her car seat and pulled out of my mother’s driveway, torn between relief at managing not to give my mother a piece of my mind and the desire to let a out primal scream. E.J. screamed for me.
“I dropped my lollipop,” she wailed.
“Well, I’m driving, baby. I can’t get it for you now.”
“I want my lollipop!” she shrieked. “I want my lollipop, I WANT MY LOLLIPOP, I WANT MY LOLLIPOP!”
I started to hyperventilate. I began desperately feeling around the passenger seat for my Rolling Stones CD. I popped out Laurie Berkner and replaced her with the loudest Mick Jagger I could stand.
“You can’t always get what you want,” I belted out with Mick over E.J.’s screams. She got louder. I got louder. I ignored her and wrapped the music around me, a sort of mental insulation against the tirade in the back seat. By the time we got home, she was asleep.
***
I spent most of the afternoon sleeping on the sofa while E.J. napped in her toddler bed. I only opened up the sofa bed at night. Finally, when I realized that I had only two hours in which to feed E.J. dinner, clean up the apartment, take a shower, and do my hair and makeup, I pulled myself off the sofa to get started. If it had been anyone but Bill, I think I would have cancelled.
Lauren arrived at six o’clock sharp, armed with Candy Land, Geppetto, and The Lion King 1½.
“One and a half?” I asked her, amused.
“Don’t ask,” she grinned, setting down her bags.
“So what’s Mike doing tonight?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, I don’t know. Going out with the guys to a strip joint,” she shrugged.
I smirked at her.
“Probably they’re going bowling, if they go anywhere. They might just end up sitting around and watching movies and drinking.”
E.J. sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she spied Lauren, let out a yell of delight, and bolted out of bed for a tackle hug. “Hey, sweetie.” She looked at me. “She’s just getting up from her nap? Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said. “She wore herself out throwing a fit on the way home from my mother’s.”
I pulled the fish sticks out of the freezer and began laying them out in the pan. “She’s having beans and rice and fish sticks and broccoli,” I told Lauren. “And you’re welcome to have some, too, if you haven’t already eaten.”
“You always give her such healthy stuff,” Lauren said.
“Girl, please,” I retorted. “She gets enough McDonald’s and Wendy’s during the week. The least I can do is give her something healthy once in a while.” I had to stifle a pang of guilt over the morning’s escapade in Whole Foods Market.
“No, really, Dennette, you do okay,” she said. “Listen, you jump in the shower and make yourself gorgeous for this guy.”
I gave a sigh and a smile and drifted off to the bathroom.
An hour later I was dressed in my black, with my hair up, having spent twenty minutes on my makeup. I saw in the mirror the pretty girl I used to be, before all the sleep deprivation and stress had taken over my life. I made a mental note to make an effort to look my best more often. It was good for my morale.
E.J. hugged me and said, “Mommy, you look delicious.”
Lauren just gave me a push. “Get outta here and have some fun,” she ordered. I shut the door and went downstairs, my heart beating a trifle faster than normal.
I waited by the front door for ten minutes before Bill showed up. I was squinting into the Honda that had pulled up to see if it was him, when he got out. I stepped out of the door to the apartment building, and he opened the passenger door for me. He was dressed in a dark gray suit with a blue shirt, all of which fit him perfectly. My breath came a little faster at the sight of him.
He looked at me for a moment without saying anything. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Wow, Dennette. You look beautiful.”
I felt my cheeks burn. “Thanks,” I said softly. “You look really nice, too.” I got in the car, and he gently closed the door. In a moment, he’d got in the driver’s seat and was pulling off.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“That depends on you. Would you like Italian, Mexican, or Thai?”
“Thai sounds nice.”
“Then Thai it is.” He pulled out of the parking lot. “How was your day?”