Mental-Pause

The magnetic bumper sticker on the back of my mini-van sums up my life perfectly—I used to be cool. Before the onset of middle-aged spread, stretch marks and deflated breasts. Before, I found a need for clinical deodorant, feminine powder, and triple-blade razors. Before, I started crying at dishwasher detergent commercials and then ranting because, “How come a man can’t put the damn detergent in the washer?” “Why does it always have to be a woman?”

The commercial still haunts me as I walk with my two offspring on each arm while trying to keep my purse on my shoulder. I used to be cool.

Mackenzie and Aaron don’t get my bumper sticker. Before I placed it on the van on the day I bought it, I caught them playing frisbee with the sticker outside the garage. All hell broke loose when I saw the symbolism of my life flying through the air and landing next to a pile of dog poop in the yard. My life had literally gone to shit. Once they saw the enraged look on my face, they jumped on their bikes, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my life.

We walk into the concert hall of Summit Pointe Middle School, where Aaron will perform with the sixth-grade orchestra. Aaron has a solo. It’s more like three cello players who will play together for ten seconds of the last song on the program. So that counts. When I post
his performance on Instagram, it’ll be a solo. Aaron will sound like a child prodigy. Absent will be the painful, piercing, gut-wrenching, high-pitched wince of some cackling animal, neither foreign nor domestic. A sixth-grade orchestra concert is pure torture. There’s no other
way to describe it. Nevertheless, I bend over, give Aaron a kiss on his cheek, and wish him luck. Aaron tugs at my checkered-patterned dress.

“Mama, Mackenzie stole my retainer.”
“What? Oh, honey, why would she take your retainer? That doesn’t even sound like something she would do.”
“She took it. I saw her!”
“No, I didn’t!”
Oh, God, this is so not the suburban way to be!

“Five, four, three, two…If I get to one, it won’t be pretty. Aaron go. Mackenzie, let’s find a seat…now!”
Aaron slowly makes his way to the stage. Mackenzie stomps her seven-year-old feet. Her glow-in-the-dark tennis shoes light up.

“Mama…”
“Not another word. What did I just say?”

Just as we take our seats, the tacos I ate earlier hit me from both ends: acid reflux and gas. Who ordered the combo? I’m about to let loose when I see Stan, my ex-husband, rush in. Yes, I’m a divorcee, another strike against me.

“Mama, I have to go the bathroom,” Mackenzie utters.
“Ok, honey.”

Stan sits next to me. The smell of his cologne makes me gag, but it does mask the smell of my passing gas. Exit Mackenzie. Enter miserable small talk.

“So, how have you been, Deborah?”
“Fine, Stan, and you?”

I have no idea what he says after that because, at this moment, the “robo” moms enter the concert hall and make their way up to the front row. Any mother who lives in the suburbs can instinctively spot “robo” moms. It doesn’t matter if they are Black, white, stay-at-home moms or flexible-scheduled, perfectly synced-calendar-user ones. They all have one thing in common—they up the mom game exponentially. And just when you think you’ve finally caught up to them, they raise the bake sale bar. No one can out-yoga, out-gym, out-cook, out-hair, out-clean, out-car, out-clothe or out-extracurricular them. I swear a spotlight shines down on them when they sit down. Mrs. Neil takes the stage and smiles, looking way too happy to be teaching strings to middle school students.

Mackenzie returns and lays her curls on my shoulder—instant sweat. I stay like this until the last shrill of strings. I nearly toss Mackenzie to the floor as I stand up and clap. More gas.

“Parents, don’t forget. There are cookies and punch right outside the concert hall. Please stay and enjoy the refreshments,” Mrs. Neil says. Shit.

I’m a gassy, sweaty mess as we walk the few feet to the outer hallway. Mackenzie grabs my hand.

“Ugh, why is your hand so sweaty.” She wipes her hand on her jeans and frowns.

I shoot her the universal mama look. She turns to talk to her father, who no doubt is ready to leave, too. The “robo” mom’s step to me. I cringe. “Hello, ladies,” I say. I manage a smile as I pat my dripping face with a napkin. I need to invest in a portable fan.

“Hello, Deborah, we missed you at last night’s parents’ meeting.”
“I’m so sorry I missed it.”
“Well, you did get the e-newsletter, didn’t you?” Sip.
“Would you excuse me, please,” I say.

As I walk away, I see something floating at the bottom of the punch bowl—little indentations of teeth along clear plastic and wire. Paper cups pressed against tiny lips and adult mouths. The “robo” moms. I catapult back to where Mackenzie is and pull her away.

“Mackenzie, did you take Aaron’s retainer?”
“Answer me! Did you take Aaron’s retainer?”
She nods her head.
“And where did you put it?”
She points to the bowl. “I dropped it in there. He called me a big baby.”

I stand there, cemented to the floor. What do I do? I can’t dump it out and announce that my kid’s retainer is at the bottom of the punch bowl, and they are drinking the remnants of his spit and probably some mucus, too. I also can’t put my hand inside the bowl to retrieve his
retainer. Things Not to Do in a Suburban School While Black. And how come there are no men in detergent commercials? I have no choice. I lift my head, grab my kids, and walk outside. Tomorrow, I will call the dentist and make an appointment for a new mouthguard.

I used to be cool.