“Mommy, why are you sweating?”
I mop my damp brow with the sleeve of my youngest son’s coat.
Think of something to say….quickly!
Me: “Um, my coffee is making me hot, honey.”
This white lie satisfies the Interrogator. He smiles at me, leans against my arm and looks back down at the book he’s holding.
“I’m telling you, it happens. It happens all the time. It could happen to you and B&B too.”
Please change the subject. Before I start hyperventilating on top of my sweating.
The barber continues cutting the Kenyan’s hair.
Kenyan: “What could happen?”
Barber: He stops cutting and smiles, eyes wide, at my son’s reflection, “Twins could happen.”
Waldorf: Looking at me, “Mommy, I thought you and Daddy said you’re not having any more kids. I thought you said 4 kids is already too many kids.”
Me: “It is too many kids, honey. We’re not having any more kids.”
Barber: Smiling at my reflection in the mirror, “I know couples who thought they were finished. Men who spent a weekend with frozen peas on their cojones. 3 years later…twins.”
Interrogator: Looking up at me again, “Mom, what are cojones?”
Me: “Balls. Cojones are balls.”
Interrogator: “Wait a minute! I have balls.”
Kenyan: “Oh my God! THAT would be cold.”
Verb: Jumps up and points at his jewels, “These are mine balls, Mom! And here is mine penis!”
Waldorf: “Wait, why would a man put frozen peas on his balls?”
Me: “Yes, Interrogator, you have balls. Kenyan, gosh, please use gosh. Yes, Verb, those are your balls and penis, very good. Now sit back down. Waldorf, a man puts frozen peas on his balls after he gets hit there with a soccer ball.”
Interrogator: “I don’t want to play soccer, Mom. Don’t make me play.”
I deliver a piercing glare to the barber’s reflection in the mirror.
Proud of yourself?
He smiles back at my reflection and whispers, “Twins!”
Me: Leafing through Men’s Health because my kids’ barber doesn’t have In Style, “Did you hear Ralph’s is open on Mondays? I’d love to take my kids to get a haircut on a Monday.”
He stops smiling and whispers, “Touché.”
He resumes his clipping and I resume my counting.
How many days has it been? I wrote it on the dry erase board, but B&B leaned up against it and erased it. Damnit. Damnit. Goddammit.
I look at my phone. Text from B&B:
“Hey, gorgeous, I know you have all the boys today, but could you please go to the liquor store and pick up a bottle of that wine your Mom likes? I told her I’d get one for her. And I’m swamped.”
I release an enormous sigh. I still have to take these idiots to the grocery store. Now the liquor store too?
I reply to B&B:
“Fine. I’ll get the wine. But the liquor store is my least favorite place to go when I have all four kids. Please file that in your mental rolodex. Also, your sperm better be fucking dead. I am not joking.”
“You’re the greatest, thanks. I had my vasectomy 3 years ago. My sperm are fucking dead. Don’t worry.”
“Well, you may want to inform your barber. Who is announcing to me and your children that your sperm are not dead, and that I’m in fact going to get pregnant. With twins.”
“I know it’s a long day with the boys. I hope it goes by quickly. I appreciate all you do for them. You’re a great Mom. I will be home around 6:30. Then you’ll have the break you deserve. I love you!”
Blah, blah, and blah.
I’m still counting. And sweating.
Next stop is the liquor store. I pull into the parking lot, put the car in park, lock the doors, and turn around to look at all four of my kids. The Verb smiles. The Kenyan makes a silly face. The Interrogator looks at me inquisitively. Waldorf’s the first to speak.
Waldorf: “Uh, Mommy? Is there a reason why you are just staring at us?”
Me: “Yes. I need everyone’s attention. Are you all listening?”
Me: “Good. We are about to walk into that liquor store. It contains very fragile bottles. I am going to put the Verb into the stroller, “
The Verb cuts me off with a scream, “NO! I want to walk!”
Interrogator: “How come HE always gets to go in the stroller? I’m tired from getting a haircut. I want to go in the stroller. But I don’t want to be buckled, Mom. Only babies are buckled.”
I look at them all again, “I’ll wait. We’ll sit here through lunch. Through dessert. Through your afternoon snack. Through all of your favorite TV shows. Through..”
Verb: “Oh, find, I’ll go in the stroller.” Find=fine.
You bet your ass you will.
Me: “And, I want all hands either in pockets or on the stroller handles. Where do I want hands?”
“In pockets or on the stroller handles.”
I make eye contact with Waldorf who I sense is on the cusp of asking if he can put his hands in the Kenyan’s pockets. I shoot him a look…Mommy ain’t playin’
Me: “Good. Let’s do it.”
I struggle through the liquor store door with my entourage of fools, each of them itching to ditch me and hide from one another behind stacks of expensive bottles containing the nectar of the gods.
We head straight for the red wine. I scan the shelf and attempt to engage the older three, “Boys, look for the word ‘Four’. We need to find a bottle of wine with the name that starts with ‘Four’, OK?”
The Kenyan locates it, uses his elbow to point it out (since his hands remain in his pockets), and I grab it and head with my wingmen to the register.
I know the guy who is working the register. I’m not even a regular customer. I stop here maybe five times a year. But this bastard has a steel trap for a memory. I hope he has the common sense not to bring it up in front of my kids.
“Well, look who it is…the lady with the brilliant suggestion!”
Me: Smiling, “Hi. Just this today please.”
He takes his time scanning the bottle, looks at the label, nods, then looks at all of my kids.
Liquor guy: To my kids, “You boys helping Mom today?”
My kids look at him. Half of them nod their heads and the other half pick their noses.
Liquor guy: To me, “No wonder you made that suggestion. Four kids?” He whistles.
Me: “It was a valid suggestion. Ingenious really. I see you haven’t put it in place.”
Liquor guy: “Condoms at the register? I thought you were joking.”
Me: “Does this,” I wave my arms over the group of small boys that form a barrier between me and the register, “look like a joke to you?”
The 20 something kid in line behind me chimes in…
“Condoms at the register? Dude! That would be clutch! Save me a trip.”
Me: Looking at the kid, “Thank you,” Looking at the register guy, “SEE?” Looking back at the kid, “I suggested it TEN YEARS ago. HE thought I was joking. Now look at this mess I’m in.”
Interrogator: “Mommy, what’s a condom?”
Me: “It’s a rubber glove.”
We exit the liquor store with the sound of their laughter trailing behind us.
Selling condoms at the register of the liquor store is a brilliant idea. Because sometimes when you get drunk…you get pregnant.
Next stop…the Acme. We pull into the parking lot. I’m in a full sweat again. Not because I have all the kids with me. Not because I’m mentally drained from the barber shop and the liquor store stops.
I’m sweating because I fear there’s a very real possibility I am pregnant.
We pour out of the minivan and I load the younger two into a mac daddy cart with a fire engine in front.
As soon as we cross the threshold, the Kenyan and Waldorf are sprinting toward the pretzels and donuts. The younger two escape their car and run after their older brothers.
This is a disaster in the making. I should really just leave right now. Collect my kids, turn around, and leave. But I can’t. I have to get a stupid pregnancy test. Goddamn B&B and his fucking sperm.
I dole out donuts, hoping they’ll be mistaken for “lunch”. At the very least, their full mouths should make it difficult to speak. Give my ears a little break and allow me to digest this potential nightmare.
Verb: “Mom…MOM! I want that one! That balloon! That one! THAT ONE!”
Mother of GOD, the lungs on this kid.
I grab the balloon at which he points and tie it to his nasty steering wheel.
Me: “We are not buying this balloon. We are borrowing it while we are shopping. Do you understand?”
Verb: “Yes, Mom, oh, goody, goody, goody, I got a balloon, Interrogator.”
Interrogator: “What? How come I don’t get a balloon? How come HE gets a balloon and I don’t get a balloon?”
Me: “Kenyan, can you please get him a balloon and tie it to his steering wheel?”
The Kenyan ties the balloon, and we continue shopping.
Two aisles later, the Interrogator’s balloon floats past my ear and hits the ceiling.
Interrogator: “That’s not fair! I lost my balloon! I don’t like losing my balloon! It’s not fun losing my balloon! It’s not fair and it’s not good and I don’t like it!”
I look at Waldorf, “Buddy, can you help me out here?”
I assume he’ll understand what I’m asking…and that he’ll get another balloon for his brother.
I assume wrong.
He bends down, unties the Verb’s balloon, it floats past my ear, and it hits the ceiling right next to the Interrogator’s balloon.
Waldorf: Pleased with himself, smiles, looks up, places his hands on his hips, “There. Now nobody has a balloon.”
If I am pregnant, I will LOSE. MY. SHIT. Which is essentially what I do on my kids. Right there in the soup aisle.
I race through the store, eager to finish before their desire for all things sweet eclipses their fear of another of my episodes.
Last stop is the feminine hygiene aisle. I grab the generic pregnancy test kit.
Kenyan: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s a thermometer.”
Waldorf: “Who’s sick?”
I am. Sick of answering these incessant questions.
Me: “Hopefully nobody is sick.”
There is not a chance in hell I am going through the self-checkout lane in my condition. Both the Interrogator and the Verb are still crying. Waldorf is playing grab-ass with the Kenyan who, judging from his loud protests of, “Stop it…STOP IT,” isn’t interested in engaging.
I head to the first open lane and gasp when I see who’s behind the register.
Ray is like my Dad. Well, not really. Ray is black. And I am white. But he is about my Dad’s age. Although he doesn’t know my name. He calls me “young lady”. But we have a relationship. He’s seen me through every one of my four pregnancies. He’s seen me sleepwalking through checkout with a crying newborn. He’s seen that newborn grow into an infant who’s hanging from the front of me in a Baby Bjorn. He’s seen that infant become a toddler who sits in the cart and throws a temper tantrum. He’s watched that toddler’s spot in the cart handed down to a younger brother because that toddler grew into a boy who is in now elementary school. He knows me. He knows my four boys. He knows my story.
Ray looks at me, and his eyes light up with recognition.
Ray: “Well, young lady, what a nice treat.”
Me: Smiling, swallowing over the lump in my throat, “Hi, Ray.”
I place my items on the conveyor belt, burying the pregnancy test in a corner of the cart.
I can’t buy it. Not today. Not in front of Ray.
Ray: “The boys are getting so big, young lady. Very handsome. Very well behaved.”
Now I’m really going to cry. He’s lying about their behavior just to make me feel better.
Me: Whispering, “Thanks, Ray.”
Kenyan: Urgently, “Mommy, you forgot this! You forgot your thermometer! To see if you’re sick!”
I close my eyes. Release a deep breath. Take the box from the Kenyan and, with a shaking hand, give it to Ray.
Me: Like a crack addict…RIP Whitney…who’s just been busted, I whisper, “It’s not mine.”
Ray: Ringing up the pregnancy test, “Oh, it’s none of my business, young lady. But you’re a wonderful mother. Any baby would be lucky to have you.”
And that’s it. That’s all it takes. I start bawling right there in checkout aisle #6.
Me: Through my tears, “Actually, Ray, it IS mine. And my husband had a vasectomy! And I don’t want to have twins. 4 kids is enough…it’s too many! And 6 kids is ENTIRELY TOO MANY! And I don’t know WHAT I’m going to do. I don’t want, twins, Ray. I CAN’T HANDLE TWINS, RAY!!”
Ray steps out from behind his register, walks around the conveyor belt, and wraps his giant arms around me. And I stand blubbering against his navy blue Acme vest, my barrette catching on his nametag.
Ray: “Young lady, there, there, young lady. I tell my wife about you. For years I’ve been telling her. I say, ‘I don’t know how she does it, but she does it. All those boys. And she’s always smiling. Always friendly. Always patient with all of those boys.’ I tell her you’re a wonderful mother. I tell her how lucky your husband and those boys are to have you. You remember that. You’re a wonderful mother. They are all lucky to have you.”
I wipe my eyes and look at my kids. All four of them, faces covered in chocolate from the donuts, are dumbfounded. Gawking at me. They don’t know what to make of my Acme meltdown. I look up at Ray and smile.
Me: “Thanks, Ray. We also had four donuts. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
Ray: Winking, “Those donuts are on your old friend, Ray. You have a wonderful day, young lady.”
I smile my thanks, knowing I’ll resume crying if I attempt to speak.
We drive home. I put a movie on for the kids. Abandoning the grocery bags on the kitchen floor, I race upstairs to the bathroom with my “thermometer”.
I mop my sweaty brow for the second time that day, waiting for the results…
“Please be negative, please be negative, please be negative, please be negative…”
I smile, overcome with relief.
I text B&B:
“I got the wine. And your sperm are dead.”
“I told you they are dead. Thanks for picking up the wine. I’m lucky to have you.”
“You’re welcome. And that’s what Ray says too.”
“Ray is right. My dead sperm and I would love to take you to dinner tonight.”
I shake my head. Incorrigible.
Could be worse. B&B and his living sperm could want to take me to dinner.
I smile and reply:
“My uterus and I happily accept.”