She clearly doesn’t know how kids work.
“Mommy needs a new bra,” Crew yawns.
Thanks a lot, Maddie.
“Pick one,” Maddie says, holding up two bras, both bright colored and lacy. The exact opposite of what I own.
“I don’t want to,” I say, pushing her hands away. I already feel uncomfortable being in the one store in the mall I usually avoid.
Maddie’s eyes soften and she puts both bras back on the rack before turning to me. “I know it’s been a hard four and a half years. You are a beautiful woman and deserve someone who is willing to stick around. But no one will be sticking around with those saggy things. It’s time to move on.” She picks up the bras again. “Which one?”
Maybe she’s right. My old bras are worn in, to the point of falling apart, but comfortable. I’ve let myself get too comfortable.
Moving on isn’t theworstidea.
“Black.” I reach for one off the rack beside her and carry it to the changing room. I close the door and take off my shirt. I own a total of two bras, one gray, and one pink, but they’ve both faded so much over the years I’m not sure which one I’m wearing.
I take off the old bra and attempt to stuff myself into a new one.
The metal digs into my ribcage, and my breasts bulge at every opportunity. Ouch. Moving on hurts.
“I hate this one.” I call over the door. “It’s too tight and too small.”
“I’ll get another,” Maddie says.
I look in the mirror, sizing up every imperfection. My hair hasn’t been highlighted or trimmed since before I had Crew, and the scraggly waves nearly touch my hips. There are bags under my eyes the size of China and is that… I lean forward. Yes. There it is. A worry line right between my brows. No doubt from the nights I stay up late finishing work to make sure I’ll have enough money for tomorrow’s necessities. Sometimes I think the only successful thing I do as a mother is worry. Now I’ve got the proof.
I’m only twenty-four, but I’m also a mom. I’ve heard it adds ten years. Or was it ten pounds?
Society can try to convince me to sit in an ice chamber or eat my placenta all they want, but there’s no cure for the aging motherhood invokes.
“Try these,” Maddie hollers before launching several different bras over the changing room door. Then she finds a Spider-Man show on her phone to keep Crew in one place.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve finally settled on two suitable bras that I’ll never have an occasion to wear. And Maddie frees me from the dressing room while she purchases the ridiculously priced undergarments.
“I want a hambooger,” Crew says and I smile at his mispronunciation. His made-up words are the cutest, even if sometimes no one can understand him but me. Ice is called a snow rock. Parking garages are car caves. Heaven forbid I leave the “handles“—aka crusts—on when I make him a sandwich.
“I’ll get you one when we are done,” I promise, guiding him left out of the store instead of toward the food, but he pulls back and I nearly topple over him.
The kid is growing on me. Literally. Soon I won’t be able to pick him up.
“No!” He goes limp, falling to the ground in the middle of the crowded walkway. “I want one now! I’m hungry!”
Several people stare and I shrink under their silent criticism.
“If you are good while we shop with Maddie, I’ll get you one,” I say.
“But you got something.” He kicks at my bag.
“That’s different honey. I needed a bra.” I would rather have a hamburger.
“I want a bra too!
Maddie snorts and I shoot her a “you’re not helping” glare.
“You won’t get anything if you don’t listen right now.” Now I’m threatening him, which is the extent of my parenting knowledge.
He cries and I look and feel like a terrible mother. Awesome.
