The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell Read online

  “It’s hard to explain, Lexie,” I tell her as I finish affixing the squirming toddler’s diaper to his squishy bottom.

  “Can you try?” she probes as I lift Evan from the changing table and set him down on the floor. His diaper falls off and he pees on my foot. Groaning, I reach for a towel to mop up my foot while thinking, there goes my perfect score.

  “Mom?” Lexie is still standing there waiting for my detailed explanation on why hormones make women want to stab someone or bawl their eyes out. My head is throbbing. Evan squats on the floor and poops on the rug.

  “No, Lexie. I can’t. Not right now. Later. Go get ready for school,” I hiss with aggravation as I reach for some baby wipes and quickly throw a diaper on the baby.

  “But I have to shower!” she howls as I pull a onsie over Evan’s head. Tears are forming in Lexie’s stormy eyes and I can see the dam is ready to burst. Her lip quivers as she indignantly stomps off towards her room. I am met by another slamming door. Another teenager in the works. Perfect.

  I suck in my breath as I tell myself, it’s just a phase, it’s just a phase. The problem is, all of my kids are going through a phase.

  I sling Evan on my hip and quickly pad out into the hall. Peeking into Allie’s room, I can see that her shade is down and curtains closed.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize that Jason was not peering into my teenaged daughter’s bedroom after all.

  I’m so relieved that I don’t even consider what he was actually looking at.

  ~NINE~

  A week later, it is a crisp and clear fall morning. Typical Indian summer days will most likely follow in the next few weeks, but for now, I have to fight the kids to wear jackets on mornings like this. This particular morning, it is 45 degrees and sunny, so the kids are under the impression that sun equals warm. It is on this day that I will be making fateful Mistakes #5, #6 and #7. Which are probably the most important ones.

  This morning as I sent the kids off to school, Allie was sulking because she claimed she has a headache and wanted to stay home. Roger dragged her to the car, muttering that he was late for a meeting, leaving me with Lexi chattering excitedly about her class trip to the police station and Colt kicking the back of my seat the whole ride to school.

  After I pull into the parking lot of the elementary school, Lexie flies out of the car, practically slamming the door in her brother’s face while he reluctantly attempts to climb out of the God forsaken minivan. He is not a happy camper this morning.

  “What’s the matter, Colt?” I ask as his hand is poised on the car door handle. I crane around to look at him and notice that Evan is passed out in his car seat. Typical. The kid manages to fit his cat naps in while I am driving a car and unable to do anything else with my time.

  Colt slumps dramatically against the seat. I wonder if he has been taking lessons from his sisters. Soon, he’ll be swooning.

  “I wish Sean was in my school,” he tells me. “Allie’s lucky that Sean is in her school. She can see him whenever she wants.”

  I’m pretty sure Allie did not consider herself lucky. She clearly detested Sean, a fact she made no qualms about. Every time she saw him at our kitchen table doing homework with Colt or prancing around the backyard pretending to be whatever cartoon character Colt wanted him to be, she would roll her eyes and suck her teeth with annoyance. Allie made it perfectly clear that she was not interested in a friendship of any sort with Sean. I thought we had taught her to be understanding of the differences in people, but apparently, impressing Victoria with her lack of tolerance was much more important than being a nice person.

  At least, I think we did an okay job with Colt as evidenced by his desire to have his friend in school with him. He doesn’t care that Sean is a little on the odd side or he is more than twice his age.

  I try to reason with my son. “Colt, I’m glad you enjoy playing with Sean and all, but I’m sure there are plenty of children in your class that are just as fun as Sean...”

  “No,” Colt interrupts. “There’s nobody in my school who wants to play with me at recess.”

  My heart instantly sinks.

  “What makes you think nobody wants to play with you?” I ask, doubt creeping into my voice. Colt had a tendency, as did the rest of my children, to err on the side of exaggeration. I am hoping that this is one of those instances.

  “Because Jimmy told all the other kids that I’m a dork because I play with Sean,” Colt scoffs, as he resumes kicking the back of my car seat.

  My blood begins to boil. Jimmy is the kid next door. The son of Cammi, of fake boob fame. Damn Jimmy! I guess he felt slighted when Colton was playing with Sean all the time.

  I climb out of the car, open Colt’s door and crouch near his feet. “Listen buddy,” I crone soothingly as I pat his bruised and battered six year old boy knee. “I will talk to Jimmy’s mother about this and see if maybe there is a way you and Jimmy and Sean could all play together at home and then Jimmy would be nicer.”

  I doubt that this will be the case, though. For a first grader, Jimmy is quite the jerk. He is a spoiled brat of an only child who is used to getting his way and everyone catering to him. And I am not too fond of his bimbo mother, either, but I’m certainly not going to share that with my six year old who desperately needs to get out of the car now. I can hear the first bell ringing in the distance. If he doesn’t get his butt into school before the late bell, I will have to drag Evan’s slumbering body out of the car and sign him in. Which, from past experience I can tell you is a royal pain in the ass.

  “Really?” Colt asks, eyes brightening. “That’s great, Mommy!” He unbuckles his seatbelt, snatches up his back pack and bounds out of the car. I watch as he skips over to his class line, happily swinging his back pack; the picture of innocence.

  Pleased that I have solved at least one of my children’s dilemmas for the mean time, I climb back into my car and notice Laura rushing towards the playground with the triplets and twins in tow. I offer her a friendly wave and call out to her in greeting. Her face colors as she sees me and she tucks her head down towards her chest after offering me a half-hearted wave.

  My heart sinks in my chest. This is not the Laura I know. What have I done to offend my friend?

  After the sleepover incident, I tried several times to contact Laura. My calls went unanswered and my texts went unread. Normally, I would think she was just busy, but her behavior now in the parking lot has caused me to believe that she is flat out avoiding me.

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I wait for Laura to pass by again, thankful that Evan is sleeping. It is quite a few minutes before she returns, her head covered by her hoodie.

  “Laura!” I call out and I see her glance around anxiously.

  “Oh, hey, Amy. Didn’t see you there,” she chuckles nervously as she steps closer to my vehicle. Liar, liar pants on fire.

  “Hey,” I greet her as she is about three feet away. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Laura responds, twisting a curl around her finger. “It’s just been crazy, you know?” She glances at me hopefully, as if I’m going to let this whole thing go. I’m not.

  “Listen, about Allie and Kaitlyn…I’m sure it’ll blow over soon. I’ll try to talk to her again and-”

  Laura cuts me off. “It’s fine, Amy. Actually, I’d rather you not.” Her chest puffs out slightly and she twists her curl harder. I know this pose. It’s Defensive Laura. It’s the same stance she adopts when confronted by her mother in law.

  “Uh, what?” I am confused.

  Laura releases her curl and it springs back so hard that it nearly hits her in the face. “Maybe it’s better the girls go their separate ways.”

  I am stunned. She could have smacked me across the face with a frying pan just then and I would not have even flinched. She wasn’t only saying “the girls should go their separate ways”. She was saying “we should go our separate ways”.

  “What do
es that mean?” I nearly cry.

  Laura inhales sharply. “I’m just thinking, maybe Allie isn’t the best influence for Kait right now. She’s very impressionable and Allie is a bit domineering.”

  My jaw nearly hits the car door. “What?” I ask incredulously. “What?”

  Laura glances at her cell. “Listen, I’ve got a hair appointment. I’ll talk to you later,” she remarks abruptly as she dashes away from my car.

  Tears trickle down my face on my drive back to the house. I am replaying my conversation with Laura in my head and wondering why she all of a sudden doesn’t want Kaitlyn around Allie. It all comes back to my daughter’s behavior of late.

  I am seriously concerned as I ponder what to do about Allie. She isn’t allowing me privy to any of her thoughts and feelings and I feel like I am losing my grip on her. I guess if I think back on it, I probably wasn’t too open with my mother when I was that age either. In fact, I am not too open with her right now. But that’s different. I was a huge disappointment to her my whole life. Although she would never come out and say that in so many words, I am certain that she would have liked if I were more like Beth. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even mind another daughter like Joey. Just anyone but talentless, dumb old Amy.

  My car phone begins to ring and I check the radio panel to see who is calling. I groan inwardly as the name and number came up. Speak of the devil…

  “Hello, Beth,” I remark as I pull onto my street. Hopefully this will be a quick and painless conversation. Maybe she just wants to tell me that she is moving to Alaska. Or having a personality transplant. I just can’t deal with her today.

  “Ameeeeee!” my sister screeches from the other end of the phone. I cringe at the sound of her voice. I know that voice. It is Beth’s version of Amy, you’ve fucked up again.

  “What, Beth?” I ask as I navigate the minivan of misery into my driveway.

  “Do you know what Colt taught Andrew?” My sister’s voice continues to shriek from the car speakers.

  Maybe how to be a real boy? I am tempted to say, but I bite my tongue to prevent the words from slipping out. “I don’t know, Beth. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  I glare at Evan, telepathically willing him to wake up so I can have an excuse to get out of the car and end the conversation with Miss Perfect. I have a feeling this was going to be one of those long heart to heart chats with my sister that I detest.

  “He taught him a curse word, Amy. A very bad curse word.” I can almost hear Beth’s heart palpitating with fury. I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a laugh. Beth and I have completely different views on kids cursing. Beth feels that it is completely barbaric for anyone to curse and children should be practically whipped to death if they should utter any of the words she deems as foul. Including, but not limited to, moron, idiot or stupid. Yes, stupid is on her list of curse words.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not in favor of potty mouthed children, however, my thinking is that it would be quite hypocritical if I yell at my kids for cursing when both their father and I have mouths like a sailor on shore leave. I don’t encourage cursing per se, but I think chasing a kid around with a bar of soap because he said shit is a huge waste of my time.

  “What did he say?” I ask my sister, exasperation creeping into my voice.

  There is a pause on the other end of the line before Beth stammers, “Well, he didn’t actually say anything…”

  What? I am becoming increasingly annoyed; she’s wasting my precious car phone minutes. “Then what the hell are you talking about, Beth? Could you get to the point?” I purposely throw hell in there, proud that I have refrained from saying fuck. After all, I don’t want to be responsible for her heart attack.

  “He wrote in his diary that Colt had taught him a bad word. And then…he wrote the word out!” my sister manages to gasp out. I can almost envision her clutching her chest, smelling salts nearby in case she should get the vapors.

  His diary? Really? The words are out of my mouth before I can censor myself. “Diary?”

  I hear Beth sigh with exasperation. “Yes. His journal. His therapist thinks it would help him with his issues of separation anxiety if he writes down his innermost thoughts and feelings,” Beth retorts with an air of defensiveness.

  “He has a therapist?” I repeat incredulously. The kid is 7, what the hell does he need a therapist for? Then I reflect on the fact Beth is his mother and that actually accounted for a lot. In fact, I am pretty sure that his anxiety issues might be solved if she would stop smothering the poor kid to death. She is the epitome of a helicopter parent. I’m almost certain he didn’t need her to check after every time he pooped to make sure he had wiped properly.

  “Yes, Amy,” my sister replies. I could tell it is through clenched teeth.

  “So his therapist told you he wrote in his journal that Colt taught him a bad word?” I am desperately trying to piece this puzzle together before the Onstar prerecorded lady interrupts to tell me I only have a minute left before they need to charge my credit card again. On the other hand, maybe that won’t be so bad…

  “No, Amy,” Beth scoffs in her sometimes you are so dense, Amy voice. “That violates confidentiality.”

  “Ok, whatever. How do you know then?” I snap back as I hear a noise from the back seat. Evan is starting to stir.

  “Well, I read it, of course,” Beth answers in a matter of fact tone. “How else would I know what’s going on in his life if I didn’t read the journal?”

  “What? I thought the journal was supposed to be for his innermost thoughts and feelings?” I accuse. Now who was the bad mommy? Why I would never…

  And suddenly, a brilliant idea is born in the recesses of my twisted mind.

  “I’ve got to go, Beth!” I remark hastily as I end the call with a press of a button. I turn to a now awake Evan and remark, “Mama’s got some spying to do.”

  ~

  I am not exactly proud of what happened next because this is where Mistake #5 starts. As I child, my mother had snooped through my diary on a regular basis, causing me to actually use a decoy diary at one point in my teenage years. It was embarrassing to think my intimate thoughts were being violated by my mother, a woman whom I felt would never understand the pain and agony of being a teenager. At the time I was pretty sure she was an alien who had been born at age 25. And in all likelihood, my heartfelt emotions and secrets were being shared with all of my mother’s bridge playing hens and quite possibly, my father. Imagine the mortification I experienced when Mrs. Young asked me if I was having any luck with that adorable Anthony Everest. In front of my friends, including Anthony’s younger sister, Stella. Oh yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever live that down. In fact, when I saw Stella at our 10 year high school reunion, she jabbed me in the ribs to tell me her brother was single again. I just about prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. So needless to say, I swore up and down that if and when I had a daughter I would never, ever read her diary.

  But that was before my daughter started blowing off her best friend, hanging out with a whole new crowd, and refusing to speak to me. I have to know if she is all right. What if she’s doing drugs or sleeping around? Wouldn’t I be a worse mother if I didn’t spy on her and left her to her privacy? And technically, I wouldn’t be reading her diary…just snooping around her bedroom.

  All these thoughts swirl through my head as I have my hand on the doorknob of Allie’s bedroom. The door is locked of course, but I am one step ahead of her on that. I have already retrieved the screwdriver that we keep in the kitchen drawer for emergencies. Within seconds, I have the door open.

  How does she get in here if she locks it before she goes to school? I muse briefly as I step into my once darling baby girl’s bedroom. Posters of heavily pierced rock stars making obscene gestures with their crotches and tongues grace the walls that had once been pink with white hearts and purple flower cling-ons. I shake my head in disgust as I catch the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke
lingering on the carpet. That putrid smell permeates so deep that no amount of air freshener will get it out as I know from personal experience. I spent many an hour on my hands and knees scrubbing the surfaces of my bedroom when I was Allie’s age.

  Well, I was older, I remind myself. This is ridiculous. Thirteen is too young for the crap she is pulling. If she’s smoking what else could she be doing? Selling her body for drugs? Building a meth lab in the garage?

  When my mother snooped in my diary, I was pretty much innocent at the time. The worst thing in the damn diary was my crush on Stella’s brother. Heck, my mother had no right snooping for something that benign. It wasn’t like I was planning to elope with the kid or anything.

  I am mentally justifying my snooping as I run my hand along the edge of the dresser and pick up about a half an inch of dust. Damn you, Allie! You promised me you were cleaning your room!

  When she was about three years old, Allie had been diagnosed with asthma. One day after running around in the backyard, she started coughing and wheezing and gasping for air. Of course, I rushed her to the emergency room, fearing the worst. They gave her oxygen and the doctor prescribed a whole host of meds to get her asthma under control. As a fairly new mother with a newborn baby at home, I had flipped out. The doctor reassured me that Allie’s condition was not terribly serious, but that I needed to keep her sleeping area clean and free of dust and pet dander. I had been busting my butt for the last ten years doing just that, until Allie had forbid me to set foot on her turf any longer. She swore up and down, while rolling her eyes, I might add, that she would clean her room herself. She dutifully dragged the vacuum into her room every Saturday and I definitely would hear it running, but who’s to say that she was actually pushing it around her bedroom?

  Now that I think about it, I realize that her asthma has been acting up over the last few months. It is probably because she wasn’t cleaning her room. And also the smoking. Can’t forget about the smoking, Amy.