The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell Read online

  Evan and I enter the bathroom just as Colton dashes out like his pants are on fire. He nearly knocks me over in an effort to get out of his father’s reach. Roger is staring after him, swinging a washcloth in the direction of the door.

  “Colt, get your ass back here, now!” Roger shouts. I can hear Colton giggle as he pounds down the steps and out the back door. Roger tosses the washcloth in the sink and shrugs at me, defeated. “He ran away.”

  I snatch the washcloth out of the sink and retort with annoyance, “I see that. You didn’t try very hard.”

  Roger wrinkles up his brow. “Listen, I’m getting too old to be fighting a 5 year old about washing his face…”

  “He’s six,” I snap. “Remember? He turned six last week. This is his birthday party, remember?” I cringe as I try not to dwell on this very sore subject.

  For as long as I could remember, I dreamt of the day Colt turned six. The week after Colt turned six, he was going to school full time; first grade. For the first time in almost 14 years, I was going to get my life back. I was going to be able to fulfill some of the dreams I had abandoned at the side of the road on my trek through motherhood. I was going to take an uninterrupted shower. I was going to finish a cup of coffee before it got cold. I was going to go grocery shopping…alone. I had it planned out from the moment he was born. And then, when he was three and I saw that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, Roger and I went on a romantic weekend mini vacation to Jamaica. A few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with Evan. My getaway car crashed into a pole and knocked that damn light out.

  My best friend Laura laughed at me. I guess she was getting me back for all the times I had laughed at her pregnancy woes. Laura is Allie’s friend Kaitlyn’s mom. We met them on Allie’s first day of kindergarten when Laura was pregnant with twins and I was towing around a toddler. Allie and Kaitlyn have been inseparable ever since. And being a baby factory myself, I was not often able to get out and make friends, so Laura and I kind of stuck together over the years, through her subsequent pregnancy with triplets two years later, the same time I was pregnant with Colt. Yup. Poor woman had six kids in seven years. And I thought my life was rough? Laura had it worse. But she had the last laugh. This year every one of her kids are going to school full time and I still have Evan attached to my hip. That bitch was going to get to shower alone.

  I sigh with melancholy and notice Roger is staring at me. “What?” I challenge, offering no explanation for the far-away look in my eyes.

  Roger just shrugs his shoulders, leaving me to stare after him. I stick out my tongue at his back as he retreats down the stairs. I head into my bedroom, wrangling Evan under my arm. Notice Roger did not even offer to take him.

  As I dump Evan on the bed and reach for the handle of the closet door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror. Whoever had the brilliant idea to place a mirror on the closet door should be shot. My free hand subconsciously grazes my well-padded abdomen. It used to be flat once upon a time.

  I sigh heavily as I pull on my “fancy” sundress and grimace at how stretched out it is. The material is nearly threadbare and hanging in my chest area from Evan grabbing at it with his hands while I was weaning him off my boobs. I make a mental note to go shopping for some new clothes. Yeah. Maybe when school starts Laura and I can drop the kids off and have a shopping date…

  Then, I remind myself that I just dropped a cool grand on school clothes for the kids and decide against shopping for myself. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a martyr.

  Not that Roger would even notice if I bought some new things, nor would he likely care. I am in charge of the bills, so I’m sure I could finagle a new dress or two. But it really isn’t worth the hassle of dragging Evan out to the store with me. Even if I lock him in the dressing room, he always escapes. For a kid who can barely walk, he’s extremely stealthy. Last time I tried to buy a pair of jeans, I was half stuck in them when he crawled underneath the dressing room door. I ran around the store climbing under the racks with jeans around my ankles trying to retrieve him. I’m pretty sure if you google that, there’s a You Tube video of it.

  I pull the sundress over my head and wriggle into it, avoiding all contact with the vicious mirror next to me. Instead, I spy Evan sucking on the remote control that he found tangled in the sheets.

  “No!” I yelp as I reach for it. He has already eaten the 1, 6 and 9 off of our remote in the family room. Thinking I am playing a delightful game with him, he holds the remote out of my reach. I lunge for it as he switches hands. Damn this kid is fast…and smart.

  After I finally retrieve the remote from the two year old (I’m too embarrassed to say how long this actually took), I reach for the hair brush on my dresser. The goal is to create some resemblance to a hairdo before my guests show up, but the alarming squeal from 10 year old Lexie tells me that I am too late.

  “Aunt Beth! Mom! Aunt Beth is hereeee!” Her screechy voice floats up the steps, causing me to cringe. Lexie screams all the time. It sounds as if she is acting in a Slasher film 24/7, every statement she utters has an edge of desperation in it.

  “Oh, Mom! Colton jumped off the couch!” “Oh, Mom! Evan has your keys!” “Oh, Mom! The mailman is seven houses away and he will be here soon!” “Oh, Mom! There’s a person walking down the street with a dog!”

  I constantly have to squelch the urge to scream back, “Oh, Lexie, who the fuck cares?” Yes, I know. I’m a horrible mother because I don’t want to hear my daughter babble constantly in a deafening pitch. I know I should be relishing her every word and hanging on to it for dear life. I realize this because Lexie’s sister, 13 year old Allie, hardly ever speaks to me unless she’s experiencing pain of some sort. Ever since she entered middle school a few years ago, she’s avoided Roger and me like the plague. I shudder to think what is going to happen next week when she starts high school.

  Maybe most mothers are naïve and unaware when their spawn reach high school level, but my husband is actually the principal of the high school. I hear horror stories on a daily basis. Middle school was bad, but damn, I am shaking in my boots thinking about my baby girl entering that zoo on Wednesday.

  “Mommmmmmmm! Come down hereeeeee!” Lexie is causing my ears to reverberate from the unearthly decibels that her voice can reach.

  I sigh with what feels like never ending impatience as I collect the baby, swinging him onto my hip as I head down the stairs.

  ~TWO~

  “Why, Amy, your home looks simply divine!” Beth remarks breathlessly as she leans in to kiss my cheek. As she offers me a crooked smile, I notice that she has lipstick on her teeth. “And what is that delicious smell?”

  I beam as I reply, “Oh, just my freshly baked apple pie in the oven.” A timer dings in the kitchen. “It’s done now!”

  I stifle a giggle as Beth hands me a gift bag and I notice that one of her nails are chipped. “I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she apologizes, blushing deeply.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her with a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

  “Let me make it up to you. Can I help with anything?”

  I glance around the room where everything is in perfect order. “No,” I reply while shaking my head. “I’ve got it all under control.”

  My mother waltzes in the front door just at that moment. “Of course you do, darling! Your parties are always perfect!” Mom tells me as she pours a glass of wine from the bottle she is holding in her hand.

  While my mother hands me the glass, Beth concurs. “Oh yes, Amy! I don’t know how you manage to do it all! I mean, I can barely do it with two kids! And you have FOUR! And a husband who never even helps out!”

  I smile at them as I shake my head. “It is tough, but I’m determined to be the best mother ever.”

  And then, I hear Beth’s real voice and it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

  My sister and her two children are standing in the center of my living room with Lexie. Both children are meticulously dressed as usual;
Andrew in a cream colored, button down polo shirt and khakis (who puts white on a 7 year old boy?) and Jillian in a flouncy pink sundress, her dark, thick hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun, secured with a flower clip. They look like an ad for JCPenny’s. I am willing to bet both kids have sunblock with an SPF of 75 slathered on and insect repellant to boot. Meanwhile, I’m not even sure if all my kids have underwear on.

  Beth is flawless in her crisp denim capris and green, fitted tee shirt, designed to make her look casual and spontaneous, and probably came with a price tag higher than my living room couch. Her dark, shoulder length hair looks like it was styled at the salon about ten minutes ago. Her face is free of the wrinkles and the worry lines that I wear like a badge of adulthood. Or maybe it’s just from her recent trip to the botox center.

  I sigh with annoyance as I trudge down the steps because she is early, as usual. I reach the landing just in time to see my sister discreetly running her finger along the top of the TV when she passes it.

  Damn it! I forgot to dust the TV! Nothing escaped Beth’s eagle eyes. Must be nice when you have a maid to help keep your home spotless, I think bitterly. She glances up as I lumber down the stairs, Evan in tow.

  “You’re early,” I practically hiss as I watch Lexie dash from the room in search of someone else to torture.

  Beth dismisses me with a wave. “We’re on time, Amy. When someone says a party starts at 2:00, we are there for 2:00.”

  “It’s 1:45, Beth,” I growl as I attempt to stand in between Beth and the coffee table. I forgot to dust that, too.

  Beth ignores the comment as Andrew and Jillian file past her into the kitchen. Derek is nowhere in sight, so I assume he has escaped to the man cave with Roger and is clutching a beer already. I can’t really blame him, though. If I was married to Beth, I would need an alcohol IV.

  “Andrew!” my sister calls out to my 7 year old nephew. “Can you please bring Colton’s birthday presents to the gift table? Ask Aunt Amy where it is.”

  Damn it again! Gift table! Was that on the post it? Shit, I need to find that post it!

  “That’s ok, Andrew,” I tell him as I try to grab the gifts. “I’ll take them.”

  “Nonsense,” my sister intercepts me with her free arm. “Andrew will be more than happy to take them.” My nephew looks anything but delighted, however, I know he would never tell his mother otherwise.

  “Besides,” Beth lowers her voice to a whisper, “you need to dust the lamp before mom gets here. You know she’ll never miss the layer of dust.”

  Damn it! The lamp, too? Beth pats my arm patronizingly as if she really believes she has my best interests at heart.

  I seethe as I respond through gritted teeth, “Of course. Andrew, just put the gifts on the kitchen table then.”

  “Kitchen table?” My sister practically squawks. “But then your guests will have to trek through the house…”

  “Yes, I know it’s very primitive, but it works for us common folk,” I remark with sarcasm, unable to keep my frustration in check any longer.

  Beth remains perfectly unflustered as she titters softly, “Oh, Amy you’re so silly! I only meant it would be a shame for them to come clomping through your house and mess up your clean floor.” She beams, her Chicklet like teeth sparkling.

  That bitch! She’s implying my floor isn’t clean!

  My gaze drifts downward and I realize it isn’t. I had vacuumed like a maniac this morning, but our dog Misty had gotten into a tizzy earlier with Furball the cat and now little clumps of cat and dog fur littered my entire living room. Funny, I hadn’t even noticed until now.

  Who knows how long the little passive aggressive battle with my sister would have lasted had Laura not come crashing through the door with her circus right at that instant.

  “Get off of your brother, Zachary! Stop it right now!”

  “But Moooooommmmm! He’s looking at me weird!”

  “Don’t look at him, Jeffrey! Don’t anyone look at anyone else ever again!”

  I smile to myself. Laura is the only person on earth that makes me look like I’ve got it together, a fact that doesn’t seem to escape my sister’s attention. I see her wrinkle up her nose in disgust as the triplets and twins (all boys) stampede into my living room and head straight for the back yard. I actually hear my floor moving even after I can’t see them any longer. They are followed by a bored looking Kaitlyn who heads directly up to my daughter’s bedroom. And finally, a haggard Laura enters the fray. Her husband is undoubtedly working his second job today, leaving her to battle the kids on her own.

  “Hi,” she manages to gasp as I lean in to peck her cheek. Evan squeals with delight and reaches for her. She must emit some smell that little boys savor because Evan adores her. He won’t go to anyone else willingly other than Laura.

  “Hello, Lori,” my sister remarks with her haughty attitude.

  Laura wrinkles up her nose. “It’s Laura,” my friend stresses; the tension is palpable, “Elizabeth,” she adds as she scoops my son up.

  My sister’s mouth is gaping open and before she can retort that her name is not Elizabeth, Laura sails out of the room with Evan. “I’ll just go keep an eye on my boys,” she remarks solely to me, but entirely for Beth’s benefit.

  “I see you are still friends with that wonderful influence,” Beth drawls in a bored voice. Beth considers anyone who has more than three children, trash or certifiably insane. She has no tolerance for noise and ruckus, which Laura’s kids certainly leave in their wake.

  I am seething inside at Beth’s digs at my only friend and am about to say something I’ll probably regret involving Beth’s recent visit to the plastic surgeon that she doesn’t think I know about, when my mother breezes through the front door.

  “Helloooo!” she calls out in her melodious voice.

  “Hi, Mom!” Beth chirps back cheerily as she embraces our 60 year old mother who truly doesn’t look a day over 45. I swear I don’t know how the woman does it. She looks younger than I do. But then again, what stress does she have? She sleeps eight hours (uninterrupted) every single night and she and my father play golf for four hours almost every day. Then she plays Canasta with the women in her “club” and they go out to eat every single evening. She even hasn’t used the stove in her house in 6 years. She almost burnt her hand last Christmas because she thought she needed to light the pilot light in the oven. The woman doesn’t even have to drive anymore. My father chauffeurs her around like the Queen Mum. And carries her packages to boot. I would probably look 22 if I had that life. Hell, I wish Roger would just carry the groceries into the house for me.

  My thoughts are interrupted by my father clumsily banging into the doorframe, maneuvering a rather bulky package in his arms.

  “What the hell is that thing?” I question, skipping the formalities of hellos to either of my parents.

  “Now, Amy Francine, there is no need to use foul language,” my mother reprimands. “It’s a bike. For Colton!” She beams at me as if she was expecting balloons and streamers to fall from the sky and me to collapse at her feet to pay her homage for being the perfect grandmother.

  Instead, I groan as I point out, “Colt has a bike, Mom. I really wish you would have asked…” I see my mother’s face fall and instantly felt guilty. The damn woman can play the guilt card like it’s a game of Go Fish.

  I quickly scramble to undo the damage to her fragile psyche, because heaven forbid my mother be upset. “But, I’m sure his is getting rusty from being left out in the rain. I bet he could use a new one!” I try to perk her up, but my mother’s face tells me I am not doing a good job. Of course. I never do a good job at anything as far as my mother is concerned. Sighing, I ask, “Why don’t you go outside and find the birthday boy?”

  My mother and sister bob their heads in synchrony as they head out to the back via my kitchen. My father has already escaped to man cave after dumping the bike in the middle of the living room.

  “Oh, Amy! There’s a puddl
e on your kitchen floor! You really should clean that up before someone slips!” my sister shouts.

  Gritting my teeth, I call out, “Yes, thank you!” I resist the urge to add, bitch. I head into the kitchen where I find Beth’s gifts on the table, a puddle of milk on the floor and my niece and nephew staring open mouthed at the piñata on the center island.

  I should explain. Colt loves bugs. He likes reading about them, catching them, dissecting them, trying to force his sisters to eat them and cleverly disguising them so his sisters do accidently eat them. Bugs, bugs and more bugs. He wanted the theme of his birthday party to be bugs. So I searched high and low for piñatas in the shape of a bug. It didn’t matter what kind; spider, ant, dragonfly, slug.

  They apparently don’t make bug shaped piñatas so I cleverly went on Pinterest and found the directions to make your own. I tried to get the kids to help me, but the only one who stuck around longer than 30 seconds was Lexie, and by the time I had started adding the ingredients to the paste, I wanted her to leave. Yeah, yeah, I know…horrible mother again. But damn it, the kid wouldn’t shut up and she was distracting me. A hundred questions a minute; “what are you going to use that for, Mom?”, “why are you doing that, Mom?”, “what’s the next step, Mom?”, “how long is this gonna take, Mom?” “how does it harden, Mom?” Finally, I told her to go Google it and let me know what the answer was. Thankfully, she didn’t come back until I had succeeded in creating the lopsided spider creature that now terrorized Andrew and Jillian.

  “It’s a spider piñata,” I explain to them. They still stare at me quizzically. Assuming they know what a spider is, I continue, “You know, the things you hit with a bat and all the candy comes out?” Understanding registers with Andrew, but not Jillian. She is only 5, so maybe she never saw a piñata. I can’t recall if my sister has ever had piñatas at their birthday parties, but I highly doubt it, considering she is married to a cardiologist and is a neurotic health freak and all that.