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Authors: Allison Winn Scotch
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campaign.”
“Thanks,” I say with a shrug. “It’s been pretty easy.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Josie tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve juggled the responsibility well, and just so you know, I’ve put in a word for a promotion.” I meet her eyes and she smiles. “Seriously, Jill, my job could be yours in a few years.”
I force a grin but feel my pulse beating in my neck, rising in panic. I’m not supposed to get a promotion. I’m supposed to cruise along comfortably at this level until I meet Henry and eventually quit when my belly bulges out to the point at which it can no longer be disguised.
But all of that’s different now,
I remind myself and exhale. Your future is what you make of it, and so what if you don’t exactly envision a life like Josie’s: one in which you feel like you’re leaving half of you behind every morning when you kiss your kids good-bye, and then leaving the other half of you behind each dusk when the hum of your computer whirs to a stop and you click off the light to go home and fall asleep on the couch next to your husband who has flipped the TV to ESPN.
Her life doesn’t have to be mine, I tell myself.
My
life, my new life, is yet unwritten.
“That’s amazing, Josie. Thank you,” I say, my voice weighted in appreciation. I reach into the basket and pull out some bounty. “Seriously? They make Coke-flavored Jelly Bellys? And Coke-flavored licorice?”
“Oh yeah, you’d be amazed. My daughter lives for this stuff.”
Tentatively, I take a bite, and it tastes like processed cola with six shots of sugar blended in.
I can’t remember the last time I had jelly beans. And then it hits me with a rush: Easter 2007, just a few months back, when Katie, at fifteen months, had finally stopped lumbering like a drunken seaman and was rushing around my father’s backyard in Connecticut with the freewheeling bravado that nearly defines toddlerhood, before you’re old enough to remember that falling hurts and that stumbling leaves bruises that won’t fade for days.
I’d spent the previous night dyeing hard-boiled eggs various shades of lavender, pink, yellow, and baby blue, and then, after greeting my dad and Linda, his girlfriend of nearly a decade but whom he refused to wed, I tucked the pastel-hued creations behind trees and logs and flower beds to create our very own Easter egg hunt. (I’d read about it in
Parents.
) From my perch on the porch, I watched Henry chase Katie around the grass—she’d lost interest in uncovering the eggs after four minutes, tops. Linda came out with a brimming bag of candy, and even though my trainer at the gym had sworn me off refined sugar, I reached for the Jelly Bellys and popped five (only twenty-two calories, I reminded myself!) in my mouth, savoring the tang of the tartness and the hint of crunchiness that comes with dissolving granulated sugar between your molars.
“These actually aren’t bad,” I say now to Josie. I stuff down a whole handful. “God, I never eat this crap.”
“Yeah right, me neither!” She laughs and throws me a wink. “And with that, I’m sure that I’ll see you at the vending machines at 4:00. I’ll fight you for the Red Vines.”
Oops. Indeed, back before Katie granted me a muffin top and eight stubborn pounds that wouldn’t budge despite my virtuous cross-training and weight-lifting routine (as read about in
Self
), I abused sugar much like someone might abuse crack.
“Oh,” Josie said, popping her head back into the door opening. “You should buy a new dress for this. And bring that boyfriend of yours. He’s a keeper.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I grin.
Maybe this time, he’ll actually stick.
“H OW ABOUT THIS ONE ?” Megan holds up a red, white, and blue empire-waist gown that looks like it would be more appropriate for a Fourth of July float than a classy candelabra-lit affair with a swing band playing in the background while various canapés are offered by
“Thanks,” I say with a shrug. “It’s been pretty easy.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Josie tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve juggled the responsibility well, and just so you know, I’ve put in a word for a promotion.” I meet her eyes and she smiles. “Seriously, Jill, my job could be yours in a few years.”
I force a grin but feel my pulse beating in my neck, rising in panic. I’m not supposed to get a promotion. I’m supposed to cruise along comfortably at this level until I meet Henry and eventually quit when my belly bulges out to the point at which it can no longer be disguised.
But all of that’s different now,
I remind myself and exhale. Your future is what you make of it, and so what if you don’t exactly envision a life like Josie’s: one in which you feel like you’re leaving half of you behind every morning when you kiss your kids good-bye, and then leaving the other half of you behind each dusk when the hum of your computer whirs to a stop and you click off the light to go home and fall asleep on the couch next to your husband who has flipped the TV to ESPN.
Her life doesn’t have to be mine, I tell myself.
My
life, my new life, is yet unwritten.
“That’s amazing, Josie. Thank you,” I say, my voice weighted in appreciation. I reach into the basket and pull out some bounty. “Seriously? They make Coke-flavored Jelly Bellys? And Coke-flavored licorice?”
“Oh yeah, you’d be amazed. My daughter lives for this stuff.”
Tentatively, I take a bite, and it tastes like processed cola with six shots of sugar blended in.
I can’t remember the last time I had jelly beans. And then it hits me with a rush: Easter 2007, just a few months back, when Katie, at fifteen months, had finally stopped lumbering like a drunken seaman and was rushing around my father’s backyard in Connecticut with the freewheeling bravado that nearly defines toddlerhood, before you’re old enough to remember that falling hurts and that stumbling leaves bruises that won’t fade for days.
I’d spent the previous night dyeing hard-boiled eggs various shades of lavender, pink, yellow, and baby blue, and then, after greeting my dad and Linda, his girlfriend of nearly a decade but whom he refused to wed, I tucked the pastel-hued creations behind trees and logs and flower beds to create our very own Easter egg hunt. (I’d read about it in
Parents.
) From my perch on the porch, I watched Henry chase Katie around the grass—she’d lost interest in uncovering the eggs after four minutes, tops. Linda came out with a brimming bag of candy, and even though my trainer at the gym had sworn me off refined sugar, I reached for the Jelly Bellys and popped five (only twenty-two calories, I reminded myself!) in my mouth, savoring the tang of the tartness and the hint of crunchiness that comes with dissolving granulated sugar between your molars.
“These actually aren’t bad,” I say now to Josie. I stuff down a whole handful. “God, I never eat this crap.”
“Yeah right, me neither!” She laughs and throws me a wink. “And with that, I’m sure that I’ll see you at the vending machines at 4:00. I’ll fight you for the Red Vines.”
Oops. Indeed, back before Katie granted me a muffin top and eight stubborn pounds that wouldn’t budge despite my virtuous cross-training and weight-lifting routine (as read about in
Self
), I abused sugar much like someone might abuse crack.
“Oh,” Josie said, popping her head back into the door opening. “You should buy a new dress for this. And bring that boyfriend of yours. He’s a keeper.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I grin.
Maybe this time, he’ll actually stick.
“H OW ABOUT THIS ONE ?” Megan holds up a red, white, and blue empire-waist gown that looks like it would be more appropriate for a Fourth of July float than a classy candelabra-lit affair with a swing band playing in the background while various canapés are offered by
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