mother of the year
by Erica Jenks Henry
At the sink, Veronica worries. It’s what good mothers do. Pammy complained of a headache as she licked her fork at breakfast. Veronica rubs a soapy sponge over the pancake batter bowl. Headaches can be serious. She imagines everything, trying not to think of the worst: a tumor.
As Veronica wipes the counter, her phone bings. Beatrix. Do they want to do story time and maybe the coffee shop with the play area? Sure. She has been wanting to tell Beatrix how Suzy told the family she’s bisexual now. How cute and funny. After texting, she clicks over to Instagram. Something about fall inspires endless picture posting. She looks through her own previous days. That one of Pammy holding Richard. No clutter. Well-centered. Pammy’s sweater a neutral color that goes well with the antique grey couch and old-fashioned curtains. She clicks buttons, adjusts things, and boom, the pic is live.
Veronica has allowed piles to accumulate on the kitchen island, and Suzy has a playdate after school. She doesn’t want the friend to think their house is messy, or worse, to report the messiness to her own mother, so she begins to tidy up, collecting toys.
Damn it. She forgot to send Suzy to school with her stuffed animal. Fuck. Pajamas too. She goes upstairs and digs around in the space between the mattress and the wall to find a nubbly dog. She grabs some fuzzy white long john pajamas. Perfect. It’s only been an hour since school began. She won’t have missed too much fun.
She grabs Richard from the couch and carries him to the garage, unlocking the car as she runs. She buckles him into the carseat, only removing the ipad from his hands so that she can get the straps over his hands. She turns over the engine, not pausing for the car to heat up though it’s cold outside. Thank God, there’s a half spot she can pull into with hazards on. She parks, leaving Richard in the car, and runs in with the pajamas and stuffed animal. She waves the items in the air to the receptionist, calls out, “Suzy, second grade, Frisch!” before piling them on the desk and writing her daughter’s name on a post-it note, and whooshing back out of the building like a human tornado. Once in the car, she takes a moment to sigh and shake out her shoulders. Deep breaths. She checks Instagram for likes. Three people. One is her husband.
Veronica checks email. Burst pipe at the gym. She wants to bang the steering wheel, but she remembers what her life coach told her last week: let the anger slip by like a cloud. Now she won’t get a jog before she meets Beatrix, who’s always fresh from a run or intense yoga. Veronica barely hears the cartoonish noises from the ipad.
The elliptical machine in the attic. She hasn’t used it in a while, but it should be fine. She parks and places Richard where he was before, comfortably on the couch. Already in workout clothes, she jogs up to the partially finished attic. Plugging in the machine and waiting forever for it to boot, she checks her phone. Another like. She scrolls through her friend Dana’s Instagram. Disney World. Not as bad as the trip they took to Turks and Caicos just before school began. But seriously? Another family vacation this time of year? How do they afford it? Credit card debt. The kids look like they’re in heaven, and Dana’s husband captioned one of his photos by describing the “true magic” of the place, though Veronica thinks she spies some vague disappointment in the smile of Dana’s middle daughter. True magic, my foot. They’re spoiled. Constantly going on trips like that, the kids have no idea what real life is. They’ll be set up for hard times. But Dana looks skinny in the pictures. Really, really skinny.
Veronica climbs on. Only twenty minutes before she needs to meet Beatrix. By the time she’s done, she’s worked up a sweat. She bounds to the kitchen and dumps kale, lemon juice and blueberries in the blender. Richard whines. “Just a minute.” Sliced apple, coconut flakes, goji berry, slightly rotting spinach. She blends: healthy brown smoothie. She pours it into a special glass smoothie traveling glass and walks to the living room. “Oh sorry, buddy.” She grabs a long charger, plugs it into the wall and the ipad. “It’ll be on again soon.”
She hurries to quickly shower, do makeup, and get dressed, sipping smoothie. In and out, no time. Tight, stone-washed jeans, pink long-sleeved blouse. She grabs Richard, thanking God she dressed him when he woke up. She’s got to hurry. She listens to NPR, still drinking the smoothie. A little too sour. Parking in front of the library. Perfect. She forces Richard to give up the iPad, and they run. When she gets to the desk with the quirky librarian, the one who refuses to make eye contact unless correcting children, Veronica tries to hide her stress. But the librarian says they are late. Story time is full. Veronica throws back her head and makes an angry, guttural noise, more animal than human.
The other library has story time at 10:30, not 10. Richard points at the playhouse in the children’s area. “We’ll play later.” They run back to the car. She buckles and passes him the iPad. They drive about a mile. The library’s not as big, but works. She texts Beatrix, “We were late, so we went to Garden Library. Coffee after?” It’s only 10:15. She’ll let Richard do his thing while she catches up on email. She signs Suzy up for gymnastics, emails Pammy’s teacher, checks Instagram. Dana has posted a picture of her long, lithe, shorts-clad body stretched on a low wall in front of a Disney castle. Completely inappropriate, and it looks like a modeling shot. How embarrassing. Kids aren’t even in the photo. Veronica does not thumb it up, though she reads comments. “Stunning!” “You look like you’re one of the kids!” “Nice weather in Florida?” “Still got it” “Kids are lucky to have you for a mother” “Great family memories!” “Hot hot hot” Beatrix has posted: “Story time,” with rainbow and book emojis. Her daughter, Emory, enchanted on a colorful rug with other children. So fake.
At 10:28, Veronica grabs Richard. She tosses the iPad and he wails. Damn it, she forgot her travel coffee. She lugs him, and this librarian nods as they pass. Veronica plops Richard onto the ABC rug and finds a folding chair. Caregivers file in. Richard pouts. He doesn’t understand he’s lucky she brings him to activities while other kids are stuck in daycare or home with nannies. Frowning, he plays with his shoe as the woman reads. “No book.” Very quietly. He says it louder. “No book!” Veronica looks up from her phone’s camera. She was hoping to get a good shot. “No book!” Screaming now. “Show! Show! Show! Naut, naut, naut!” Nobody understands, but Veronica knows he is referring to his favorite program.
Veronica grabs their coats. Beatrix is at the cafe, so Veronica heads for the car. She buckles Richard once again, this time without the ipad, to avoid withdrawal at the coffee shop.
When they arrive, Richard is red-eyed, still sad. Holding him, Veronica orders an extra-shot latte and donut. They head to the lounge with cruddy toys. Beatrix waves, beaming smile. As Veronica scoots by tables of people brunching or laptopping, a man looks over his screen. “Congratulations!” he calls, apparently to Veronica. She waves and sits beside Beatrix.
Beatrix’s thin wrist is extended, holding her ceramic mug—always earth-conscious. Her other hand is tucked into her mid-section. A big smile. Dark hair in a loose bun. “How does it feel?”
Veronica makes a face.
“To be Mother of the Year?”
Veronica gasps. She’d forgotten, so distracted with pajamas and the headache.
“They just sent an email. You’re runner up, basically Mother of the Year.”
“I can’t believe it!” It seemed far-fetched when her mother nominated her.
“They had fewer nominations than usual, and some moms were disqualified for—get this—smoking outside the bar after the pub quiz fundraiser.”
Veronica’s distracted. Her name will be in the paper. “Who won?”
Beatrix rolls her eyes. “Dana Ludwig! Can you believe it?”
Richard is still in Veronica’s lap, uninterested in the sticky mismatched toys: farm without animals, bus without schoolchildren. “Show,” he repeats, lying on her chest..
“He’s a little tired today.” Dana?
Her phone is ringing. Local area code. “Hello, it’s Principal Gordon. We need to talk to you about an incident with Pammy this morning. Are you free to chat or come in?”
Erica Jenks Henry’s work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Lit Hub, Zone 3, Maudlin House, New World Writing, and Thimble and is forthcoming in The Caribbean Writer and Oyster River Pages. With a Master's in Public Health, she has worked with the Chicago Housing Authority and in Honduras.