He mixes bloody marys, all the ingredients set before him, half-empty jars of olives and tiny onions. In the kitchen sit seven other mothers and the father of the child whose party this is. There are bloody marys in the kitchen, says another mother. I look down and smile and walk past this woman toward the back of the house while the kids head into the main room, where a TV that covers almost the whole wall plays a loud cartoon and children climb overtop piles of toys and squeal and scream. We have no present for the birthday party and we have no time to buy one, so I have the children pick two books that they don’t like much and a toy they haven’t played with in a while and we make wrapping paper out of computer paper by drawing pictures on it and we wrap all of it up using a stapler because we don’t have tape.Īs soon as we walk into the ground floor of the brownstone, the four-year-old says loudly to the mother of the child whose birthday we’re attending, My mom didn’t have time to get a gift so she made us wrap up our own toys. The four-year-old whispers something to her sister and they laugh and run into their room. I climb down when he calls to me to say that breakfast is ready and we eat together before he leaves for work.ĭon’t forget the birthday party, he says before he leaves, and I say, Oh, fuck before realizing the kids are right there watching and both of them look up and smile at me.
I’m awake, but I pretend that I’m asleep so I can stay in bed a while longer and just listen. I lie up in bed as my husband makes the children breakfast, reminds them to use the bathroom, asks them if they want to help him knead the biscuits.
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