The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Read online

  I guess it did make sense for Karen to open up to me. I smiled at my friend and gave her hands a squeeze. “Your secret is safe with me.” Then I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key. Corny, I know, but I couldn’t help it. I spent a large majority of my time hanging out with a six-year-old boy.

  Chapter 2

  That afternoon, I drove to pick up my kids from school with Karen’s confession replaying in my head. I knew that what she was doing was wrong, and I pitied poor, clueless Doug. But I couldn’t deny the fact that my friend seemed so full of life, of joy, of… joi de vivre! And her skin looked fantastic.

  It was the sex, I knew it was. Karen was experiencing the passion and intensity of a new relationship, while I was experiencing the same old thing I’d been experiencing for the past fourteen years. Not that there was anything wrong with the way Paul and I experienced together. We both knew the routine to follow to ensure the desired results. It was nice… good even. But it wasn’t exactly improving my complexion anymore.

  I pulled the massive SUV into a parking spot bordering Rosedale Elementary’s playing field, and turned off the ignition. The digital clock on the dashboard indicated that I was seven minutes early. Since it was only Spencer’s second week of school, I didn’t want to risk turning up late. I could practically hear him telling his future therapist how he had abandonment issues because his mother wasn’t there to pick him up one afternoon during first grade. It was a beautiful, September afternoon and the sun, filtered just enough by the yellowing oak leaves, warmed my face through the windshield. As I rested my head against the leather seat, my mind slipped back to Karen’s admission.

  It was a real dilemma. Despite her denials, Karen and Doug did have a life together. They’d been married for six years. They had a beautiful home. They were a part of the community. Doug was a good husband, offering her stability, security, and companionship—and that’s not to mention the time-share and the BMW. It wouldn’t be easy to walk away from all that. Okay, maybe he was a little dull in the sack, but was that really his fault? Any man could crack under all that baby-making pressure.

  And if she were to choose Javier, what kind of life would they have? They’d end up renting a dingy, one-bedroom apartment in East Colfax, scraping to get by on his barista wages and occasional modeling gigs. Karen would have to get a job. She’d left her event planning career behind years ago; there was no way she could pick up where she left off now. She’d be forced to waitress at some late night diner or a sleazy bar. They’d have to eat canned ravioli and ramen noodles for most meals. There would be no evenings out, no holidays, no meat that didn’t come from a can… They would have nothing… nothing but each other and mind-blowing sex. I heaved a heavy sigh. It was a very tough choice.

  Suddenly, the SUV lurched like it had been charged by a rhinoceros. I jumped in my seat, startled, until I heard the familiar giggling of my son, and his friend Nigel, who had just propelled their slight bodies into the passenger door.

  “Bye, Poo hair!” Spencer called, opening the door to the back seat.

  “Bye, snot eyes!” Nigel called back, as he was hurriedly corralled by his Filipina nanny.

  “See you tomorrow, booger breath!”

  “Okay, pee face!”

  “Okay… ummm… diarrhea brain!” Spencer screamed out the window.

  “Spencer, that’s enough,” I said gently, but firmly. I was glad he had a new school chum, but their entire friendship seemed to revolve around assigning rude adjectives to body parts. “Those words are not appropriate.”

  “What words?” He asked, climbing into his booster seat and buckling his seatbelt.

  “You know which words—bodily functions, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, how was your day?”

  “Good. Can we go now?”

  “As soon as your sister gets here.” At that moment, I spied my eldest child, standing in the school yard, ensconced in a gaggle of squealing and giggling girls. At ten years old, Chloe was at least four inches taller than her friends, and looked gawky, coltish, even spindly. She also had enormous front teeth that would be demanding orthodontia in a year or two, and an unflattering, center-part hairstyle, that worked with neither her fine hair nor her narrow face. Lately, when I looked at my daughter, the term awkward stage came to mind. “There she is,” I said to Spencer. “She’ll be here in a sec.”

  “I really need to go home,” he responded, his blue eyes wide. “I’m starving and dying of thirst and I have to go pee sooooo bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Can you wait until we get home or do you want to go back in the school?”

  “Umm… wait! …I think.”

  “Okay. She’ll be here in a minute.” But Chloe appeared to be in no hurry to join us, laughing, shrieking and throwing pine cones at a group of nearby boys. To be fair, she didn’t realize her brother was about to pee on the seats of our forty thousand-dollar SUV, but my patience was wearing thin. I tooted the horn briefly to catch her attention. Chloe’s eyes darted nervously in our direction, but she angled her body away from us and continued her antics with her friends.

  “I need to peeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Spencer moaned.

  “Let’s go back in the school.” I undid my seatbelt.

  “No. I want to pee at home in my home toilet.”

  “What’s the difference? Just go to the bathroom here.”

  “It smells in there and sometimes the toilets flood and there’s wet paper towels stuck on the ceiling.”

  “Fine. Cross your legs and I’ll get you home as fast as I can.” I leaned on the horn once, following up with three staccato bursts. This time, Chloe didn’t even turn around.

  “I think the pee’s coming!” Spencer shrieked.

  “Hang on!” I cried. Hopping out of the car, I called to my daughter. “Chloe! Come on! We have to go!” It was obvious that she was pretending not to hear me. Despite being only ten, Chloe liked to give the impression that she had no family, and lived alone in a small apartment, supporting herself as a cocktail waitress in the evenings.

  From inside the car, I heard, “Oh no! Oh no!”

  “CHLOE ATWELL! NOW!” I bellowed. It had the desired effect. Not only did Chloe turn, but I now had the attention of approximately two hundred Rosedale students. Suddenly, I heard a car door open, followed by a sound like running water. I turned to see my son, standing on the sidewalk, relieving himself on the chain link fence. The entire schoolyard erupted into laughter and horrified squeals. Chloe’s face registered her mortification. She stalked silently to the car.

  When we got home, I called Paul.

  “Hey babe. What’s up?” I could hear his fingers tapping away at the keyboard as he spoke.

  “Chloe wants to change schools.”

  “Why?”

  “Her brother peed in front of the entire student population.”

  “What?” Paul chuckled, and then called, “Hey Mike! I’m gonna need the costings for the Wellington project ASAP. Conference call at five-thirty! …Sorry, Paige.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So… yeah…,” he said, distractedly. “The kids had a good day?” (Tap, tap, tap on keyboard)

  “Not particularly,” I muttered. God, was he even listening to me?

  “Good… good...” (Tap, tap, tap)

  Obviously, he wasn’t. I heaved a sigh of exasperation. “I thought I’d get pizza tonight. It might cheer Chloe up. Is that good for you?”

  “Mike! Call Monayim in San Diego! He should have half of those numbers ready to go.” Paul turned his attention back to me. “Sorry hon, but I’ve gotta run. “We’re having some problems with the Wellington pilot install. The server was dead out of the box and the blah blah blah isn’t interfacing with the blabbidy blah blah…”

  I’d never understood Paul’s computer jargon. “Okay. So… pizza tonight? Or I could pick up chicken?”

  “Don’t count on me for dinner. I’m not sure if
we can get the blah blah in time for the blabbidy blab blah…”

  I hung up, feeling annoyed with my husband for his obvious distraction. Sometimes, it didn’t feel fair. I’d forfeited a promising career in public relations to stay home and raise babies, while Paul continued to thrive out in the business world. It was my choice, I knew that. But at times, I really envied him his dynamic and exciting job—especially when I was stuck at home with a surly adolescent girl and her exhibitionist little brother.

  I decided a glass of red wine and a little quiet time was in order. With Chloe pouting and blaring Avril Lavigne in her room, and Spencer happily playing Bionicles on the family room floor, I moved to the front of the house. Opening the French doors, I entered the formal living room. Intended to host reserved gatherings or sophisticated cocktail parties, this room sat largely unused. A thin layer of dust coated the antique furniture, handed down from Paul’s maternal grandmother. I always felt slightly uneasy in here, like a stranger in my own formal living room. But on the other hand, it provided a wonderful escape from the rest of my frenzied household.

  Taking a sip of Syrah, I wandered to the front window. Through the sheer curtain, I could see that it was getting dark. My neighbors’ lights shone like beacons: a lone kitchen light signified that a wife was busily preparing dinner for her husband; a darkened house with only the porch light on meant that a couple would be arriving home from work, sooner or later; a home ablaze with electricity meant a houseful, all going about the chaotic business of being a family.

  Pulling back the gauzy fabric, I peered into the street. At the end of the block, I could just see Karen and Doug’s house. It was completely dark. Obviously, Doug was still at work, and Karen was probably off having multiple orgasms with Javier. Suddenly, I was overcome by an intense feeling of loneliness. Dropping the curtain, I moved to the center of the room, where I flicked on the standing lamp then perched awkwardly on Grandmother Maple’s chintz sofa. I took a deep breath and tried to quell the malaise taking over me. It was strange: this feeling of emptiness seemed completely unprovoked. Paul worked late often; I was used to spending evenings alone with the children. What was so different about tonight?

  After another sip of wine, I was back at the window. Karen’s house was still dark, but as I stared, I thought I sensed movement inside. Maybe she and Javier were in there right now? Would she be so brazen? Could they be doing it, at this very moment, in a myriad of exciting positions, in Karen and Doug’s own bedroom? Or the living room? Or kitchen? Maybe that added to the excitement—the fact that Doug could walk in at any moment. If I kept watching, I might see Doug’s BMW pull up out front and Javier would scurry out the back window half-naked. Or completely naked! I stared at the darkened house for another few minutes, before realizing that my imagination had run away with me.

  “Enough,” I said, to the empty, austere room, shaking off my melancholy mood. I had absolutely no reason to feel down. I had a good life! I was happy! It was only natural to pine, just a little, for those early days of passion, romance and a myriad of sex positions. After twelve years of marriage, it was perfectly normal to fantasize, occasionally, about raking your fingernails down some muscular stud’s back, or riding him like a young thoroughbred. But those days were over for me, replaced by comfort, security, a house in the suburbs, and an SUV. It wasn’t like I was jealous of Karen’s affair. God no! And I certainly wasn’t obsessed with her love life. I mean, of course I was interested: I was her sole confessor, after all. But I hadn’t turned into some voyeuristic sex maniac, peeking out the window at my friend’s love nest. I was curious, that’s all. Besides, I had many other things to occupy my mind. Like my children, who needed me to order pizza for them. I walked back to the kitchen to call Domino’s.

  Chapter 3

  Every second Friday, Jane and I went power walking. Her trainer said that she’d get the best results if she varied her work out routine, so twice a month, she skipped her Pilates class, loaded herself down with ankle and wrist weights, and went for a walk with me. I wore no weights: keeping up with super-fit, arm-pumping Jane was enough of a work out for me. She rang my doorbell at nine-forty-five A.M.

  “Ready to go?” she asked, marching vigorously on the spot on my front porch.

  “All set.” We headed down the street, passing Carly’s, and then Karen’s vacant looking houses. I peered, as casually as possible, into Karen’s front window. You never knew what you might catch a glimpse of in there.

  “She’s not home,” Jane commented.

  I blushed, as if she could have read my thoughts. “Uh, yeah… no, I didn’t think so.”

  “She’s been seeing this acupuncturist in the city. He’s supposed to help her with her infertility.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, she has appointments a few times a week, for hours at a time. Apparently, he’s very good… very thorough.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “Still,” Jane said, leaning forward slightly as we reached an incline—her trainer had told her this position would help tone her glutes—“it must be tough, not being able to conceive.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed, copying her stance. A little toning wouldn’t hurt my glutes either. “We’re really lucky to have gotten pregnant so easily. It would be such a drag to have to have sex all the time.” Jane shot me a bemused look. “I mean, it must take some of the fun out of it. It would be kind of like… work.”

  “True,” she agreed. “It’s much more fun to be spontaneous.”

  “Oh, yeah!” I said emphatically, hoping she didn’t realize I was overcompensating. I knew that Paul’s and my sex life wouldn’t exactly qualify as spontaneous. We had sex once a week, on Saturday night. Occasionally, during the week, if we found ourselves in bed together before eleven, we’d get it on then too, but this rarely happened. On the other hand, if Paul was going to be out of town for more than four days, we would usually squeeze in a quickie before his departure. That would have to qualify as spontaneous, wouldn’t it? Sometimes, we were really quite daring. Once, we even did it in the master bathroom while the kids watched a movie!

  “How is Spencer settling into first grade?” Jane changed the subject.

  I was somewhat relieved. “Great! He really likes his teacher and he’s making friends.”

  “That’s good. This is a whole new chapter for you, isn’t it? Both your kids are at school all day. You’re home free!”

  “Right…” I said, rather hesitantly.

  “So, what do you plan to do with all this time you suddenly have?

  “Well…” I cleared my throat, and tried to match my arm-pumping rhythm to my friend’s. “I haven’t really thought about it yet. Spencer’s just started.”

  “This is your time, Paige—time to think about yourself. You’ve given those kids your love and devotion, you’ve made huge sacrifices. And now, they’re out in the world, doing their own thing.” She made it sound like they were in college, not elementary school. “What are your plans?”

  “Umm… I guess I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Good idea. You should make a list—you know, like your goals for the next five years. That’s what Daniel does. He says that 87 percent of people who write down their life goals, actually achieve them. He certainly has.”

  “True.” I mentally envisioned Jane’s husband’s list of goals:

  Make a squillion dollars.

  Trade old wife in for younger model. Choose one who will ensure she always looks incredibly youthful and beautiful, no matter how old she gets.

  Jane continued. “Of course, it’s different for me, because I have Becca.” Becca was Jane’s ‘girl’, a freakishly tall, eighteen-year-old from New Zealand who Jane employed to look after her two young daughters, clean her house and generally run errands for her. Becca was never referred to as a nanny, a housekeeper or a personal assistant; she was always referred to as Jane’s ‘girl’. While I thought it was kind of pathetic that a woman of leisure couldn’t manage
to look after her own children, clean her own house or run her own errands, I desperately wanted my own giant Kiwi to do my every bidding.

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Suddenly, Jane placed two fingers on her neck. “Heart-rate check.” I followed suit, though I had no idea what my heart rate was supposed to be. “Let’s step it up a bit.”

  We walked in silence for awhile, each focusing on getting our blood pumping. At least Jane was focused on it; my own mind was racing. She was right: I’d reached a crossroads in my life. My children didn’t need me anymore. Okay, they still needed me, but not as much as they had when they were younger. And every year, they would need me less and less. It was time to think about what I wanted. What would it take to make me feel fulfilled? Passionate? Alive? Unbidden, my thoughts drifted to Karen’s love affair. I wasn’t obsessed with it—really, I wasn’t. But lately, Karen had become sort of synonymous with truly loving life. Before I could censor myself, I broke the silence. “This might sound weird but…. Is your sex life with Daniel still satisfying?” There was no might about it. It did sound weird.

  Luckily, I had chosen the right friend to open up to. If it had been Trudy, she may have pitched herself into traffic to keep from having to answer. But Jane reacted like I’d simply asked about her recipe for apple crumble. (Not that Jane would have had a recipe for apple crumble. Becca would’ve made it for her.) “We have an incredible sex life, but we really work at it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can’t expect sex to stay amazing without putting in the effort.” She looked at me then. “Are you and Paul having trouble in the bedroom?”