The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 5

  “Okay. (Long pause.) “What things?”

  “You know what things!” I was aware that my voice was becoming shrill.

  Blink. Stare. “Fountains?”

  “Spencer!” I was definitely losing my patience. “Bodily functions, okay?”

  “What are bodily functions?”

  “You retard,” Chloe interjected.

  “Chloe! Don’t you say that.” But I could only scold one child at a time. “Spencer, you know what bodily functions are,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Ummm… armpits?”

  “No, not armpits.”

  “Ummm…?”

  “Diarrhea! Throw-up! Pee! Snot!” I shrieked. “Those are bodily functions, okay?”

  “Oh…” he said, nodding his head with sudden comprehension. “Those things.”

  “Right. Now I hope I’ve heard the last about them.” As I turned away from my son, I suddenly realized that all four car windows were partially open. A small crowd of primary school spectators and their parents had gathered on the sidewalk to observe my pee and poo tirade.

  Spencer waved at them and smiled. He seemed quite pleased that an audience of his peers had witnessed his mom screaming all his favorite words. Chloe shot me a look of pure hatred.

  “Oh hello! Good morning!” I waved. One or two of the mothers responded with a curt wave; most of them grabbed their children by the shoulders and marched them away from us.

  “Thanks a lot mom,” Chloe huffed, jumping out of the car and slamming the door.

  “Bye honey!” I called sweetly after her. “Have a nice day.”

  When I returned home, I was tempted to lie on the couch, watch soap operas and eat the entire contents of the freezer (except the fish sticks). But I knew that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to improve anything, and neither was gaining five pounds. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a corner of my Life Makeover list, peeking out from its hiding place in the back of my address book. I took a deep, fortifying breath. I would not let last night’s failure deter me. I was still committed to improving my lot in life, and I knew just where to start.

  Grabbing two family-sized cans of Campbell’s soup from the pantry, I moved to the living room and lay on my back on the Berber carpet. With my arms outstretched, I began to slowly lift the soup cans, focusing on my pectoral muscles. I had read about it in a magazine—an article on toning your body using household items. There were all sorts of exercises using brooms and laundry baskets and hand towels, but this was the one that had stuck with me. I was realistic: I knew I wasn’t going to recapture my teenaged breasts with a few soup-can hoists, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

  Just taking action toward reaching my goals made me feel much more positive. True, these soup cans were not very heavy and it didn’t really feel like my pectoral muscles were actually doing any work, but the point was, I was moving forward. And really, it was silly of me to give up so easily on my resexualization mission. Paul was home now, relaxed and rested. And it was Friday night: the perfect night for romance. The phone rang.

  “Hello?” I was actually a little winded when I jumped up to answer the phone: a good sign.

  “Hey babe, it’s me.”

  “Hi honey,” I cooed. “How are you?”

  “Good… good…” (Tap tap tap of keyboard in background) “Listen hon, we’ve got some vendors in from San Jose. We’re going to take them out for a beer after work. But don’t worry, it’ll be an early night.”

  “Great. An early night sounds great.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got a seven A.M. tee-off time tomorrow, so I want to hit the hay by eleven.”

  I was so engulfed by anger and disappointment that I could not respond. There was a long silence.

  “… Paige?”

  “Yeah?” I managed, weakly.

  “I know I’ve been away a lot, but I’ll make it up to you on Saturday, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I clung to that promise. Somehow, I did not succumb to the feelings of anger and neglect that simmered under the surface. Saturday would be the day—it was sex night after all. It would mark the beginning of a new phase in our relationship. A hot and sexy phase! Despite my lack of progress, I was as committed as ever to turning this marriage around.

  On Saturday morning, after I dropped Spencer at soccer and Chloe at her hip-hop dance class, I raced to the mall. A woman on a mission, I walked directly to Victoria’s Secret and purchased the sexiest red bra and G-string panties I could find. There was no way he could not notice me in red! When I picked up the children, I drove toward home with a small smile of accomplishment on my face. Within the hour, I had taken my children to their enriching, extracurricular activities, and outfitted myself for a night of incredible passion with my husband. Really, I was pretty good at this whole wife and mother game. I seemed to have been able to achieve the perfect balance between kind and nurturing maternal figure, and hot and sexy—

  “Heyyyyy… What’s in this pink bag?” Spencer called from the backseat, interrupting my self-congratulations.

  “DON’T TOUCH IT!!!” I shrieked. Keeping my eyes on the road, I flailed my arm in the backseat area, trying in vain to grab the lingerie bag that had slid out from under the passenger seat and was now in Spencer’s grasp.

  “Why? What is it?” He continued, oblivious to my admonitions. I could hear the tissue rustling as he dug in the sack. “What is this thing?” He removed the sheer red G-string from the bag and proceeded to sling shot it into the front seat of the car.

  “Spencer!” I hissed as my new panties landed on the floor mat beside me. “Put the friggin’ bag away!”

  “But what is that thing? Is it a toy?”

  “You are such an idiot!” Chloe screamed. “They’re underpants for mom! They’re disgusting!”

  “Thanks Chloe.”

  “And what’s this?” Spencer continued undeterred, pulling another garment from the bag.

  “It’s a bra!” Chloe said. “Like duh?”

  “But why is it all squishy and lumpy? It sounds like there’s water in it. Listen.” He shook it for his sister. “See? It’s full of water.”

  “It’s a water bra,” I said resignedly. “Now put it away.”

  “What’s a water bra?” Chloe asked.

  “A bra with water in it. Now, put it away please.”

  “But why?” She persisted.

  The last thing Chloe needed to be made aware of was the fact that men were completely obsessed with big boobs. With the track she was on, this knowledge would see her saving up for breast implants at fifteen, which she would likely need if she took after me. “It’s more comfortable.” I lied.

  “A water bra,” Spencer mumbled, still playing with it. “That’s weird, a bra with water in it. Could you put something else in it instead of water? Like pee?”

  “Spencer stop!!!” I shrieked. “Just stop! Put the friggin’ bra back in the friggin’ bag!”

  “Jeez!” he muttered, but I could hear him replacing it. “You don’t need to spaz.”

  Paul’s car was in the drive when we arrived home. I tucked the pink bag into my purse as we entered. “Hey guys!” He greeted us cheerfully. Spencer careened himself into his father and even Chloe gave him an affectionate shove as she walked past. Paul moved toward me. “How are you?” He leaned in for a kiss.

  “I’m good. How was golf?”

  “I didn’t play very well, but the vendors had a good time. And I ran into Doug Sutherland.”

  “Karen’s Doug?” I felt my heart lurch for some reason.

  “Yeah. I invited them around for a barbecue tonight. I thought I’d grill up a few steaks, have a few beers…”

  “You invited Karen and Doug over here? Tonight?”

  “Yeah, I thought it would be fun. They’re a nice couple. We should get to know them a little better.”

  “Oh, I know Karen plenty well,” I growled, stalking past him to the kitchen. “A little too well, in fact,” I added, to mysel
f.

  Paul followed me. “What’s the problem? I thought she was your friend?”

  “She is my friend.”

  “Then why don’t you want to have them over?”

  “It’s fine,” I said, banging around in the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. “Really, it’s great.” Yeah, it was just great. I had just gotten used to being around Karen after her confession, and now I had to face Doug! Doug and Karen! It was going to be awkward and uncomfortable—worse than awkward and uncomfortable. And suppose Karen left him and moved into some tiny, faraway apartment with Javier? I could just hear Doug telling all the neighbors: Paige knew about the affair all along. She even covered for Karen so she could cheat on me. And to think she had the nerve to invite me over to a barbecue at her house! What a horrible, deceitful woman.

  “What’s going on?” Paul interrupted my internal dialogue.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me, Paige,” he said sternly.

  I wanted to tell him then; I really did. Sometimes I wonder if things might have turned out differently if I had. But I couldn’t break my promise to Karen. And besides, if Paul knew about Karen’s affair, there’d be two of us acting awkward and strange around poor Doug tonight. I heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m just feeling a little tired for company, that’s all. But you’re right. It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay…” He said, skeptically. “I’ll go get some steaks.”

  “Great. And pick up some lettuce and croutons for a salad. And get beer… and some red wine. Get lots of red wine.”

  Chapter 7

  Lots of red wine turned out to be a bad idea. But I thought it would help me relax! If I just had a drink while I made the salad, I’d be calmer. And a glass while I put on my makeup might make it easier to pretend that this was just a fun evening between friends, who had no secrets. And then another, as I made the kids an early dinner of fish sticks and macaroni, and set them up with a movie in the playroom, might make me forget that anything was amiss between Karen and Doug. When they rang the bell at seven, I was feeling quite cheerful and confident that I could handle the situation.

  “Doug!” I swept him into a huge embrace that I may have held just a tad too long. “How are you? You look fantastic!” He did look pretty good. He was an attractive man of medium height, with a neat, greying goatee and stylish glasses. Something about Doug radiated intelligence. He was no artist’s model, to be sure, but neither was he a hideous ogre who would drive his wife into the arms of the first good-looking barista to come along.

  “You, too, Paige,” he answered politely. “Great to see you, as always.” He handed me a bottle of wine.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have, but how thoughtful. Paul, Doug brought a bottle of wine. Isn’t that nice? That’s so nice, Doug.”

  “Well… thanks for having us over.”

  “Our pleasure! Really, Paul and I were just saying that we should do this more often.” Paul took Doug’s coat and I turned to Karen. “Hi stranger! Long time no see.” I laughed, as if it were actually funny.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling a little tightly. “Thanks for inviting us.”

  “Well, when Paul said he saw Doug at the golf course and suggested a barbecue, I just thought, what a great idea! We don’t do nearly enough together as couples, do we?”

  “No.”

  It was a warm autumn evening, so we all stood on the back deck and visited as Paul grilled the T-bones. I kept everyone’s drink filled, including my own, and played the part of charming and witty hostess. At least, I thought I was charming and witty. In retrospect, I can see that I was just drunk. But all in all, the evening went quite smoothly. Karen and Doug seemed very much a couple, teasing each other good-naturedly, exchanging fond glances and touching affectionately. It would have been easy to forget that she was involved with someone else, had I not developed a slightly unhealthy fixation with the subject.

  Being with Karen and her husband only deepened my fascination—and confusion. Why did they seem so much closer than Paul and me? They seemed to revel in each other’s company. They presented as a team, a unified front. Whereas Paul and I—well, he was in charge of steaks: I was on salads. Our connection didn’t seem to go much beyond that. Did Karen’s infidelity make her appreciate Doug more? Now that she was sexually fulfilled, was she more able to enjoy his companionship? Could Doug sense that his wife was happier, more passionate, and more alive? And did that all rub off on their relationship? God! Was the secret to a happy marriage a hunk on the side?

  It was over a dessert of hot-fudge sundaes with fresh raspberries, when things went a little off the rails. Conversation had previously been split along gender lines. Paul and Doug chatted about work, golf scores, and last night’s football game. Karen and I covered the usual stuff: the new movie that she had seen and that I wanted to see, Carly’s difficulty tracking down the vending machine man, the work out regime I planned to start and the one Karen was already on. But as we sat around the dining room table, it seemed rude not to address Doug directly. I didn’t want him to think that I was uncomfortable around him. As hostess, it was my duty to engage all my guests in conversation. Unfortunately, in my inebriated state, I may not have chosen the best topic for discussion.

  “So Doug…” I leaned toward him. “I hear Karen’s seeing an infertility acupuncturist. I’m sure you’ll have her knocked up in no time!”

  Doug laughed, a little uncomfortably. Paul laughed, a lot uncomfortably.

  “Seriously though, once you have kids,” I continued my speech mildly slurred, “then you’re really a family, you know? …Not that you aren’t a family right now—you and Karen. You are! Very much so! But you know, kids… kids really kind of solidify a relationship. Not that they’re always easy, let me tell you. Some days I think, why couldn’t I have been satisfied with just a dog or something? But kids are great, really.”

  At this point, I happened to glance at my friend across the table. Her eyes were filled with panic. Uh-oh. I realized I’d been steering our conversation in the wrong direction. If Karen was going to leave Doug soon, she probably didn’t want me pumping up family life. “Although … you know, sometimes I think family is overrated. I mean, the whole concept of ‘family.” I did those annoying little air quotes. “Do people really need other people so much? Like, couldn’t people be just as happy alone, without the burden of a spouse and children or trying to have children? If I were to find myself alone tomorrow, I’d be okay. Not, like, if everyone was dead or whatever, but just being on my own… it would be okay.” I reached for my glass of wine, but Paul’s hand stopped me.

  “How about I make some coffee?” He was extending the offer to the whole table, but looking directly at me.

  “Actually, I think we’d better be going,” Karen said.

  “Yeah,” Doug agreed. “That was a really early morning on the golf course. I’m exhausted.”

  When we’d said our goodbyes, I trailed Paul to the kitchen. “So…?” I said suggestively, closing one eye to keep him in focus. “What should we do now?”

  “I’m going to clean up this mess. You should get to bed.”

  “I’ll help,” I insisted, grabbing a dirty plate. The cutlery sitting on top clattered noisily to the floor.

  “You’re going to wake the kids,” Paul hissed.

  “Sorry!” I sniped, sounding a lot like Chloe.

  “Listen hon,” he said patiently. “I’ll take care of the dishes. You get some sleep. You’re going to have a sore head in the morning.”

  Sulkily, I headed up the stairs. I felt like a scolded child, sent to bed before she was ready. I certainly didn’t feel tired: I felt full of energy! I wanted to do something wild and spontaneous, like take a cab into town and go dancing till dawn! At that moment, I remembered the pink bag tucked into my lingerie drawer. This was perfect! What better time to resexualize my marriage than right now, when I’d had a few drinks to enhance my sexiness and lower my inhibitions? I was going to do it! I was
going to put on the new lingerie and jump my husband, right there in the kitchen. Right there in the messy kitchen! The messiness of it just made it that much more wild and spontaneous!

  Thankfully, donning the crimson water bra and thong was much less complicated than my previous outfit. When I was dressed, I took in my reflection. The bra did a great job of boosting my miniscule breasts, and the thong… Well, who really looks that good in a thong anyway? But men go crazy for them, for some reason. Before I headed downstairs to ambush my husband, I slipped on an old pair of ridiculously high-heeled, strappy sandals: the pièce de résistance.

  “Hello?” I cooed as I walked down the stairs, running my hand seductively along the railing. “Hello? Mr. Atwell? I’m sorry to interrupt your cleaning, but I desperately need—”

  Suddenly, my ankle wobbled in its stiletto casing and, with a sharp, shooting pain, turned dramatically on its side. I grasped frantically for the railing, but to no avail. My body was pitched violently forward and I fell flat on my face, sliding painfully, step-by-step, down the carpeted staircase. Paul burst around the corner and saw me lying in a crumpled heap on the hardwood floor.

  “Jesus Christ! Are you okay?”

  “Ow!” I moaned.

  “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

  Just my pride, and of course: “My ankle.”

  “Can you stand on it?” Paul took my elbow and tried, in vain, to get me to stand in my three inch heels.

  “Ouch!” I winced and burst into tears.

  “It’s not broken, is it?” Paul bent down to inspect my foot.

  “It—it’s not broken,” I snuffled. “I just wanted… I just wanted to surprise you. I wanted to… re-, re-, resexualize…” Another wave of tears washed away my words.

  Paul kissed my hair then picked me up in his arms. “Off to bed with you, my little wineo,” he said, before laboriously carrying me up the stairs.

  The next day was a write-off. As Paul had predicted, I had a throbbing headache, plus a swollen ankle, and painful carpet burn on my knees and forearms. Mercifully, he let me sleep late, coming in to check on me at ten o’clock.