Opening Belle by Maureen Sherry Read Free Book Online

in our bed and Owen was in his crib.
    â€œHmph,” the lump replies. “He’s not really a baby. He’s almost three.” With that he lets the covers fall again and I swallow the urge to tear them off and shake him. Is this really the guy I married?
    â€œOwen has had dry Pull-Ups for two weeks now,” I say, as if this really excites me. What I really want to say is I love you so please get up and get a regular job in the world. Please stop being the depressed house daddy because it makes me feel like I’m all alone in this and I’m cracking.
    But even fake, pleasant bathroom talk isn’t getting a rise out of him this morning. It’d be so easy to turn into a whistle-blowing drill sergeant commanding the ship that I’m not aboard during the day, but I try hard not to. Still, there’s only a few minutes before I head out into the world, and I need to be sure we’ve both got the information to get us to the next day.
    I do it all in my head: Who drops the kids at school? (Bruce.) Who needs what supplies? (Me/Internet.) Order groceries? (Me/online.) Who will wait for the never-on-time nanny until she enters squawking a myriad of excuses? (Bruce.) I’m trying hard not to succumb to the instinct to holler the orders that sit like exploding Pop Rocks in my mouth, waiting to be spat out.
    Baby Owen is still asleep, which selfishly thrills me. By this hour, he’s usually clawing at my neck, panic rising from his pores. He knows his mother’s time of departure draws near and he hates it when I leave. I tell myself his behavior is age-related. My other two kids did the same until they eventually accepted that I leave each morning, regardless of their efforts, and that I always come back. The fact that Bruce hangs out with them is my comfort. I mean, they have one parent for most of their mornings, and that’s as good as it gets. But Baby Owen can sure emit projectile tears better than his siblings ever did, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t break my heart. Everything in his body language screams of mother-abandonment issues. I do hate those days when he’s asleep in the morning when I leave, and asleep when I come home at night. I imagine that he’ll simply think it’s been one long day when he finally sets his eyes on me tomorrow.
    I pick out the three outfits the children will wear for the day. This used to be Bruce’s job until the teacher of our four-year-old called me to ask why Brigid never wears panties to school, and why on that particular February morning, she was wearing open-toed sandals with no socks. “It’s what she chooses,” was Bruce’s defense. “And I don’t wear socks with loafers in February either.”
    â€œBut she’s FOUR!”
    â€œAnd I’m thirty-nine!” he had screamed back. From that day forward, I have always been the one to leave out their clothes.
    When I finally get clothes on myself, Brigid plops her shoe choice for me on the bed. This is our deal: I choose for her and she chooses for me. Today it will be the three-inch stilettos complete with rhinestones across the toes. I put them on and stand back to take it all in.
    â€œMatch good,” she says, satisfied with her choice.
    â€œNice and flashy,” I reply.
    â€œSnazzy,” she continues.
    Brigid is having a good time trying out new words. I have no idea where snazzy has come from.
    â€œSnazzy,” I agree, admiring her blue eyes that seem largest in the morning.
    The lump in the bed groans. My newish auto-alert goes off, that one about trying to remain sexy despite my role as the mother ship. As much as I don’t want to, it’s time to reignite this morning’s inner babe. I head to the lump.
    â€œDo you like Brigid’s choice?” I ask him, seductively putting one bent leg up on the bed.
    I lift the duvet off his head so he can take in the view. My skirt has hiked up just enough