Could you even imagine?
Surely I’d lose my grip and drop the kid in the alligator swamp during a leisurely trip to the zoo, or maybe I’d just trip and fall on top of them because tripping was kind of my thing. If there was any way to klutzily, accidentally destroy my tiny human, I would most assuredly do it.
Glenda said, “I read some of your work at ohbabybaby.com, and it’s exactly what we’re looking for. The tongue-in-cheek comedic angle while still addressing legitimate parental topics is pretty much the vibe we’re interested in.”
“Great.”
“Your article about that Kardashian kid’s wardrobe made me cackle.”
I smiled. That piece had been one of my favorites.
I’d taken the job writing articles for OhBabyBaby as a side hustle to my boring technical writing job because living in Chicago was expensive. The site’s target audience was parents, but it actually wasn’t a parenting site. I’d done articles on which celebrities looked best pregnant, whose kids had the best wardrobes, the funniest Pinterest fails, and, of course, gender reveal nightmares.
Was that why she thought I was applying for the parenting job? Had my résumé been read and then promptly misrouted to Glenda because of OhBabyBaby? I opened my mouth to address it, when she asked, “How old are your kids, by the way?”
I swallowed. Blinked. Scratched my right eyebrow. “Two. Um, two and four,” I heard myself say, and I immediately wanted to slap myself in the face.
Her face lit up. “Mine are two and five! Boys or girls?”
I felt my armpits get instantly sweaty, and I pictured my nephews. “Both boys.”
“Mine are both girls.” She beamed at me and I hated myself. I was a lying, child-faking loser, and I didn’t deserve the kindness of this woman. She said, “Everyone tells me to buckle up for the high school years.”
I shrugged, and pictured the boys again. It was less severe a lie if I pictured actual people as I lied, right? I conjured up Kyle and Brady again. “Mine are killing me now—I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to those years. Because if I have to watch one more episode of Paw Patrol . . .”
“Right?” She shook her head. “I mean, what kind of town leans on a teenage boy to solve all of their problems?”
“An idiotic town whose mayor has a pet chicken. I mean, that fact alone should have sent up all the red flags.”
We small-talked about our kids—please kill me—for a few more minutes before the interview ended. She shook my hand and said she’d be in touch, and I honestly wanted to cry as I rode the elevator down to the lobby.
Because I wanted that job.
I wasn’t a mom and knew nothing about being a mom, but I wanted that job so bad. And not just because I desperately needed employment. I wanted to work with Glenda. I wanted to write tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic-yet-sweet parenting articles. My creative side was tingling because I knew I could totally kick ass at that job.
If only I had kids.
I walked back to the apartment slowly, teetering in the cheap black pumps I’d worn to homecoming my junior year. I tried talking myself into a little positivity as I headed home; there were still exciting things happening in my life, right?
I was living downtown, which was my absolute favorite thing, so that was cool. In a great apartment, no less, even if it was with my brother and I had to sleep on a bed that was made of a raft.
Things really could be a lot worse.
Hell, I could be living with my parents.
And I was still getting up early and running every day; for me, that was huge. Even though I panted like a dog and had to stop to walk every three blocks or so, I was a week into my new life and still trying to make it stick.
It helped that Colin was gone. He’d been away in Boston on business, and if he were home, I probably would’ve blown off running because no way could I ever have him as a running buddy. But with him out of the picture, I’d been able to jog without stress.
I’d also been sneaking into his room and napping on top of his fancy pillow-soft bed every day, so I was more well-rested than I’d been in a really long time. I knew it was a little scrubby of me to use his bed without asking, but that air mattress was killing my back and I was incredibly careful to sleep above the covers.
What he didn’t know and all that, right?
My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of the pocket of the skirt I’d worn to the DECA convention my sophomore year.
Mr. Wrong Number: I have time to kill and I’m bored. Give me something to ponder.