Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [31]
One afternoon, Larson was working on a paint-a-tie-for-your-dad kit I had picked up for him at Jack’s 99 Cents. Because Larson is surrounded by some of the most amazing art and architecture in the world, he has developed a great deal of personal style and artistic ability. He was distracted from the project, though, by a favorite SpongeBob episode on the television, so he didn’t do his best work. He didn’t seem to think Peter would mind, though, and presented the result to him just as we were headed out to the Tribeca Ball, a benefit for the New York Academy of Art. Peter stripped off his ancient Hermès tie and put Larson’s on, much to our son’s delight. A few hours later, at dinner, the grande dame of art herself, Eileen Guggenheim, leaned over to Peter from a table away.
“What artist painted your tie?” she said, barely touching a finger to it.
“An outsider who goes by the name of Larson,” Peter said in all seriousness, though there was a glint in his eye.
“Ah,” she replied, leaning back to her own table, but only after giving him a knowing look, one that said she had heard of this new artist, and he was going to be a big success.
AT A COCKTAIL PARTY NOT LONG AGO, I STARTED CHATTING UP ANOTHER guest. She was a typical New York Upper East Side socialite, attractive, sleekly dressed, perfectly coiffed hair, in her mid-forties, with just a tad too much Botox as evidenced by her huge, motionless forehead. We ran through the customary small talk about where we live in the city and what we do; I told her about my ridiculous living conditions, which led to comparing notes on children. I went on a bit about my six, their various activities, and basically how challenging it is to keep the kids all alive, which is clearly the main objective of any parent.
“Yes,” she said, “I know how hard it is to keep your little ones out of harm’s way. Why, just this past month I almost lost my baby, Lily.” She paused to take an exaggerated breath.
“Go on,” I encouraged, moved by this terrible admission and at the same time dying to know all.
“Well, it was just heartbreaking to have to spend Christmas in the intensive care ward when all the other darlings were at home, waiting for Santa.”
“You poor thing.” I opened my eyes wider in what I hoped looked like an invitation to say more.
“Yes. It was as close to tragic as I ever hope to come.”
“I can imagine,” I said, leaning forward. At this point I really needed some specifics to find the right empathetic chord to strike—this is what people do: we share our own challenges to let another person know that we understand their pain. I was already flipping through my memory picture book, past the time that Cleo shoved pearls up her nose, straight to the time that Peik had emergency surgery for a septic knee. I found nothing quite as wrenching as spending Christmas in intensive care. “How did she get there?” I queried, very gently. Sometimes people don’t like to talk about accidents or diseases, especially at fancy cocktail parties.
“Well, she was sitting right there.” The woman pointed at an imaginary object. “On the counter at Bergdorf’s, patiently waiting for Mommy to make a special purchase.” I recalibrated my mental picture of Lily to reflect perhaps a pre-walking infant, something that sits up on a department store counter. “When just like that, some thoughtless person offered her a treat, can you imagine?”
“Um, no,” I said, thinking: Well, it’s not unheard-of to give a kid candy at Christmas.
“And then it happened!” she exclaimed in a hushed voice, nearly dropping her Sauvignon Blanc as she swept her other hand in front of her. “Lily jumped down off the counter to get the treat and broke her back!”
Now I did feel some real sympathy. A small child with a broken back is serious.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Thank God she had on her Chanel booties, or God only knows what would have happened to her paws. Four days in the hospital.