Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [32]
“Oh,” I said. “Her paws.”
“Yes, poor little Tiger Lily may never be able to have another pedicure, what with the damage to her nails.”
“Tiger Lily? You’re talking about a dog?” I said, unable to politely hide my disgust. A swirl of thoughts raced through my head: I’ve got to get back downtown; I want my ten minutes back; why does Karl Lagerfeld design dog shoes? This woman was a walking example of exactly why I won’t have a dog in the city, especially not one that will fit in a purse—that kind of dog will make you a crazy person before you are ready to be one. Once all my circuits are snapped and I’m wandering around with my latest gay boyfriend, wearing feather boas and too much jewelry, then and only then will I have a dog. If any of my children want a dog, they can move out and get one. I need to remain a safe distance from this particular banana peel.
ALL THAT SAID, FOR EVERY WOMAN IN NEW YORK WHO TREATS HER shih tzu like a child, there is a woman who treats her child like a shih tzu—prized, groomed, pampered, and coddled to within an inch of its life.
I was at a parents’ meeting at school one morning, talking to one of the new moms—an attractive, petite, divorced woman around my age. She was telling me about her difficult relationship with her ex-husband. There was a distinct sound of bitterness in her voice, which didn’t surprise me once I understood he had left her for a twenty-four-year-old.
“He really crossed a line last week,” she said. “I’m going to have my lawyer work on getting his custody rights revoked. My case is ironclad—you cannot believe what he did.”
“What did he do?” I had to ask. After all, I often have divorce fantasies that result in Peter getting sole custody of all the children, even Cleo, who has been out of the house for a good seven years already. Just for some peace and quiet. That’s what my grounds for divorce would be: irreconcilable noises. I often tell Peter, “If I ever leave, you get the boys.” It’s all in good fun, but I imagined that this mom’s problems must have something to do with Ecstasy pills rolling out of the girlfriend’s slack mouth, or her pole-dancing friends coming over for a weekend performance. Something juicy, or half naked at the very least.
“Well”—she sniffed, half angry, half distraught—“he packed their lunches with Cheetos, Go-Gurts, and bologna sandwiches on white bread.” She sat back, satisfied. My mouth fell open, so she continued. “Do you have any idea how dangerous high-fructose corn syrup is? It is in every single one of those products! And the cheese single must have been made out of milk from cows who have been given hormones and antibiotics. When the children are in my care, I poach Amish-raised, grass-fed, free-range chicken breasts and stuff them into whole-grain pitas with hydroponic tomatoes and micro-greens that we grow in our own kitchen. How could he possibly endanger them in this way? And undermine my attempts to keep them from being poisoned by the agribusinesses that are the cornerstones of the nation’s obesity and diabetes epidemics?”
“It’s a good question, I’m sure,” I said. She probably took the look of shock on my face as kindred-spiritedness. I’m all for a nutritious diet, and I personally despise Go-Gurts, which are single-serving tubes of yogurt waiting to be set on a table and exploded by the force of a small boy’s fist applied to one end. They are capable of nailing a victim at thirty feet and making in a mess that only CSI: Miami could begin to unravel. But as I sat there hearing about other dietary transgressions, I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps it was this woman’s husband who should be pursuing a custody change. Her reaction was maniacally disproportionate. Junk food is not child abuse. Not in anybody’s book. I quickly made a mental note of this mom’s name so that when she called for a play date I could demur. It’s bad enough that my kids would starve at her house and never, ever forgive me for subjecting them to tofu. But even worse, here’s what would happen if her kids came to my house:
They would have