Two by Two(19)

"We were on vacation."

"No," he said, "we were on a family trip, not a vacation."

"What's the difference?"

"You'll figure it out."

For the first three years of London's life, trips out of town required  D-Day – like preparations, diapers and bottles and strollers; snacks and  baby shampoo, entire bags packed with toys to amuse her. While out of  town, we visited places that we thought she would enjoy-the aquarium,  McDonald's playgrounds, the beach-running ourselves ragged, with little  time to ourselves and even less time to relax.

Two weeks before London's fourth birthday, however, Peters sent me to  Miami for a conference, and I decided to use a few vacation days after  it ended. I made arrangements for my parents to take care London for  four days, and while Vivian had initially been hesitant to leave our  daughter, it didn't take long for both of us to understand how much we'd  simply missed being …  free. We read magazines and books by the pool,  sipped piña coladas, and took naps in the afternoon. We got dressed up  for dinner, lingered over glasses of wine, and made love every single  day, sometimes more than once. One night we went to a nightclub and  danced until well after midnight, sleeping in the next day. By the time  we returned to Charlotte, I finally understood what my dad had meant.

Kids, he meant, changed everything.





It would have been more appropriate, I suppose, if it had been Friday  the thirteenth, instead of Monday the thirteenth since everything about  Vivian's first day of work seemed off somehow.

For starters, Vivian hopped in the shower first, which threw off a  morning schedule that had been years in the making. Unsure what to do, I  made the bed and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. While it  brewed, I decided to make Vivian a breakfast including egg whites,  along with berries and slices of cantaloupe. I made the same for myself,  thinking it wouldn't hurt to drop a few pounds. My pants, I'd noticed,  were beginning to nip at my waist.

While I was cooking, London joined me in the kitchen and I poured her a  bowl of cereal. Her hair was puffed up and messy, and even I could see  that she was tired.

"Did you sleep okay?" I asked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles kept waking me up. They kept getting on the wheel and it squeaks."

"That's not good. I'll see if I can make it stop squeaking, okay?"

She nodded as I poured my first cup of coffee. It wasn't until I was on  my third cup that Vivian finally made it to the kitchen. I did a double  take.

"Whoa." I smiled.

"You like?"

"You look fantastic," I said, meaning it. "I made you breakfast."

"I don't know how much I can eat. I'm so nervous, I'm not hungry."

I reheated the egg whites in the microwave while Vivian sat with London, listening as London told her about the noisy wheel.

"I told her I'd see if I can make it quieter," I said, bringing the plates to the table.         

     



 

Vivian began to nibble at her food while I sat. "You'll need to use the  detangling spray on London's hair this morning before you brush it. It's  next to the sink, in the green bottle."

"No problem," I said, vaguely remembering that I'd seen Vivian do it before. I scooped a forkful of eggs.

She turned her attention to London. "And your dad is going to sign you up for tennis camp today. You're going to love it."

I hesitated, my fork hovering just above the plate. "Wait … " I said. "What?"

"Tennis camp? We talked about this yesterday. Don't you remember?"

"I remember that you mentioned it. I don't remember any decision though."

"The sign-up for camp is today, and they're pretty sure it's going to  fill up fast, so you should try to be there around eight thirty. They'll  start taking names at nine. Her art class is at eleven."

"I need to go over my presentation."

"It's not going to take long to sign her up, and you can go over it  while she's doing art. There's a coffee shop a couple of doors down in  the same complex. She'll be fine if you don't stay-I usually just drop  her off and leave for the gym. What time's your meeting?"

"Two."

"See? That's perfect. Her class ends at twelve thirty, so you can drop  her at your mom's afterward. You know where the studio is, right? In  that strip center just down from the mall with the TGI Fridays?"

I knew the strip mall she was talking about, but my mind was more focused on my rapidly expanding to-do list.

"Can't we just call the club and sign her up?"

"No," Vivian said. "They need a copy of the insurance card, and there's a waiver that has to be signed."

My mind continued to whirl. "Does she have to go to her art class today?"

Vivian turned toward London. "Do you want to go to art class today, sweetheart?"

London nodded. "My friend Bodhi is there," she said, pronouncing it  Bodie. "He spells it B-O-D-H-I and he's really nice. I told him that I'd  bring Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles in today so he could see them."

"Oh, that reminds me. You'll need to grab more shavings, too, from the  pet store," Vivian added. "And don't forget about dance class later this  afternoon. It's at five, and the studio is in the same shopping center  as Harris Teeter." Vivian stood from the table and kissed London before  giving her a squeeze. "Mommy will be home after work, okay? Make sure  you put your dirty clothes in the hamper."

"Okay, Mommy. Love you."

"Love you, too."

I walked Vivian to the door and opened it for her before offering a quick kiss.

"You'll knock 'em dead," I said.

"I hope so." She touched her hair carefully. Reaching into her purse,  she handed me a folded piece of paper. "I wrote London's schedule down  to make it easier for you."

I scanned the list. Art classes on Mondays and Fridays at eleven, piano  lessons Tuesdays and Thursdays at nine thirty. Dance class on Monday,  Wednesday, and Friday at five. And starting next week, tennis camp, on  Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays at eight.

"Wow," I volunteered. "That's quite the schedule. Don't you think it's too much?"

"She'll be fine," Vivian said.

For whatever reason, I expected a longer goodbye, maybe a bit more  chitchat about her being nervous or whatever, but instead she turned and  walked briskly toward her car.

She never glanced back.





Don't ask me how, but somehow, I pulled it all off. Shower, shave, and  throw on my work duds; check. Detangler spray before brushing London's  hair and get her dressed for the day; check. Clean the kitchen, and  start the dishwasher; check. Sign London up for tennis camp and bring  her to art class along with Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles; check and check. Go  over the presentation, drop London off at my mom's, and make it to the  meeting with the chiropractor with a couple of minutes to spare; check,  check, and check.

The chiropractor's office was a rinky-dink storefront in a run-down  industrial area, not the kind of place anyone might feel comfortable  seeing a health practitioner. A single once-over revealed that my  potential client was in desperate need of my services.

Unfortunately, the client felt otherwise. He was interested in neither  the PowerPoint presentation I'd prepared nor anything I had to say,  especially when compared to the interest he showed in the sandwich he  was eating. He was irked that it didn't have any mustard. I know this  because he told me three times, and when I asked if he had any questions  at the end of my presentation, he asked me if I had any packets of  mustard in my car that I could spare.         

     



 

I wasn't in the best of moods when I picked up London from my mom's, and  after swinging by the pet store, we headed home. I hopped back onto the  computer and worked until it was time for dance, but finding London's  outfits took some time since neither of us had any idea where Vivian put  them. We were a few minutes late leaving the house and London grew  fretful as the clock continued to tick.

"Ms. Hamshaw gets really, really mad if you break her rules."

"Don't worry. I'll just tell her it's my fault."

"It won't matter."

It turns out London was right. Just inside the entrance was a seating  area occupied by five unspeaking women; directly ahead was the dance  floor, the two areas separated by a low wall with a swinging door. To  the right were cases filled with trophies; the walls were decorated with  banners proclaiming various students and teams as winners of national  competitions.

"Go on in," I urged.

"I can't walk onto the floor until I'm told I can proceed."

"What does that mean?"

"Stop talking, Daddy. Parents are supposed to be quiet when Ms. Hamshaw is talking. I'll get in even more trouble."

Ms. Hamshaw-a stern woman with iron-colored hair pulled into a tight  bun-barked directions at a class comprised of five- and six-years-olds.  In time, she strode toward us.