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  For Todd, Jesse, and Phoebe

  Introduction: The Stay-at-Work Mom

  * * *

  Every Mother’s Day, I’m reminded of what a . . . unique mother I had. There isn’t a single card that captures my experience. And the dread I feel about that while heading into my local Rite Aid is profound.

  To be fair, it would be hard for even the most seasoned card-poet to find decent couplets for Even Though You Left When I Was Five, You Continue to Haunt Me. Or I Know You Never Wanted Children, But . . . Or My Kids Can Never Have Enough Clothes or Shoes Because I Had to Share Mine with Your Ventriloquist Dummy.

  That said, I’d settle for a simple On This Day and All Days, I’m Terrified of Becoming You. It wouldn’t even need to rhyme. Maybe there could just be a fun illustration of a scared little girl with the shadow of her big scary mother chasing her.

  Hallmark or no, though, my upbringing made me who I am today—a successful television comedy writer, a loved wife, a “competent” mother, and a complete mess of a person whose very first role model was a disaster. I can come up with jokes, storylines, and wacky characters inside a New York minute. While being yelled at by a narcissistic asshole boss at midnight, I can deliver rewrites on a forty-five-page script without breaking a sweat, bleary-eyed and bloated, as coffee and SweeTarts eat away at my stomach lining.

  But the idea of taking care of my children for any extended period of time, facing their neediness and all that entails—how they get so . . . thirsty and hungry—well, that thought alone simply brings me to my knees.

  So I stay at work. I am a Stay-at-Work Mom.

  You would think in this “You go, girl,” “She persisted,” pussy-hat day and age that being a Stay-at-Work Mom would be roundly supported, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong. Truth is, there’s still a stigma attached to working mothers—and nowhere more, I’m sad to report, than among the Stay-at-Home Moms.

  Case in point: one Saturday a few years back I was at my son’s football game, and this gal festooned with babies approached me before I could escape her line of fire.

  She smiled and pointed to the 2 Broke Girls patch on my jacket. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “Does your husband work on 2 Broke Girls? We love that show!”

  I looked around to make sure it wasn’t 1955 and then said, “No, you dumb twat, I work on 2 Broke Girls—I’m a writer.”

  I didn’t really call her a dumb twat. But my tone for sure implied it.

  What followed was the telltale, unmistakable, and super judge-y head tilt. “Wow,” the Mom said. “I could never be away from my kids like that.”

  I wanted to say: “Yes, you could—it’s probably all you think about. You lie awake wondering why you let these small people who can’t even wipe themselves or appreciate a good joke take your life from you. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore under those maternity sweatpants. You fantasize about getting in your minivan, running away from all of it, getting involved in a Bridges of Madison County–type romance and never coming home again. There is no way any adult enjoys spending time with a toddler, even if it’s ‘brilliant’ or ‘hilarious,’ and frankly, if you really do enjoy them that much, there is something seriously wrong with you.”

  But I didn’t say any of that because deep down, I do feel guilty about the unrivaled joy I get leaving my house in the morning. I feel ashamed for needing more to fulfill me than fostering the growth of these beautiful human beings I created. I fear it’s a shortcoming that I’m unwilling to surrender myself to Jesse and Phoebe (those are my kids) 100 percent of the time.

  That unrivaled joy I feel when I leave the house? I wish I could bottle it. You know who would buy it by the case? Stay-at-Home Moms.

  Some nights I do go straight home. But then there are the nights where I crawl on my elbows under my kids’ bedroom windows to the garage where we keep an elliptical machine, so I can get enough endorphins coursing through my system to see them. Or other nights when, while other mothers are making their children pasta made from non-GMO lentils, I’ll be in a yoga class full of twenty-four-year-olds. Or, just walking around the mall aimlessly until a voice in my head says, “Go home, already.” Or, best of all (worst of all?), the nights I sit in my car around the corner from the house gathering the courage to face the bedtime routine all in the hope of missing it, and usually walking through the door just after they’ve fallen asleep, kissing them on their sweet, blissful, unconscious foreheads. Foreheads that my poor husband bathed while I was “stuck in traffic.”

  I can never confess these hard truths to Stay-at-Home Moms, though. No admitting my failings or my guilt, I must appear strong when my choices are challenged or judged—which I usually accomplish by throwing my husband, Todd, under the bus.

  “I have to work,” I said to that mom at the football game, feigning frustration and envy. “I’d love to stay home with my kids—God, if only! You’re so lucky you’re not the primary breadwinner!”

  Occasionally, however, encouragement comes—often at the most unexpected times and from the unlikeliest of people. One day on the 2 Broke Girls set, I was showing Jennifer Coolidge pictures on my phone, and she landed on one of my family on vacation, smiling and splashing in the pool.

  “You have such a beautiful family,” she gushed.

  “I think I made a mistake,” I heard myself blurt.

  Her stunned silence was followed by a burst of laughter. I asked her what was so funny.

  “It’s just that nobody ever says stuff like that,” she said.

  I went on to tell her how, while in the delivery room delivering my firstborn, Jesse, I suddenly remembered I didn’t even like kids, and that what I remembered most about childbirth was screaming “I hated babysitting!” to my doctor. I also told her how I cautioned Todd as he counted Jesse’s fingers and toes not to get attached to his son, that the very first words Jesse heard from his mother were, “Don’t take the tags off—we may not be keeping him,” which cracked up the nurses but infuriated me.

  “You don’t get it,” I’d wailed, as Jesse let out his first cry. “What if I lose him?”

  The doctor assured me he was very healthy, and Todd had to explain that I was talking about losing him like at a mall. “She actually really loses her wallet a lot,” he said.

  Todd gets me.

  Jennifer had grown quiet, and I realized I’d probably freaked her out—the crazy writer who wished her kids came with return shipping labels.

  But no. “See, that’s just so honest,” she said. “I thought all mothers were so happy.”

  Then it was my turn to laugh. I told her there isn’t a mother out there who pushes a human being out of her body and doesn’t think, Holy shit, I’ve ruined my life, and if you get one glass of Chardonnay in them, they’ll tell you as much themselves.

  “Well, your kids look great,” Jennifer said. “You must be doing something right.”

  Beneath my “who cares about them, they’re just kids” expression, I was beaming. Beaming! Because someone I respected, one of the most talented comedians I’d ever worked with, thought I “must be doing something right”—which is basically the grail of compliments for SAWMs like me.

  I’m a Stay-at-Work Mom not because I don’t love my kids, but because I do love them—I love them more than I
ever imagined I could. And I’m terrified of messing up their lives.

  Guilt Trip

  * * *

  Being a working mom—especially a Stay-at-Work Mom—means you don’t have to be home for a lot of the bad shit like homework and dinnertime.

  You don’t have to drag your cherubs to karate or gymnastics or any other things they once begged you to let them do and now have to be dragged to.

  You don’t have to sit in a folding chair or watch them through windows, unable to zone out on your phone on the off-chance that they glance over to make sure you saw their cartwheel or base hit, your non-scrolling hand locked into “thumbs-up” duty. Likewise, you don’t have to deal with the meltdown after the event because they’re overscheduled or be the bad guy and say no when they want a candy bar from the vending machine, standing your ground so they don’t grow up to be assholes.

  Instead, you get to see them when they’re bathed, cried out, and drifting off to sleep, kissing them on the head at the stroke of wine o’clock.

  Being a working mom also means, however, that you have to make up for all that time away, so your kids don’t resent you so much that, instead of caring for you in your old age, they throw you in a home the first time you put your phone in the dishwasher. Which I’ve already done.

  I make up for my lost time by taking the whole family away for a few days the minute my current show wraps for the season. Also, every spring break I go solo and take my kids on what I call a “Guilt Trip.” This is mostly my way of making it up to Todd, who picks up the slack when I’m working late, or on weekends, or when I need to go to yoga after working late, or on weekends because I just spent the week working late. I don’t want him to throw me in a home, either. It’s all about planning for the future.

  This past spring break, I decided the kids and I would spend three days and two nights at Great Wolf Lodge, an indoor waterpark-slash-hotel not too far away from where we live. It’s a pretty big resort chain that you probably don’t know about—and one you definitely would never stay at—unless you have kids. To me, it looked like a pretty good deal—a hotel with enough activities to entertain the kids without me? I was IN.

  Of course, I had come to that conclusion through a discount booking website at three-thirty in the morning. In retrospect, daylight hours are preferable for making travel plans.

  But at the time, I felt more than up to the challenge, because while I wasn’t bringing Todd, I was bringing Julie to help shoulder the parenting. Julie is a Stay-at-Home Mom I met when our kids were in preschool together—her son Luke is Jesse’s age, and her daughter Quinn is the same age as Phoebe. When your kids are the same age and sex as your friend’s kids, it’s like hitting the playdate jackpot.

  We’d first bonded over a mutual friend in New York who I knew from growing up and who Julie knew from her life as a “person” before kids.

  “Tara Newman?!” she’d squealed. “I worked with her when I was in publicity! Oh my God, she’s great!”

  “Can’t stand her,” I said flatly. “Awful person. Truly hateful.”

  We’ve been close ever since.

  Julie had many qualities I didn’t like—she’d given up a career and pants with zippers to dedicate her life to her children and took actual pleasure in organizing their Legos. She always had wet wipes and Neosporin in her bag and a “Momgenda” calendar on her kitchen wall (I have one, too, but it remains open to January 2014). But Julie didn’t pretend to be happy with every single one of her choices. She was bored, she was unfulfilled, and she ate stale Halloween candy in the middle of the night like a civilian.

  On top of all that, our kids were ages where they could go off and invade a kid-centric contained space like Great Wolf Lodge while we got to sit back, relax, and complain to each other—me about the burdens of supporting a family, Julie about the crushing depression caused by spending her days immersed in children.

  “I’m so jealous of you,” she’d say.

  “I’m so jealous of you,” I’d say.

  Julie was the secret weapon in my quest to survive the Great Wolf Lodge expedition, and I was damned proud of myself for coming up with the strategy—so proud, in fact, that when a class email went around about a lice epidemic a week before school let out, I decided to cast the net even wider—safety in numbers, after all.

  “Phoebe had two eggs behind one ear and the mama behind the other, but the mobile lice lady came and fried them off her head for thirty bucks,” I replied to all, adding, “By the way, I’m taking my kids to Great Wolf Lodge over spring break—if anyone is going to be there.”

  The response I got was overwhelming—not about the lice eggs, but about Great Wolf Lodge.

  I was called brave and a better person than I. Quite a few moms responded, “You couldn’t pay me enough money to go there” and “Please tell your kids not to tell my kids that place really exists!”

  That should have been all I needed to know. Did I really think that I—who can’t survive a trip to the mall without losing my car, my wallet, my mind, and/or at least one child—was a match for a world where even the most intrepid of über-moms feared to tread?

  But you’re not going alone, I reminded myself. This gave me strength, as did my standard mantra on Guilt Trips: This is for them, not you. We may not have been legion, Julie and I, but we were a team. Hell, it worked for Thelma and Louise. Until the over-the-cliff thing.

  • • •

  THE MORNING OF our trip, Jesse, Phoebe, and I loaded into the car while Todd—his slightly above-average good looks enhanced by euphoria at the prospect of a weekend to himself—heaved our suitcases into the trunk with one arm, demonstrating a strength and determination he usually reserves for adjusting the satellite dish. He hovered, grinning from ear to ear as he wished me luck—he’d been copied on the email tree about the lice and seen the ominous warnings against Great Wolf Lodge.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his attempt at concern a pathetic cover for the elated smile he couldn’t suppress.

  “I’m not that inept a mother,” I snapped, slamming my door; I needed more Starbucks, two cup holders full was not enough. “I can handle a night away with my own children.”

  “It’s two nights, Liz,” he corrected me.

  I put the car in reverse and had that sudden twinge of panic—two nights?! Could I do this? Could I actually keep a seven- and nine-year-old alive for two nights?!

  Of course I could. I was their mother, they came from me. Phoebe had my thighs and stink-eye, and Jesse, my anxiety—what more proof did I need? We are apiece. We’d be fine.

  That said, I immediately called Julie to make sure she was on her way—I didn’t want to arrive before she did.

  She was on the road, she said, she’d see me soon. I smiled into the rearview mirror at my kids.

  “I’m so excited to spend time with you guys!” I said.

  “You’re going to come in the water, right?” Phoebe asked from the backseat.

  Um . . . “No, Sweet Pea.”

  “What about the water slide?” Jesse asked.

  Ummmm . . . “No, Doodle-Bug. But we are going to spend a lot of time together!” I cheered. “Or at least near each other,” I mumbled into my coffee.

  “. . . What do you mean, ‘near each other,’ Mama?” Phoebe asked.

  I glanced back at my daughter. She can’t hear when I tell her to bring her soccer cleats inside before it rains or not to use an entire roll of toilet paper every time she wipes, but when I don’t want her to hear something, Phoebe’s a Doberman. She gets this from her father.

  “I mean that I’ll be near you because we’re gonna all be together,” I said, turning the music up to drown out any future utterances.

  “Can you just give me a little bit of space?” Jesse hollered, his hands by his ears, gesticulating wildly in frustration. “For once in my life?”

  “Jesse’s looking at me!” I heard Phoebe scream.

  Jesse and Phoebe were in that developmental stage
where siblings become like a married couple, who have ironically become like siblings who can’t stand each other. They commenced lunging for each other as far as their seatbelts allowed. I let them fight, safe in the knowledge that Luke and Quinn would be great distractions in a matter of hours.

  • • •

  WE PULLED UP to Great Wolf Lodge, which from the outside looked more like an industrial park than a hotel, only with giant boulders on either side of the entrance. Maybe they were kidding about the “lodge” theme. I wondered if the rest of the place was going to be a corporate cavern, which made me suddenly nervous about the food. Would it be amusement park fare, with fish battered and not a vegetable besides French fries in sight? I was trying to be healthy and avoid saturated fats—an instinct forged and buffed to a high paranoia by a lifetime of food-related traumas and subsequent eating disorders. Parking the car, I reminded myself that the trip wasn’t about me, but about spending quality time with my children.

  The kids, finally free to smack each other, left me to drag our luggage across the lot, along with my purse packed to bursting with goggles, water bottles, snacks, my wallet, and the various pills I would need to keep me sane when required and unconscious at the end of the day.

  My fears of Great Wolf Lodge not having committed to the “lodge” theme were quickly assuaged. The giant lobby was lodge themed, as conceived in the mind of a meth addict. Faux log walls appeared haphazardly around un-upholstered log chairs, moose antler chandeliers, and lamps in the shape of bears either hugging or humping foliage. Trees sprouted out of nowhere amongst indoor-patio furniture, fireplaces, and one giant clock to remind me that it was still very early in the day.

  The décor turned out to be the least of my concerns. That’s because hotels made Jesse anxious. We’d been involved in exactly ONE MINOR hotel fire years earlier, which inconveniently happened in the middle of the night, and ever since then, my son had been terrified beyond reason every time we stayed anywhere another fire might break out. It’s like he didn’t realize that our house could catch on fire, too. Easily. I leave candles burning constantly. Even ablaze, though, that hotel had been an order of magnitude nicer than GWL. They had great salads, too.