And of course I get nothing but dirty looks from the world’s most perfect mothers. They can’t just drop their kids off and come back like normal parents who foam at the mouth when they find out they’ll get a few hours of peace and quiet and make their kids jump out of the moving vehicle at the curb before peeling off to get a massage or go to the bar. Oh no, they have to stand in the corner in their perfect little clique, judging me with their pastel sweater sets, linen pants, and string of pearls. Drew has already told one of them he has a much better pearl necklace he can give her later that night, hence the huddling in the corner. I think they really thought he was going to whip his dick out at a children’s party and jerk off on one of their necks. Actually, this is Drew I’m talking about. There's a distinct possibility he might do it.
They spend the whole day looking put-out that they had to be here. They turn their noses up at my store-bought decorations and one even says, “Oh, so you didn’t do centerpieces and table favors? And I heard you say this wasn’t catered? That’s a shame.” Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is a party for a FIVE YEAR OLD. Not a f**king Bar Mitzvah. I'm not decoupaging anything, using a glue gun, or whittling an ice sculpture, and I sure as hell am not serving lobster and filet. I feed them pizza and hot dogs and fill goodie bags with Play Doh and bubbles. Where I come from, that’s how you celebrate a toddler’s birthday. I hold my tongue, though, because I don’t want to be that woman who got into a cat fight at her kid's birthday party.
I'm tired, cranky, and on edge as it is because I haven’t talked to Carter yet. He had worked last night and we drove separately to the party so he could sleep. If another one of those uppity bitches says anything else to me, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions.
Liz grabs two plates of cake and leaves to take one over to Jim and antagonize the lone father whose wife probably threatened his manhood if he didn’t come with her to the party.
She probably told him he wouldn’t get missionary birthday sex this year where he could rub on top of her for thirty seconds while she was fully clothed. Poor guy.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Carter asks as he comes up next to me and helps put forks on all the plates with a slice of cake on them. We've only said a few words to each other in passing since he got here. Both of us have been running around making sure everyone was happy and the party was a success. He had looked a little horrified at first when he got here, having never experienced a little boy’s birthday party before, but he quickly jumped right in, grabbed a can of Silly String and began screaming and running around with the kids.
“I’m okay. Just tired,” I tell him. I want to throw my arms around him and tell him I'm sorry for being such a bitch lately, but I know it will make me cry and I'm not about to do that in front of all these people. He seems nervous standing here with me and it makes me sad that I’ve done this to him. Instead of wrapping his arms around me and making a joke like he normally would, he keeps his distance, probably afraid I will snap at him or burst into tears like I’ve done for three months.
I am the biggest bitch in the entire world.
I turn to face him, knowing I need to say something to clear the air even if it's just to tell him I love him, when one of the she-wolves stalked over and interrupts us.
“Excuse me, but I think you should know that your son just said a bad word,” she informs me haughtily with her hands on her hips.
Son of a bitch. This is so not what I need right now.
“I’m sorry. What did he say?” I ask.
I wonder if she’s too appalled to say whatever the word is out loud. She’s probably going to spell the word for me, and I’m going to have no choice but to point and laugh at her. F-U-C-K, A-S-S, S-H-I-T…what's it gonna be? Hopefully she knows how to spell bad words or this is going to be a whole new level of awesome.
Drew comes up to us and the woman looks at his shirt that says “Have you seen my perfect man ass?” and huffs in irritation.
“What’s the dillio, folks?” he asks, taking a bite out of a cookie and spitting crumbs as he talks.
“I was just telling Claire that Gavin said a bad word in front of my son,” she explains again.
“We’re really sorry,” Carter reiterates.
“So what did he say? Cocksucker, thundercunt, f**kholes, ballsactitties? Drew asks in all seriousness.
Under normal circumstances I would have probably smacked him in the arm for this, but the shock on Mother Theresa’s face across from me is satisfaction enough. I put my hand over my mouth to cover up my giggle.
She sputters and gasps a few times before she finally replies angrily. “For your information, he said the word c-r-a-p.”
The three of us stand there looking at her funny.
“Well? Aren’t you going to do something about that?” she asks when no one says or does anything.
“I’m sorry, did you just spell the word crap?” Drew asks in confusion.
“Yes, that’s the word Gavin said,” she tells him.
Drew starts laughing. Loud, gut busting laughs.
“Oh my God! You totally had me going there for a minute,” Drew tells her between laughs. “I really thought G-man was going to be in trouble.”
The other mothers must have heard the commotion and walk over to join our small group.
“I should have known you wouldn’t do anything about it. I mean, it’s obvious you don’t know the first thing about being a good parent. The parenting skills you have shown are appalling. Letting your child run amok, talking like a veteran trucker or a sailor. Real people do not talk this way to each other. The amount of times I’ve heard the word v-a-g-i-n-a alone is shocking. If this whole display was a story I was reading, it would be a disappointing ‘did not finish’ for me.”