Page 5

Lizzie

Things I Have Seen Bex (um…Rebecca) Sommers do on a small screen in my hand:

Castrate a three-legged goat.

Potty train her twins without diapers.

Give birth to her children in a tub on the floor of her restored barn.

Extol the virtues of the rhythm method of birth control even as she seems to be pregnant every couple of years.

Churn butter.

Commit to a thirty-day “intimacy challenge” to have sex with her husband every day for an entire month.

Give all of her children haircuts that look amazing.

Deliver a baby lamb.

Every picture that Bex posts has the same captions and hashtags. Things like #DreamsDoComeTrue, #RomanticizeYourLife, and #SomeonePinchMe. If you don’t think too hard about it, those captions can work for anything.

Did your toddler poop in the pool? #SomeonePinchMe.

Did you not tear your perineum while giving birth in that tub? #DreamsDoComeTrue.

I’m thinking about this before I even pick up my phone while lying in bed in the morning when I feel a sharp pain on my toe like I’ve been bitten by a rat.

“Jesus Christ,” I yelp, waking Peter as I snatch my leg away from the offender’s fangs.

My first thought is that our geriatric basset hound, Bethany (don’t ask), is curled up at the foot of the bed and got hungry but didn’t know where she was.

It’s happened before. But no. The wound was inflicted by our toddler, who has inexplicably taken to biting people’s toes like a rabies-infected raccoon.

Ollie laughs in glee as I yank up the blanket and do the only thing I can possibly do as I grit my teeth through the pain and check to see if I’m bleeding.

I grab him, tickle him, and cover him in kisses while asking him to “please stop biting people, especially Mommy,” and inquire about when exactly he ended up curled at our feet.

“Darktime,” he replies simply. “Nora snore.”

“Fair,” I say. “But wake Mommy up next time and maybe sleep at the top of the bed. And also do not bite toes. It’s not polite.”

“And terribly unsanitary,” Peter says as he grabs Ollie around the waist and hoists him over his head to tromp down the stairs to wake up Nora to start the day.

Peter can get away with saying things like “terribly unsanitary” and not sounding like a douche because he is well-accented and everything his people say sounds charming and smart.

With both of the men in my life occupied for a hot second, I lean over and grab my phone from where I shoved it beneath the bed.

I figure I won’t hear from Bex again. She was probably tipsy or something when she texted me, even though I don’t think she drinks much anymore.

They don’t exactly seem like party people.

Maybe she’d taken an Ambien. I do weird shit when I take them.

Peter said I once stood up on the bed in the middle of the night and rapped “Funky Cold Medina” after taking a whole pill during Nora’s sleep training.

No messages. I get up and pee, relishing the quiet in the bathroom, and go through the motions of making sure the kids are dressed in clean clothes and presentable for camp.

I lose the argument with Nora about whether she can wear the purple princess dress she’s worn for the past ten days.

It smells like a rest-stop bathroom and the sequins are falling off.

I know that the Montessori counselors will silently judge me in their smug Montessori way, but I’ve learned to pick my battles.

I eat half a waffle left on Ollie’s plate and get to my desk in the corner of our bedroom just in time to start Slacking with the rest of my team for eight hours.

I miss the newsroom. I miss being around actual people and bitching about crazy bosses while getting our coffee in the morning.

Talking to someone on Slack feels like talking to a robot that’s always a little pissed off at you.

And then to my surprise, Bex messages me bright and early West Coast time, nine a.m. my time.

Hey you

I am now a “you”? And I merit a “hey”?

My fingers hover over the keys of the phone, but I wait to answer and go to the bathroom again and do Wordle before writing back. Why I’m treating Bex like I would a middle school crush, I have no idea.

My New Year’s resolution this year was to stop bringing my phone into the bathroom with me because it is both disgusting and contributes to my overabundance of anxiety-inducing screen time.

The initial joy of opening the phone typically lasts about three minutes and is quickly replaced with dread.

But I’ve failed miserably at this resolution.

It was easier to quit smoking in my twenties than to not stare at my screen while I poop at age thirty-six.

And that’s what I’m doing when I reply to Bex.

Oh. Hey you. It’s early there.

Two can play at the “hey you” game.

I get up at 5 so I can get grounded and have me time before the kids are awake. Also we get up with the sun. Farm life. Haha

You live on a farm?

I don’t even know why I’m pretending that I haven’t seen her cows’ nipples.

Yeah. Just a small place. 125 acres. It’s gorg. You would love it

I never once indicated that a farm is something I would love during our college friendship. Neither did she.

Cool.

So you’re an editor at Modern Woman. That’s amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My inner copy editor tries to ignore the surfeit of exclamation marks.

Still there!

Exactly one exclamation mark.

I do get a little thrill that she knows this about me and I want to make it sound better than it is, better than a whittled-down team of writers, editors, and designers chugging away at a magazine half its previous size, all of us working from our bedrooms, and some from their parents’ basements, everyone hoping to get another year or two out of it before the inevitable next round of layoffs.

Just prepping for the big September issue. Always a slog, but #worthit.

Who the fuck am I?

So much cooler than my days. Running after kids CONSTANTLY and baking bread. You have littles too though right????????

I hate the word littles the same way I hate the word hubby .

I don’t say that part of me would maybe love to chase them around all day instead of dropping them off at their “camp” or their “preschool,” both of which are essentially glorified and overpriced day care that will drain our bank account until the start of public kindergarten.

We paid all the deposits for these things a year in advance, back when we thought Peter would have a job by now.

And of course they are nonrefundable so we put our children in the daily holding pens and pay through the nose so maybe Peter can eke out enough of a novel that someone might want to buy it.

I don’t say that sometimes I long to be with my kids, chasing them through a field, at the same time as I long for intense solitude where I can be blessedly alone without anyone touching me or needing me, so that I can work and feel like a productive person in the world.

All of these things are all true at the same time.

I’ve always had this question about her Instagram account.

Does she run after her kids all day? Six is a fuck ton of children.

And I don’t know how anyone manages raising any number of kids without help, especially while posting as many pictures and stories and reels as she does on three or four different social media platforms. I noticed the other day that Bex just started a newsletter.

I imagine she has the kind of invisible help that celebrities have.

I once interviewed the team of nannies who cared for the kids of a world-famous reality television family.

Their NDAs had expired and they told me that whenever they spied a paparazzo in the bushes they had explicit instructions to hand the children to the mother and essentially dive out of sight like a CIA agent avoiding a sniper.

I don’t respond to Bex for a few minutes while I head back to my desk and try to put out a fire about a cover story that hasn’t been turned in on time. When I return to my phone Bex has sent a barrage of what seem like harried messages.

I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m sure you are CRAZY busy. But I had this wild idea and well…No it’s probably stupid

But I have been working on something out here. Something new and we are trying to get some press for it and I thought about you

You’re like one of the best writers I know and you know me so I think you would get this and get me and be fair about it and everything

And well I’m pretty private about things these days so I don’t want to invite just anyone into my home

Is there any chance…No probably not…

I feel weird for her when I read all this. It’s like watching a teenage boy ask someone out on a date over text and failing miserably. I also kind of like it, which makes me a terrible person, but I don’t actually care. The thrill outweighs the shame.

What’s going on?

I write it in as breezy a tone as possible.

Is there any chance you might come out here and maybe profile me for your magazine? There’s a lot happening and I would feel most comfortable with you being the writer. You’ll get an exclusive. You can stay in our guesthouse and I promise you it will be BIG news. Please say yes. PLEASSSSSSSSSSSSE

Something isn’t right about this request. And even though I’m overjoyed that the ball feels like it’s very much in my court, I’m also pissed that she hasn’t even mentioned the reason we haven’t spoken in more than a decade.

No explanation. Just this? Does she think she’s so famous, so important, and so fancy that I don’t deserve at least the smallest of apologies?