Page 13 of Summer Skate

JESSICA

I INVITE MY FAMILY TO COME stay for the weekend because it’s ninety-five degrees in the city and at this point the guilt is killing me.

On Friday night I meet the car in the driveway as it rolls in.

Both kids are in pajamas, asleep in their car seats.

Alejandro removes four suitcases from the trunk.

“How long are you guys staying?” I ask, jokingly, but I know. Four suitcases is nothing with kids. Two days. Easily.

Alejandro lifts our son over his shoulder and then follows me into the house.

I show him the room with two beds that I set up for them. He puts our son into one bed and then goes back to the car for our daughter.

There is no designated “kids” room, but I created one.

I bought stuffed animals and a moon nightlight at a toy store in town.

I took all the star-spangled blankets and pillows from all over the house, along with a few lanterns with electronic candles that were in the kitchen, and made the room look like a cozy, upscale campsite. The result is adorable.

Our son is out cold, but our daughter wakes up long enough to hug me and look around at the room: “The world is so beautiful today. You’re a really nice mom.” Then she is asleep, and I am feeling vindicated.

“So how does this compare to your business trips?” I say, as Alejandro examines the house. “In terms of accommodations.”

“Larger,” he says. “But no housekeeping. Or room service.”

“That’s right. I have to make my own bed. It’s dreadful.”

“Neighbors still loud?”

“Oh! I went to their party the other night.”

He looks delighted. “How was it?”

“It was interesting . . . Would it not help you to go to a party with a bunch of twentysomethings in your line of work?”

He grunts. “The twentysomethings getting paid to work in my office don’t help me with my line of work.”

He goes to the sliding glass doors, puts his hand over his eyes, squinting at the dark. “I never have my own pool.”

“You should request one. Highly recommend.”

I toast two pieces of bread and cover them with butter. We talk about the kids. Talking about the kids with Alejandro while they’re asleep is one of my favorite activities, because we are almost always laughing while we do it. And also they’re asleep.

We go upstairs. He unpacks. I take a hot shower, so hot that I emerge from it in a puff of steam, my feet slightly red.

He is already in bed and holding the remote. I put on boxers and a T-shirt and climb into bed. I notice that my pillow is missing.

“All right. Where is it?”

He smiles. Hiding my pillow is one of his favorite moves. There is a huge lump under his side of the comforter.

“You’re so clever.” I jerk it out from under the blankets. “How would I have ever found this?”

He laughs maniacally and turns on the TV, clicks on 30 Rock . He scans the episodes.

I pull the covers up to my nose. “Now. Where were we?” I ask, shimmying my body close to him and throwing my arm over his stomach.

“Did you watch any since you’ve been here?”

“Not a single one.”

“You’re so good.”

“I am so good.”

In the morning, I wake up early and make pancakes for everyone. Banana pancakes with chocolate chips, to be exact. I sprinkle some oats into the batter and put only three chocolate chips per pancake. That’s right. Nutrition.

I cut up strawberries and a mango. The mango is difficult to cut. Berries are one thing, but a mango means true love.

They all wake up and join me in the kitchen. After breakfast, they want to go for a swim.

My daughter screams for me to change her into her suit. She is standing there naked. “You are five years old! You know how to put on a bathing suit!” I tell her.

“I want you to do it,” she whines.

“Okay. Okay.”

I get them in their suits, apply sunscreen, locate goggles, towels, floaties.

What feels like a decade later, I am with both kids in the pool, my daughter chasing the colored rings I bought her at the store.

My son is shooting and refilling a water gun, repeatedly.

We are waiting for Alejandro to change into his bathing suit, which for some reason always takes forty-five minutes.

But eventually he arrives, tosses both children into the air on a rotating basis, water splashing everywhere.

They are both positively tickled with glee.

The pool is a glorious place where everyone must live in the present and get along and nobody can ask Mom or Dad to get out and go bring them something.

The servants are off duty. Life becomes very simple.

Splash or be splashed. I try to get some laps in, but Alejandro keeps swimming after me, grabbing for my ankle and taking me under.

The kids get a big kick out of this and call the game “daddy shark.”

I get out of the pool first so that I can lie in the sun for a bit before going into the kitchen to make fish tacos.

I never cook, but this seems simple enough.

I bought all the ingredients at the market yesterday and have grand plans to put all the toppings in separate small bowls.

I am sure that separate small bowls and choose-your-own-toppings will greatly enhance the chances of the food going into my children’s mouths, but it’s anyone’s guess.

I bake fish in the oven, slice corn off corncobs, dice tomatoes and onions.

I execute on the separate bowls. It’s all going swimmingly.

Pun intended. I can see the pool from the kitchen window, and I admire my family, the way Alejandro can play with the kids for hours without seeming bored or annoyed.

Eventually, they come inside.

Alejandro surveys the kitchen table. “Look at you,” he says.

“Are you impressed?”

“Very.”

“Are you impressed . . . or do you want to check me for signs of a concussion?”

“A little of both.”

My daughter fills her taco with fish and corn and tomatoes and happily eats the entire thing. My son stuffs his face with only lettuce, a stunning move no one could have anticipated.

“After lunch, I was thinking we could go to . . . a carnival? I don’t know if that’s the type of thing you’d be interested in,” I say to my daughter.

“ Yes! ” She lights up, pumps both fists and smiles so big that you can see every one of her missing teeth.

“You want to go to a carnival ?” Alejandro whispers to me, gritting his teeth at the kids.

I shrug. “I haven’t been parenting lately. I have an unusual amount of energy. This is the kind of magical thing that can happen when you give me some time off. Please, make a note of it.”

Once they finish eating, I make a quick run to Carvel, return home, and remove two ice cream sandwiches from a six-pack.

I wrap the sandwiches in a napkin and then present each child with one.

My daughter gasps. My son’s eyes light up like a contestant that has just won a million dollars.

Sure, I’ve been absent for a few weeks, but it’s nothing some flying saucers can’t fix.

We get ready for the carnival with all the items we need to survive life outside the house with kids for two hours, which is considerable. I fish through my backpack, overflowing with fruit snacks and Goldfish and pretzels, to hand the car keys to Alejandro.

I go to the bathroom and tell him: “Put on their shoes while I’m gone, okay?” He nods. When I get back, they’re still shoe-less.

“I thought I told you to put on their shoes?!” I say.

“I’m talking to them about it.”

I sigh and go get the shoes. You know that Buddhist expression about parenting? There is no difference between talking and doing except when it comes to putting on their fucking shoes.

In the car, my son sings GA-GA-GA to the tune of “Hot Cross Buns.” He is a broken record.

We try to get him onto another song. We, as a family, sing Taylor Swift and Carly Rae Jepsen and various Disney hits, like a bunch of lunatics, but nothing works.

By the time we get to the carnival, we give in. GA-GA-GA, GA-GA-GA.

When we get there, my spirits are high. Maybe not high.

Decent. But it is not long before I am standing in a hot field, using a baby wipe to remove cotton candy from my sunglasses.

Our son has been crying for almost the entire time.

Our daughter is melting down not because her pizza is hot but because it was once hot.

“The five-second rule applies to pacifiers, right?” I ask Alejandro as I wipe dirt off our son’s pacifier. It has just fallen onto the ground for the fourth time.

An hour later, we’ve gone on five rides and played three games, but I’ve run out of snacks. I find a cheese stick. The only problem is I can’t remember when I put it in my bag.

“Do you think it’s still good?” I ask him.

“What does it say?”

“It says the expiration date. It doesn’t say what to do if you leave it in your backpack for eleven days.”

Our son is crying.

“Just give it to him,” Alejandro says, and I unwrap this string cheese as if my life depends on it, which, in some ways, it does.

“Okay. I’ve had enough,” I say to Alejandro, looking down at my sweaty, red-cheeked children. “And I think they have too. Let’s go.”

“Are we walking home?” my daughter asks, gripping my hand as we cross the field.

“No. The car is here.”

“Phew. What a relief,” she says.

You’re telling me .

For dinner, I make pasta with butter, and they eat in front of the television.

I say a silent prayer of thanks for the invention of television.

I go into my bedroom and lie there, exhausted, relishing the quiet.

I am in a state of euphoria. Sex is great, but have you ever taken your kids to a carnival and then come back and read a book alone in a quiet room? It’s really something. Quite exquisite.

Alejandro comes into the room.

“I can’t move,” I say. “Please don’t make me move.” He plops down next to me.

“I just came here to tell you one thing.”

“What?” Suddenly, I’m nervous.

“GA-GA-GA. GA-GA-GA.”

I cover my face with my hands and roll over onto my side, laughing.