Mommy Break
I had a bunch of small items in a basket. When you are buying for one, it doesn’t really make sense to buy big staples, things that will go bad before you can even finish them. A whole loaf of bread, a big bottle of milk…those were things that I remember my mother getting for my family, not what I bought today.
A small can of spicy almonds. A bottle of balsamic vinegar flavored ketchup. Bloody Mary drink mix. A single, oversized bottle of a microbrew beer. A single serving, shrink wrapped, premade salad kit. Single guy stuff.
The ten items or less register was out of order, so I waited in one of the regular lines. As usual, I happened to pick the line with the slowest checker. While I was waiting, I allowed myself to wander a bit. I casually perused the celebrity gossip rags and the fashion magazines promising a slimmer look without losing weight. I thought about how stupid someone would have to be before they bought any of those silly things.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, I saw a chubby hand with bright purple nail polish and a lot of eclectic looking jewelry reach in front of me. The hand grabbed a fistful of magazines, including two celebrity focused tabloids, a makeup magazine that promised a thinner looking face, and a “Housewife Digest,” that promised time-saving tips for taking care of kids.
I stepped back a bit to take a look at the person. She was a white, plump looking woman in her late 30’s. She wore sweat pants and a blousy looking beige top, and some gaudy looking hoop earrings. When she was satisfied with her plethora of magazines, she casually dropped them into her cart. It was stacked high with multiple gallons of milk, big bags of pretzels, a jumbo-sized jar of peanut butter, seven loaves of wonder bread, and at least a dozen fruit roll up boxes.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she pushed her cart in front of me in line.
“Um…” I began. I was always a bit of a shy person, so public confrontation didn’t come easy to me. I though about saying nothing, but then three small kids, each one carrying a basket full candy and other assorted sugary treats, arrived next to their mother in line. “I was in line here,” I stated flatly.
“Yeah. You were,” the woman said, stressing the last word.
“Come on,” I pleaded. “I only have a few things.”
“Yeah, but when you’re a parent, every second counts,” she said. “It isn’t easy, let me tell you. You try being a mom for a change and you’d see things my way.”
“I highly doubt that,” I said.
“Oh really? You think you know better than me?” she asked, her voice growing louder and shriller by the minute.
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I’d cut in front of someone in line just because I was frustrated with where I ended up in life,” I said. “Sometimes I’m in a rush but I don’t abandon my sense of common curtsey.”
“You know what? Go ahead and have your place in line back,” she said. “I think I’ll just take you up on your offer,” she added with a sneer.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, feeling puzzled.
“Nothing, nothing. I’ll see you later,” she said critically.
“Whatever,” I muttered, and paid for my groceries.
I didn’t give the incident another thought for the rest of the night. When I arrived home and put away my groceries, though, I did engage in a bit of reflection on my situation. My place sure was quiet. No kids, no girlfriend. Neither was likely in my future anytime soon, given how much of a social recluse I was.
Even at work my opportunities for meeting new individuals was very limited. I was an editor for a publishing house, and I had yet to meet an author who really appreciates someone else finding flaws in their life’s work. In fact, since I moved to this city, I hadn’t made a single friend.
While I was in bed trying to sleep, I started thinking about how one of the novels I edited would sound if it was about me. “His name was Terry. He was a single, friendless, lonely young black man. He had peace and quiet in abundance, but little else.”
~
I awoke to the sound of yelling. “Mommy, mommy,” a young child cried out endlessly. I assumed that the child’s voice was carrying over from one of the adjacent apartments. I felt exhausted, so I rolled over and tried to drift back to sleep.
The child’s voice, though, only grew louder. I could swear that I could hear the little patter of the kid’s feet running back and forth though the halls, which seemed odd. The walls were thin, but not that thin. Right?
Soon, the lone voice was joined by a second voice. Now two children were crying out for their mother, in a discordant harmony. It was so bad that I tried to cover my face with the pillow. A few minutes later, I heard a sound which was truly terrifying – knocking on my bedroom door.
“Let us in, mommy, let us in!” the voices cried out as the door frame shook. How had children made their way into my apartment, I wondered. And why on earth would they assume their mother was in my room with me?
It seemed totally absurd to believe that a mom had broken into my apartment and then left her kids behind. Still, whatever reason the kids were there, I knew I had to find a way to take them back where they belonged – or they’d never stop smashing on my door and making a racket.
It took an unusually large amount of effort to pull myself out of bed. Walking to the door felt off as well, as though my body was encumbered by sacks of lead. Finally, I made it to the door. When my hand reached for the doorknob, however, I stopped.
Instead of my hand, I saw white, delicate looking fingers on the door. It looked like a woman’s hand! My head swam as I struggled to make sense of what was happening to me. The more I glanced around the room, the more I felt something was off. This clearly was my apartment, but I could see a purse in the corner and some bras and women’s underwear crumpled up in the corner.
“Let us in, Mommy!” the children continued to cry out. It suddenly occurred to me that they might think I was their mother. I still wasn’t sure what had happened or why, but if these kids were expecting me to take care of them, I couldn’t just let them endlessly pummel the door. I decided to do what needed to be done for them, and then figure out what my situation entailed.
When I opened the door, I saw a little boy and a little girl. The boy was around 5 and the girl was around 3, I guessed. They both rushed up to me and embraced my legs, obviously believing that they know me well. As I looked down, I was able to see that I was wearing pink fuzzy looking pajamas.
“What did you need, kids?” I asked, my voice sounding very feminine and lilting.
“We want breakfast,” they cried out in unison. I wasn’t much for cooking fancy things and I still felt tired and confused. What had happened to me last night? Why did these kids think I was their mother? Where was their real mother – or, somehow, was I her?
“Kids, I’ll make breakfast for you in a minute. Just let me get ready for the day, ok?” I found myself saying as I gently pushed them out the door, and then shut and locked it. I breathed heavy as I tried to make sense of things.
The first direct action I took after I stopped hyperventilating was walking towards the bathroom. I studied my reflection in the mirror, trying to learn as much about the new me as was possible. I was white, female, and in my mid thirties, that much was obvious from a quick glance. I turned on the light and continued to stare at myself, noting each unique feature and slight imperfection. I had a slightly wide nose and just a hint of a double chin. My hair was dyed honey blonde but dark roots were very visible, as though I didn’t have the time to regularly get touch ups. Despite these flaws, I had to admit that I was the kind of woman that I might have glanced at twice, at least if I was still the person I was last night.
With trembling fingers, I slowly removed my microfleece pajama top to survey more of me. I had upper arms that lacked muscle tone and shook just slightly as I pulled off the top. My breasts had impressively large nipples, which seemed to grow a bit when I gave them a curious flick with my tiny thumb. The breasts themselves were a decently large size, but were sagging a tad on my chest. My stomach was soft looking; it was probably fat enough that it would pour over tight jeans into a muffin top but not so much that it would be visible under a loose blouse.
I took off my bottoms and found legs which had slight porcupine hairs, meaning that I didn’t get the chance to shave my legs regularly either, I realized. Having a vagina didn’t feel as weird as I imagined it would before I pulled off my bottoms. Given the rest of my new body, of course, it would be weirder if I still had a penis! The hair of my new female bits was trimmed, not shaved.
“When’s breakfast?” I heard the voice of the five year old boy who thought he was my son cry out.
“In a minute,” I replied. I stopped checking out myself in the mirror and decided to try to get dressed and face the day. After I took care of the kid’s breakfast, I reasoned, I could start trying to figure out what had happened to me and why.
I glanced around the room and opened a few closets, seeing a plethora of women’s clothes. I didn’t know what clothes would fit me and I didn’t want to admit that the clothes were mine, so I didn’t put them on. Instead, I put my pajamas back on and then walked out to make breakfast.
The kids demanded that I make waffles, and I complied with a bit of reticence. I didn’t know the first thing about making them. I had to look up the recipe on my Blackberry, which was now pink. Fortunately, I did have the requisite ingredients, a fact understood as especially lucky as I had never bought many of items now lining my cupboards.
I spilled egg yolk and caused a cloud of flour to fly into the air. I undercooked one waffle and burned two others. But the kids seemed to take joy out of watching my kitchen trials and tribulations and didn’t complain too much when breakfast was served. They just made sure to use copious amounts of syrup and generous portions of butter.
When breakfast was finished, the kids looked up at me expectantly, as if wondering what we would do next. I knew they were too young for school, but did kids who were at home really expect to be entertained by their parents all day? My own parents spent very little time with me when I was growing up. They were both working two jobs and the older siblings had to act as surrogate family members in my household.
“What should we do now?” the little boy asked.
“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggested, hoping that would occupy their attention long enough for me to get my bearings. They ended up selecting “The Land Before Time #39,” a cartoon about talking dinosaurs. The show was full of roaring, volcanoes erupting, and earthquakes. The grating nature of the noise was only exacerbated when the kids turned the TV up to full volume.
Whenever I tried to get up to get some time to myself, the kids shouted, “Mommy, stay!” It was obvious that my only resource for trying to figure things out was my phone. Fortunately it contained my schedule. There wasn’t anything listed for work but there was something listed around 4pm as “Mommy break.” Whatever that was, evidently I had to keep these kids entertained for five more hours.
During that time, I played dozens of rounds of hide and seek, I read aloud from several storybooks, and I helped build a block castle. Towards the end, I was so disheveled that I was glancing at my phone for the time every 30 seconds. Whatever a “Mommy break” was, I knew I needed one.
Finally, at a little after four, I heard a knock at the front door. A teenager who evidently knew me nodded and smiled.
“Hey Meredith,” she said.
“Oh, hi,” I said after a minute. Meredith, I thought, what an odd name.
“I’m here to pick up the kids?” she said, sounding a bit annoyed.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Kids…” I started, but they apparently already knew the drill and started running towards the door. Until that moment, I saw the kids as a nuisance, as a hindrance to my quest to find out what had happened to me. But when they ran out the door into the care of a strange young woman, I felt a sense of maternal devotion. Where were they going? What if they needed me? When would they be back?
“Cheryl’s coming up. Her kids are already in the van,” the young woman said, before shutting the door. Who was Cheryl, I wondered, and what did she have to do with my “Mommy break?”
There was a knock at the door before too long. “Come on, open up,” a strangely familiar voice said before I reached it.
“Hello, Meredith,” she said as I opened the door. To my shock, I knew the woman. It was the rude mom who had cut in front of me at the grocery store yesterday. “I’m assuming you know that you’re not called Terry anymore,” she added.
“So – you know what’s going on!” I exclaimed, thankful that at least I wasn’t going crazy. She walked inside and started to remove her shoes.
“Of course I know what’s going on, you idiot. I was the one that made it happen,” she said, as casually as if she was explaining where she had purchased her the socks she was pulling off.
“You…you what?” I asked, my head swimming.
“You certainly needed your Mommy break, that’s for sure. Didn’t clean up after breakfast, didn’t even bother to get dressed today,” she said as she scanned her eyes over the kitchen and glanced at my pajamas. “There’s just not enough time in the day, is there?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Yesterday, I told you that if you were a mom, you’d understand that every second counts. But you didn’t believe me. So I decided to test my theory. I think you’ll agree that I was right all along,” she concluded smugly.
“But…what about my old life? My old body? I admit you’re right, but please, send me back,” I begged.
“The old you doesn’t exist anymore. Besides, I have a feeling once you get settled, you won’t want to go back,” Cheryl explained.
“How did you even do this to me?” I asked. I knew the old me would boil with rage at the thought of someone else taking control of my life, especially over such a silly little dispute. But instead of anger and fury, I felt only intense worry and concern.
“Does it even matter how I did it?” she asked. “What’s done is done. Besides, I needed a new friend. Someone to take my Mommy breaks with while my niece helps with the kids. I’m sure you can understand that.”
I wanted to scream and yell, to throw things, or to punch out Cheryl for what she’d done. Instead, I collapsed on the sofa, cradling my head in my hands.
“It’s ok,” she said, flopping down next to me and gently rubbing my shoulders. I actually felt calmer as she did so, in spite of myself. “I’ll help you figure it all out. That’s what friends are for,” she said.
I wanted to feel upset, but I had to admit that she had a point. I did need help. The thought of her abandoning me and leaving me all alone, with no Mommy breaks…it was terrifying. I couldn’t imagine doing all this on my own.
“Where is their father?” I finally asked. “Do my kids even have a father?”
“Again, don’t overcomplicate it,” she said. “Sufficed to say, you’re a single, stay at home mom. You rely on money from welfare, and friends and family to get by. You’d never made enough money working to afford childcare. It’s either rely on the charity of others or strip via webcam, and while you’re still young, frankly your figure isn’t exactly what it was before you had kids,” Cheryl said, as she brushed the errant tresses of hair out of my eyes. “Chin up. You’ll do fine, with my help that is.”
“Alright,” I conceded. “What do you want from me in return?”
“Only your friendship,” she said. “Now, let’s get you ready for the day,” she said, and walked me towards the bathroom. “Even though you aren’t going out, there’s no reason to look disheveled all day,” she explained. “Let’s teach you how to put on makeup.”
I looked blankly into the mirror at my face while Cheryl rummaged through my purse. I had the smallest of traces bags under my eyes, the very beginning of what would eventually be laugh lines. I knew she was right, my best years were already behind me.
“Stay still,” she said, as she applied some eyeshadow and mascara, and then a faint amount of blush for my cheeks. I think in my old body I would have felt a little thrill at a woman touching my face, even if it was someone like Cheryl. Now, though, it felt as though we were sisters. “Purse your lips,” she said, after she applied a light toned lipstick.
“Huh?” I asked, as I felt overwhelmed.
“Like this,” she said, and she demonstrated how to purse the lips together to make sure the lipstick coated evenly. I tried my best to mimic her motions. “Great, you’re a natural,” she said, and I smiled. “We have to get you into some real clothes, too,” she insisted.
“Well…ok,” I agreed reluctantly. She rummaged around through my stuff and found a dark blue pair of jeans, which looked a little hard for me to squeeze into. Then she selected teal blue, blousy top. I felt embarrassed taking off my pajama tops and bottoms in front of her, especially because I wasn’t wearing anything under them, and started blushing.
“Hey, no need to be embarrassed. We’re all girls here,” she said.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I agreed, as though nothing was wrong with her statement, and pulled of my PJs. Cheryl tossed me some frilly underwear and a salmon pink bra from my closet. I put on the underwear while Cheryl helped me with the back of the bra.
“Still not finished,” she said. She picked on some gold earrings in the shape of a teardrop, a gaudy necklace with some white square stones, and a couple of teal bracelets that matched my top. She also found a faux-silk scarf for me to wear.
“How do you look now, girlfriend?” she asked. I glanced back into the mirror and had to admit I felt a lot more confident. She made me look like a real woman.
“I’m sure you didn’t come over just to give me a makeover,” I said.
“Well, no, although I have to admit I was looking forward to it,” she replied, and w both let out girly giggles. “But yes, I had some activities in mind.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, I thought we might make scrapbooks about our kids while we watch cooking shows on TV,” she proposed.
“Sounds great!” I said excitedly. Cheryl pulled out some scrapbooking supplies from one of my cupboards and turned on the TV, which was already set to a cooking show. We traded artistic tips on how to best to place pictures of our kids as we watched guests on the cooking contest make catty remarks out each other’s casseroles. We made “ooh,” or “meow,’ sounds after the snidest sounding verbal attacks.
“I’m glad things have worked out between us,” Cheryl said. “You’ve adjusted very quickly,” she added.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” I said. I had been so absorbed in making my scrapbook for my kids that I could barely even remember I had been a different person yesterday.
“I was right again, wasn’t I? You don’t want to go back now,” she asked with a knowing smile.
“I suppose you were,” I agreed.
“Just think if I had predicted all this yesterday what you would have thought of me,” Cheryl said, her eyes growing wide as she scooted herself closer to my on the couch. “Just think if I had told you that I’d turn you into a while woman and you wouldn’t complain,” she said. “Just think if I told you I’d steal your manhood,” she said, as she cupped my crotch her hand, “and hours later, you’d be my best friend.”
“I don’t think I would have believed you,” I said. “I wonder what you’ll be right about next?” I asked.
Cheryl just grinned.
I had a bunch of small items in a basket. When you are buying for one, it doesn’t really make sense to buy big staples, things that will go bad before you can even finish them. A whole loaf of bread, a big bottle of milk…those were things that I remember my mother getting for my family, not what I bought today.
A small can of spicy almonds. A bottle of balsamic vinegar flavored ketchup. Bloody Mary drink mix. A single, oversized bottle of a microbrew beer. A single serving, shrink wrapped, premade salad kit. Single guy stuff.
The ten items or less register was out of order, so I waited in one of the regular lines. As usual, I happened to pick the line with the slowest checker. While I was waiting, I allowed myself to wander a bit. I casually perused the celebrity gossip rags and the fashion magazines promising a slimmer look without losing weight. I thought about how stupid someone would have to be before they bought any of those silly things.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, I saw a chubby hand with bright purple nail polish and a lot of eclectic looking jewelry reach in front of me. The hand grabbed a fistful of magazines, including two celebrity focused tabloids, a makeup magazine that promised a thinner looking face, and a “Housewife Digest,” that promised time-saving tips for taking care of kids.
I stepped back a bit to take a look at the person. She was a white, plump looking woman in her late 30’s. She wore sweat pants and a blousy looking beige top, and some gaudy looking hoop earrings. When she was satisfied with her plethora of magazines, she casually dropped them into her cart. It was stacked high with multiple gallons of milk, big bags of pretzels, a jumbo-sized jar of peanut butter, seven loaves of wonder bread, and at least a dozen fruit roll up boxes.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she pushed her cart in front of me in line.
“Um…” I began. I was always a bit of a shy person, so public confrontation didn’t come easy to me. I though about saying nothing, but then three small kids, each one carrying a basket full candy and other assorted sugary treats, arrived next to their mother in line. “I was in line here,” I stated flatly.
“Yeah. You were,” the woman said, stressing the last word.
“Come on,” I pleaded. “I only have a few things.”
“Yeah, but when you’re a parent, every second counts,” she said. “It isn’t easy, let me tell you. You try being a mom for a change and you’d see things my way.”
“I highly doubt that,” I said.
“Oh really? You think you know better than me?” she asked, her voice growing louder and shriller by the minute.
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I’d cut in front of someone in line just because I was frustrated with where I ended up in life,” I said. “Sometimes I’m in a rush but I don’t abandon my sense of common curtsey.”
“You know what? Go ahead and have your place in line back,” she said. “I think I’ll just take you up on your offer,” she added with a sneer.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, feeling puzzled.
“Nothing, nothing. I’ll see you later,” she said critically.
“Whatever,” I muttered, and paid for my groceries.
I didn’t give the incident another thought for the rest of the night. When I arrived home and put away my groceries, though, I did engage in a bit of reflection on my situation. My place sure was quiet. No kids, no girlfriend. Neither was likely in my future anytime soon, given how much of a social recluse I was.
Even at work my opportunities for meeting new individuals was very limited. I was an editor for a publishing house, and I had yet to meet an author who really appreciates someone else finding flaws in their life’s work. In fact, since I moved to this city, I hadn’t made a single friend.
While I was in bed trying to sleep, I started thinking about how one of the novels I edited would sound if it was about me. “His name was Terry. He was a single, friendless, lonely young black man. He had peace and quiet in abundance, but little else.”
~
I awoke to the sound of yelling. “Mommy, mommy,” a young child cried out endlessly. I assumed that the child’s voice was carrying over from one of the adjacent apartments. I felt exhausted, so I rolled over and tried to drift back to sleep.
The child’s voice, though, only grew louder. I could swear that I could hear the little patter of the kid’s feet running back and forth though the halls, which seemed odd. The walls were thin, but not that thin. Right?
Soon, the lone voice was joined by a second voice. Now two children were crying out for their mother, in a discordant harmony. It was so bad that I tried to cover my face with the pillow. A few minutes later, I heard a sound which was truly terrifying – knocking on my bedroom door.
“Let us in, mommy, let us in!” the voices cried out as the door frame shook. How had children made their way into my apartment, I wondered. And why on earth would they assume their mother was in my room with me?
It seemed totally absurd to believe that a mom had broken into my apartment and then left her kids behind. Still, whatever reason the kids were there, I knew I had to find a way to take them back where they belonged – or they’d never stop smashing on my door and making a racket.
It took an unusually large amount of effort to pull myself out of bed. Walking to the door felt off as well, as though my body was encumbered by sacks of lead. Finally, I made it to the door. When my hand reached for the doorknob, however, I stopped.
Instead of my hand, I saw white, delicate looking fingers on the door. It looked like a woman’s hand! My head swam as I struggled to make sense of what was happening to me. The more I glanced around the room, the more I felt something was off. This clearly was my apartment, but I could see a purse in the corner and some bras and women’s underwear crumpled up in the corner.
“Let us in, Mommy!” the children continued to cry out. It suddenly occurred to me that they might think I was their mother. I still wasn’t sure what had happened or why, but if these kids were expecting me to take care of them, I couldn’t just let them endlessly pummel the door. I decided to do what needed to be done for them, and then figure out what my situation entailed.
When I opened the door, I saw a little boy and a little girl. The boy was around 5 and the girl was around 3, I guessed. They both rushed up to me and embraced my legs, obviously believing that they know me well. As I looked down, I was able to see that I was wearing pink fuzzy looking pajamas.
“What did you need, kids?” I asked, my voice sounding very feminine and lilting.
“We want breakfast,” they cried out in unison. I wasn’t much for cooking fancy things and I still felt tired and confused. What had happened to me last night? Why did these kids think I was their mother? Where was their real mother – or, somehow, was I her?
“Kids, I’ll make breakfast for you in a minute. Just let me get ready for the day, ok?” I found myself saying as I gently pushed them out the door, and then shut and locked it. I breathed heavy as I tried to make sense of things.
The first direct action I took after I stopped hyperventilating was walking towards the bathroom. I studied my reflection in the mirror, trying to learn as much about the new me as was possible. I was white, female, and in my mid thirties, that much was obvious from a quick glance. I turned on the light and continued to stare at myself, noting each unique feature and slight imperfection. I had a slightly wide nose and just a hint of a double chin. My hair was dyed honey blonde but dark roots were very visible, as though I didn’t have the time to regularly get touch ups. Despite these flaws, I had to admit that I was the kind of woman that I might have glanced at twice, at least if I was still the person I was last night.
With trembling fingers, I slowly removed my microfleece pajama top to survey more of me. I had upper arms that lacked muscle tone and shook just slightly as I pulled off the top. My breasts had impressively large nipples, which seemed to grow a bit when I gave them a curious flick with my tiny thumb. The breasts themselves were a decently large size, but were sagging a tad on my chest. My stomach was soft looking; it was probably fat enough that it would pour over tight jeans into a muffin top but not so much that it would be visible under a loose blouse.
I took off my bottoms and found legs which had slight porcupine hairs, meaning that I didn’t get the chance to shave my legs regularly either, I realized. Having a vagina didn’t feel as weird as I imagined it would before I pulled off my bottoms. Given the rest of my new body, of course, it would be weirder if I still had a penis! The hair of my new female bits was trimmed, not shaved.
“When’s breakfast?” I heard the voice of the five year old boy who thought he was my son cry out.
“In a minute,” I replied. I stopped checking out myself in the mirror and decided to try to get dressed and face the day. After I took care of the kid’s breakfast, I reasoned, I could start trying to figure out what had happened to me and why.
I glanced around the room and opened a few closets, seeing a plethora of women’s clothes. I didn’t know what clothes would fit me and I didn’t want to admit that the clothes were mine, so I didn’t put them on. Instead, I put my pajamas back on and then walked out to make breakfast.
The kids demanded that I make waffles, and I complied with a bit of reticence. I didn’t know the first thing about making them. I had to look up the recipe on my Blackberry, which was now pink. Fortunately, I did have the requisite ingredients, a fact understood as especially lucky as I had never bought many of items now lining my cupboards.
I spilled egg yolk and caused a cloud of flour to fly into the air. I undercooked one waffle and burned two others. But the kids seemed to take joy out of watching my kitchen trials and tribulations and didn’t complain too much when breakfast was served. They just made sure to use copious amounts of syrup and generous portions of butter.
When breakfast was finished, the kids looked up at me expectantly, as if wondering what we would do next. I knew they were too young for school, but did kids who were at home really expect to be entertained by their parents all day? My own parents spent very little time with me when I was growing up. They were both working two jobs and the older siblings had to act as surrogate family members in my household.
“What should we do now?” the little boy asked.
“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggested, hoping that would occupy their attention long enough for me to get my bearings. They ended up selecting “The Land Before Time #39,” a cartoon about talking dinosaurs. The show was full of roaring, volcanoes erupting, and earthquakes. The grating nature of the noise was only exacerbated when the kids turned the TV up to full volume.
Whenever I tried to get up to get some time to myself, the kids shouted, “Mommy, stay!” It was obvious that my only resource for trying to figure things out was my phone. Fortunately it contained my schedule. There wasn’t anything listed for work but there was something listed around 4pm as “Mommy break.” Whatever that was, evidently I had to keep these kids entertained for five more hours.
During that time, I played dozens of rounds of hide and seek, I read aloud from several storybooks, and I helped build a block castle. Towards the end, I was so disheveled that I was glancing at my phone for the time every 30 seconds. Whatever a “Mommy break” was, I knew I needed one.
Finally, at a little after four, I heard a knock at the front door. A teenager who evidently knew me nodded and smiled.
“Hey Meredith,” she said.
“Oh, hi,” I said after a minute. Meredith, I thought, what an odd name.
“I’m here to pick up the kids?” she said, sounding a bit annoyed.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Kids…” I started, but they apparently already knew the drill and started running towards the door. Until that moment, I saw the kids as a nuisance, as a hindrance to my quest to find out what had happened to me. But when they ran out the door into the care of a strange young woman, I felt a sense of maternal devotion. Where were they going? What if they needed me? When would they be back?
“Cheryl’s coming up. Her kids are already in the van,” the young woman said, before shutting the door. Who was Cheryl, I wondered, and what did she have to do with my “Mommy break?”
There was a knock at the door before too long. “Come on, open up,” a strangely familiar voice said before I reached it.
“Hello, Meredith,” she said as I opened the door. To my shock, I knew the woman. It was the rude mom who had cut in front of me at the grocery store yesterday. “I’m assuming you know that you’re not called Terry anymore,” she added.
“So – you know what’s going on!” I exclaimed, thankful that at least I wasn’t going crazy. She walked inside and started to remove her shoes.
“Of course I know what’s going on, you idiot. I was the one that made it happen,” she said, as casually as if she was explaining where she had purchased her the socks she was pulling off.
“You…you what?” I asked, my head swimming.
“You certainly needed your Mommy break, that’s for sure. Didn’t clean up after breakfast, didn’t even bother to get dressed today,” she said as she scanned her eyes over the kitchen and glanced at my pajamas. “There’s just not enough time in the day, is there?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Yesterday, I told you that if you were a mom, you’d understand that every second counts. But you didn’t believe me. So I decided to test my theory. I think you’ll agree that I was right all along,” she concluded smugly.
“But…what about my old life? My old body? I admit you’re right, but please, send me back,” I begged.
“The old you doesn’t exist anymore. Besides, I have a feeling once you get settled, you won’t want to go back,” Cheryl explained.
“How did you even do this to me?” I asked. I knew the old me would boil with rage at the thought of someone else taking control of my life, especially over such a silly little dispute. But instead of anger and fury, I felt only intense worry and concern.
“Does it even matter how I did it?” she asked. “What’s done is done. Besides, I needed a new friend. Someone to take my Mommy breaks with while my niece helps with the kids. I’m sure you can understand that.”
I wanted to scream and yell, to throw things, or to punch out Cheryl for what she’d done. Instead, I collapsed on the sofa, cradling my head in my hands.
“It’s ok,” she said, flopping down next to me and gently rubbing my shoulders. I actually felt calmer as she did so, in spite of myself. “I’ll help you figure it all out. That’s what friends are for,” she said.
I wanted to feel upset, but I had to admit that she had a point. I did need help. The thought of her abandoning me and leaving me all alone, with no Mommy breaks…it was terrifying. I couldn’t imagine doing all this on my own.
“Where is their father?” I finally asked. “Do my kids even have a father?”
“Again, don’t overcomplicate it,” she said. “Sufficed to say, you’re a single, stay at home mom. You rely on money from welfare, and friends and family to get by. You’d never made enough money working to afford childcare. It’s either rely on the charity of others or strip via webcam, and while you’re still young, frankly your figure isn’t exactly what it was before you had kids,” Cheryl said, as she brushed the errant tresses of hair out of my eyes. “Chin up. You’ll do fine, with my help that is.”
“Alright,” I conceded. “What do you want from me in return?”
“Only your friendship,” she said. “Now, let’s get you ready for the day,” she said, and walked me towards the bathroom. “Even though you aren’t going out, there’s no reason to look disheveled all day,” she explained. “Let’s teach you how to put on makeup.”
I looked blankly into the mirror at my face while Cheryl rummaged through my purse. I had the smallest of traces bags under my eyes, the very beginning of what would eventually be laugh lines. I knew she was right, my best years were already behind me.
“Stay still,” she said, as she applied some eyeshadow and mascara, and then a faint amount of blush for my cheeks. I think in my old body I would have felt a little thrill at a woman touching my face, even if it was someone like Cheryl. Now, though, it felt as though we were sisters. “Purse your lips,” she said, after she applied a light toned lipstick.
“Huh?” I asked, as I felt overwhelmed.
“Like this,” she said, and she demonstrated how to purse the lips together to make sure the lipstick coated evenly. I tried my best to mimic her motions. “Great, you’re a natural,” she said, and I smiled. “We have to get you into some real clothes, too,” she insisted.
“Well…ok,” I agreed reluctantly. She rummaged around through my stuff and found a dark blue pair of jeans, which looked a little hard for me to squeeze into. Then she selected teal blue, blousy top. I felt embarrassed taking off my pajama tops and bottoms in front of her, especially because I wasn’t wearing anything under them, and started blushing.
“Hey, no need to be embarrassed. We’re all girls here,” she said.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I agreed, as though nothing was wrong with her statement, and pulled of my PJs. Cheryl tossed me some frilly underwear and a salmon pink bra from my closet. I put on the underwear while Cheryl helped me with the back of the bra.
“Still not finished,” she said. She picked on some gold earrings in the shape of a teardrop, a gaudy necklace with some white square stones, and a couple of teal bracelets that matched my top. She also found a faux-silk scarf for me to wear.
“How do you look now, girlfriend?” she asked. I glanced back into the mirror and had to admit I felt a lot more confident. She made me look like a real woman.
“I’m sure you didn’t come over just to give me a makeover,” I said.
“Well, no, although I have to admit I was looking forward to it,” she replied, and w both let out girly giggles. “But yes, I had some activities in mind.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, I thought we might make scrapbooks about our kids while we watch cooking shows on TV,” she proposed.
“Sounds great!” I said excitedly. Cheryl pulled out some scrapbooking supplies from one of my cupboards and turned on the TV, which was already set to a cooking show. We traded artistic tips on how to best to place pictures of our kids as we watched guests on the cooking contest make catty remarks out each other’s casseroles. We made “ooh,” or “meow,’ sounds after the snidest sounding verbal attacks.
“I’m glad things have worked out between us,” Cheryl said. “You’ve adjusted very quickly,” she added.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” I said. I had been so absorbed in making my scrapbook for my kids that I could barely even remember I had been a different person yesterday.
“I was right again, wasn’t I? You don’t want to go back now,” she asked with a knowing smile.
“I suppose you were,” I agreed.
“Just think if I had predicted all this yesterday what you would have thought of me,” Cheryl said, her eyes growing wide as she scooted herself closer to my on the couch. “Just think if I had told you that I’d turn you into a while woman and you wouldn’t complain,” she said. “Just think if I told you I’d steal your manhood,” she said, as she cupped my crotch her hand, “and hours later, you’d be my best friend.”
“I don’t think I would have believed you,” I said. “I wonder what you’ll be right about next?” I asked.
Cheryl just grinned.