The first one looks about fourteen—she’s chewing gum and is heavily pregnant, her dyed blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail. The second is a type similar to Ally—mid-forties, trim, highlighted hair, a lot of nervous energy. As I step into the room, I can’t help but think what a trio of misfits we are, but I suppose that is to be expected, considering the circumstances.
They both nod a greeting as I take a seat, but none of us speaks or makes eye contact. The young one takes out her phone and starts swiping with the sort of vigorous boredom that suggests Instagram or TikTok—not that I have either, but I know about them.
I take a seat two down from the teen, glancing around the nondescript room—conference table, chairs, a blank-faced whiteboard. There is a stale smell of old coffee in the air, which makes me wonder if we’ll get refreshments. This course is two hours long, after all.
After a minute or two, a woman sweeps into the room. She’s in her fifties, with gray hair piled haphazardly on top of her head and a smiley sort of face. She’s wearing a loose blouse and a long skirt, and she has hippie jewelry—a beaded necklace and dangling earrings. I’d think she was trying too hard, but somehow it works, and I like her, although part of me doesn’t want to.
“I see I’m the last one here.” She gives us all a wide smile as she puts a battered messenger bag on one end of the table. “Have you been able to get acquainted?” Silence as we all shrug. “Why don’t we go around and say our names? I’m Margaret, and I have two daughters, Stella and Verity, aged twenty-one and twenty-four.”
She turns to me expectantly, and I half-mumble, “I’m Beth and I have a son, Dylan, who is seven.” Just saying that much makes my voice catch and I look down at the chipped Formica table, blinking hard, as the teenager introduces herself.
“I’m Angelica, and I have a son who is two and this one here.” She rests one hand on her large bump. “Due in two months.” I can’t keep from looking up in surprise. She has a son who is two? She looks so young.
The last woman takes her turn. “I’m Diane, and I have a son, Peter, who is eleven.” She swallows hard, as if she is going to say more, but then decides not to. She presses her lips together and looks at us all defiantly. I wonder what her story is, and if I want to know it.
“Great,” Margaret enthuses. “This is a great start.” We all stare at her blankly, because all we’ve done is say our names. “Now I’ll just say a few words about the Triple P course, in case you haven’t had a description of it yet.”
We all settle back into our seats in a way that makes me think we’ve all had the description, but Margaret’s got to tick this box anyway.
I tune out a bit as she explains about how we’re going to learn about positive parenting techniques before we tackle any challenges, even though she expects we’ll want to rush ahead to deal with any issues we’re facing currently. We’re in the Level Four course because we’re dealing with, as she says, “significant challenges”. I can’t argue with that, but I want to.
Then she gives us each a checklist to make sure we’re really Level Four worthy. I scan the list and inwardly squirm at each description: Do you struggle to take your child out in public? Does your child wake repeatedly at night, or need an extended routine to fall asleep? Do you find yourself arranging your life to meet your child’s emotional needs?
Yes, yes, and yes, I think, but does that have to be a problem? Clearly it does, since I’m here, and I wonder then why I am so resistant to this course. Surely I want to be a better mom… even if it means admitting I wasn’t a great one already. My thoughts go round and round in an unpleasant circle, and I force myself to listen to Margaret as she launches into the positive parenting techniques, talking as if it is both elementary and rocket science at the same time—obvious, yet clearly completely beyond us.
I try not to get annoyed as she talks about spending quality time with our children—“it only has to be ten or fifteen minutes at a time, but really invested, without your phone or the television on”—and how important physical affection is—“hugging, cuddling, tickling.”
Angelica is already looking bored and Diane is chewing her nails. I am silent, because I know I don’t need this. I already spend plenty of quality time with my child, never mind ten or fifteen minutes. And physical affection, or lack of it, has never been an issue. Did Susan really think I needed to be told this?
By the end of the two hours, I am feeling restless and definitely annoyed, because Margaret hasn’t said anything I don’t already know, that I don’t already do. She must have picked up on my irritation because as I’m standing up, getting ready to leave, she smiles at me, cocking her head, and says, “I got a feeling I was preaching to the choir today, Beth.”
I shrug, glancing at Angelica and Diane, who are doing their best to hightail it out of there.
“I know some of the things I say will seem obvious,” Margaret continues in a gentle tone. “But they’re still important to reiterate.”
I shrug again, because I don’t know how to respond. I feel like the naughty kid being kept after school. Angelica has already slouched out of the room, and Diane is sidling past us with a nervous smile. Why did I merit singling out? It wasn’t as if those two were stellar students.
“Anyway,” Margaret says with another smile, “I just wanted to reassure you that we will move on next week to some topics that might feel a bit more practical and relevant.”
“Okay, thanks,” I mutter, and then I follow Diane out the door, breathing a sigh of relief. One down, nine more to go.
Twilight is already settling over the town as I wait at the bus stop, hugging myself because the day has developed that sharp, wintry coldness that comes in a New England November, always seeming to take me by surprise. One minute it’s all golden sunshine and autumn leaves; the next you’re freezing your butt off and everything looks gray, like the color has been leached out of the world. The next bus isn’t due for fifteen minutes; I’m not going to get home till five-thirty at the earliest, not that I have anywhere to be.
“Hey, where are you headed?”
I blink in surprise at the car that has slowed down in front of the bus stop—a big, shiny white SUV. Diane is in the driver’s seat, smiling uncertainly at me.
“West Hartford,” I say, unsure why she wants to know. “Near the town center.”
“I’ll give you a ride if you want. I live in Simsbury.”
“Oh…” I’m so surprised that I just stare at her for a moment. Judging by her nervy manner in the class, I didn’t expect her to be friendly. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
I open the passenger door and slide into the leather interior, realizing at the last second that Diane might be a serial killer and I’m her next victim.
“I love West Hartford,” she says as she pulls back onto the street and heads towards the highway. “The town center is so cute.”
“Yeah, it’s really nice.” I feel a bit more relaxed. She looks so normal, with her button-down blouse and artfully tied scarf. She can’t be a serial killer. But why is she having to take the Triple P course, Level Four? She hardly seems like the type, but then I didn’t think I was, either.