Odd Mom Out

I watch Eva, my stomach in knots. We should have stayed in New York.

“Eva!” I lean forward and call to her. She turns to look at me, her long dark hair streaming water. “Want to go?”

She scrubs a hand across her wet cheeks, her gypsy eyes too wise for her years, eyelashes long, dense, and black. In the last year, I’ve begun to see the hint of the cheekbones that will one day come. She has my face. I wasn’t pretty as a child, either; my looks came much later, when I was older, sometime late during college.

“Not yet, Mom.” Her attention’s caught by the cluster of little girls climbing from the pool and race-walking to the diving board.

The little girls are pretty in that golden shimmer of late summer—tan, long limbed, sun-streaked hair. They have cute little noses that turn up, wide wet-lashed eyes, and gap-toothed smiles where baby teeth come and go. Children of privilege. Children who grow up belonging to country clubs and private tennis clubs and, if you’re very lucky and live on the water, one of the exclusive yacht clubs, too.

Hugging the pool wall tighter, Eva watches the giggling girls take turns jumping and diving off the board, trying to outdo one another with big splashes and new cool maneuvers.

And behind the diving board are the little girls’ nannies and moms. You can tell which girl belongs to which mom. Children and parents come in matching sets here, neat, tidy, incredibly groomed. Most of the moms wouldn’t dream of actually getting in the pool with their children, despite being in outstanding shape (thanks to private fitness trainers and visits to a local, exceptional plastic surgeon who never names names).

I’m not pointing fingers, though. I wouldn’t get in the pool here, either (although I have, when Eva’s been especially lonely and desperate for companionship), not when every woman on the side will stare, sizing you up and down as you peel off your clothes, drop your towel, and climb in the pool.

They’ll give you the same once-over as you climb out, too.

Each time. Every time.

And I guarantee nearly every woman is silently measuring. Comparing. Do I look that fat? Is her figure better than mine? Does she have flab? Dimples? Do my thighs jiggle like that, too?

These thoughts remind me of why I loved New York. New York was cool and sharp, beautiful in a hard, glistening way Bellevue isn’t.

Bellevue, a suburb of Seattle, is soft, squishy, with exceptional public schools, big shingle houses fronted by emerald green lawns, sprawling upscale malls, and a Starbucks on every other corner. In this place of affluence and comfort, I feel alien.

Like Eva. But not. Because I don’t want to fit in. I don’t want to be like these women who have too much time on their diamond-ringed hands and who drive immaculate Lexus and Mercedes SUVs.

The girls swim close to Eva, and suddenly Eva is pushing off the wall and swimming toward them. I’m torn between exasperation and admiration. She tries every day. She doesn’t give up. How can I not respect her tenacity? I never liked no for an answer. I should be glad she doesn’t, either.

“I can dive,” Eva says to them, smiling too big, trying too hard, setting my teeth on edge. “Want to see?”

One of the girls, I think it’s Jemma Young, makes a face. “No.”

But Eva, now that she’s finally made the first move, persists. “I’m hoping we’re going to be in the same class again this year.”

Jemma rolls her eyes at the other girls. “Yippee. That’d be fun.”

I press my nails harder into my palms at Jemma’s smart answer. Why didn’t Jemma’s mom teach her any manners?

“So fun,” another little girl chimes in sarcastically, playing Jemma’s game.

The little girls are all giggling and looking back and forth from Jemma to Eva.

I feel wild on the inside, like a mama bear needing to protect her cub. But I don’t get up. I don’t do anything. This is Eva’s battle. She must learn to fend for herself. Even when it breaks my heart.

Jemma and girls flick their wet hair and swim toward the side of the pool. As Jemma hauls herself out of the pool using the ladder, she glances at the others, lined up little duck style right behind her.

“Let’s go get ice cream,” she announces imperiously.

The little duck friends follow.

Eva tries to follow.

She starts to climb the ladder, and she’s smiling, keeping that too wide, too hopeful smile fixed on her face just in case Jemma turns around and asks her to join them. But of course they don’t ask her. They walk away, heading toward the snack bar.

And Eva’s smile starts to fall. Her face is so open, so revealing. The anger in me rises again. I want to take Eva by the shoulders. Shake her. They’re not going to ask you to play. They’re not going to include you. Stop hoping. Stop making them so powerful. Stop allowing them to hurt you.

Eva doesn’t know yet what I know about the world and being female. She doesn’t understand that you have to establish yourself, establish your identity and boundaries, young. Girls can be vicious, far more cruel than boys, because their world is made up of language, stories, and secrets. Too often, little girls and women start a conversation with, “Don’t tell anyone . . .” Three words I’ve learned that too often lead to pain.

In the boy world, any boy can join in provided he can spit farther, ran faster, hit harder. The boy world isn’t an inner circle, but a totem pole hierarchy based on strength, guts, courage. Bravado.

It’s the world I’d give Eva if I could. Instead, Eva’s world makes me sweat. Bleed.

Goddamn town. Goddamn country club. Goddamn girls who won’t let Eva in.

I gather Eva’s magazines, placing the copy of Elegant Bride and Modern Bride in my tote bag before rising from my chair and holding up her striped towel. “Eva,” I call to her, “want to go to Cold Stone?”

She’s still watching the girls drip their way around the pool, past the mothers clustered at tables and lounge chairs, toward the snack bar nestled against the country club’s shingled wall.

“I could just get a Popsicle here,” she says, her wistful gaze never leaving Jemma and gang.

I spot Jemma’s mom, Taylor Young, across the pool. Taylor blows Jemma a kiss as her daughter passes. Taylor Young, the original Bellevue Babe in her fitted light blue Polo shirt and short white tennis skirt.

Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. Wife of VP of Business Development Nathan Young, room mom, school auction chair, president of the PTA. Why? Because nobody must do it better.

Blech. I’d rather shoot myself between the eyes than spend every afternoon at Points Elementary.

But that’s not nice of me. Taylor can’t possibly spend every afternoon at school. She obviously does other things. Like highlight her hair. Visit Mystic Tan. Botox her brow.

Am I bitter? Hell, no. I’d hate Taylor’s life. I love working, love my career and my colleagues, the intensity and challenge of it all. My life is one of taking risks. That’s what brought me back to the Pacific Northwest, after all.

“Can I ask Jemma for a sleepover?” Eva asks timidly.

I’m jolted by Eva’s question. Jemma Young for a sleep-over? Oh, Eva. Jemma Young doesn’t even treat you nicely. Why do you want her as your friend?

But I don’t say it. I hold my breath instead, count to three, and then exhale. As I exhale, I draw Eva toward me, wrap her towel around her shoulders. “She might already have other plans.”

Eva shrugs. “She might not.” Her shoulders are so thin. She’s tall, bony, delicate.

“That’s true.”

“And I haven’t had a sleepover all summer.”

When I was growing up, playdates and sleepovers weren’t the thing they are now. Maybe now and then you had a friend over, but it wasn’t this almost daily round robin of going to friends’ houses that dominates the Points Elementary School scene. “That’s true, too.”

Eva smiles at me. “So it’s okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” I’m biting my tongue, biting it hard, knowing that Jemma’s just going to r

eject her, wanting to protect her from the rejection, but not knowing how to. For the first time in my life, I wish I were someone else, wish I’d been crafted from different material. If I were like other women, if I were more domestic, more maternal, I’d know how to handle this, wouldn’t I? I’d know what to say, what to do, to make my daughter more secure, more popular. More like the people she wants to be.

“Will you go with me?” she asks, pressing her towel to her mouth and chewing on the thick yellow terry cloth.

Will I go with her?

I don’t even have to look at my Eva to see her. She’s imprinted so deeply on my heart that I just know her, feel her, love her with the love of a mother lion or tiger. The love of a protector. I would do anything for her. “Yes. Let’s go ask.”

We—Eva—asks. Jemma says no. It takes all of five seconds to ask and be refused. As Eva heads into the girls locker room to get her clothes, I see Taylor Young rise from her chair and walk around the pool. She’s stopping now to say hello to some women who’ve just arrived. Her smile is big. She’s so shiny and pretty. So perfectly assembled.