The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (2 page)

“Thanks for coffee,” she said, taking my
hands in hers. “And thanks for listening. Really, I was bursting to talk to
someone and you’re the only person I felt safe telling my secret to.”

I have to admit I was somewhat surprised by
this. Not that I couldn’t keep a secret. I could. I felt fairly confident that
I would take this information to my grave - even though it was the juiciest
thing to happen in Aberdeen Mists for about eight years. But although Karen and
I were very close, I wouldn’t really have considered us confidantes. In fact, I
would have thought she’d had a more open and sharing kind of relationship with
some of the other women in our clique. So why had she chosen me?

Karen was probably
closest to Carly
. She lived two houses away from me and six houses from Karen. She
was a more recent member of our social circle, having moved to the
neighborhood
just two years earlier. Carly had arrived, a
beaming newlywed, eager to start a family and immerse herself in suburban
bliss. Shortly after relocating, her husband, Brian, left her for a middle-aged
insurance adjuster with two young sons and an enormous pair of fake boobs.

Carly had been devastated. All she had ever
wanted was to have a family. We had all rallied around our new neighbor in her
time of crisis, and since then, she’d become an inextricable part of our social
network. But I often wondered why she didn’t move back to the city after
Brian’s cruel desertion. In Aberdeen Mists, she was literally surrounded by
smiling familial units. It was like an alcoholic working in a bar, or a Jenny
Craig devotee living above a bakery! If it were me, I’d have moved to
Washington Park, or another trendy area full of restaurants and nightclubs and
single men. I would have gone out dancing, done tequila shots and made out with
men much too young for me. But Carly stayed put, and thanks to time (and an
ongoing prescription for Xanax), she began to heal.

Carly and Karen had a friendship unique to
them: they were virtually the only women in the neighborhood who did not have
children. This afforded them more free time to bond over drinks, to go out to
movies, to go to the gym… Of course, Carly was busy with her home-based
accounting practice, and Karen was busy having mind-blowing sex with a Spanish
model/barista, but they still spent more time together than the rest of us.

I suppose it made sense that Karen had not
confessed her affair to Carly. Given the adulterous demise of Carly’s marriage,
she may not have been as open-minded and understanding as I was. Carly was
kind-hearted and generous to a fault, but Karen’s admission may have hit a little
too close to home. Carly always assured us that she was healing, moving on and
putting Brian, and what might have been, behind her. But I often thought her
smile seemed stretched a bit too tight and her fawning over our children was a
little forced.

Our friend Jane, on the other hand, would
have been in no position to judge Karen’s fling. Her marriage to Daniel, a fifty-eight-year-old
oil company executive, was the product of just such an affair. Jane had been
Daniel’s secretary several years ago when they ‘accidentally’ fell in love. She
no longer worked for him, of course. Now, she devoted her time to their two
young daughters—and to her looks. Jane definitely qualified as a yummy-mummy.
Thanks
to regular salon visits she had a lustrous mane of long, honey-colored hair;
frequent facials (and, I suspected, a little Botox) had given her a glowing and
youthful complexion; thrice-weekly Pilates classes had resulted in a body like
Cameron Diaz; and a very talented plastic surgeon had provided her the perky breasts
of an eighteen-year-old cheerleader. I had to admit, I really envied those
boobs. They were just so…
perfect
. Mine were positively decimated by the
breastfeeding. Not that I was particularly voluptuous before, but now they hung
off my chest like two popped balloons.

As much as I coveted them, I knew I couldn’t afford a boob
job: It was evident that my ten year old daughter, Chloe, would be needing
braces in a couple of years. I also harbored a deep-seeded fear that if I ever
did have my breasts done, I would have a reaction to the anesthetic and die on
the operating table. On the slim chance that I did survive the procedure, one
of the implants would be sure to burst, leaching toxic chemicals into my
bloodstream, eventually killing me. While I would have truly loved a pair like
Jane’s, I could already hear my post breast implant eulogy:

Paige was a loving wife and mother. Unfortunately, she
was also an incredibly vain woman, whose quest for larger breasts has left her
young children motherless, and her husband, a widower.

Perfect breasts aside, Jane was a very
compassionate woman and a good listener. And she could have provided much wiser
counsel on the whole affair situation than a novice like me. On the other hand,
Jane’s cheating streak appeared to be in the past. She and Daniel were
extremely committed to one another—weirdly so.
Due to the adulterous
beginnings of their relationship, they had serious trust issues which
manifested themselves in multiple phone calls back and forth each day, numerous
‘date nights’, extravagant gifts, and couples holidays, all in an effort to
prove they were still in love with each other and not screwing any of the
staff. No, when I thought about it, it was probably better that Karen had
confided in me.

The other member of our Tuesday coffee klatch
was Trudy. There was no way that Karen would have divulged her secret to her!
Trudy was quite possibly the sweetest, kindest person I knew. She was also the
most virtuous… really, almost…
pious
. She was the type of woman who, after
dropping a grocery bag full of canned goods on her bare foot, would say “Sugar”—but
only if her toe was actually broken. Before she had children she had been a
nursery school teacher.

Trudy’s marriage was something she kept
private. Her husband Ken was director of marketing for a telecommunications
company. With his non-stop travel and frequent eighteen-hour workdays, he made
my husband, Paul look like a slacker. But unlike me, her spouse’s long hours
and commitment to his job never seemed to bother her. I’d asked her about it
once,
and she’d responded with a cheery, “Well… sometimes it’s hard, but
I just thank my lucky stars that I’ve married a man who can provide for our
family and allow me to stay home to be with the children. It’s really a gift
you know.”

“Yes, it is,” I had responded weakly. Only moments before,
I’d intercepted my son, Spencer, as he was writing the word ‘poo’ on Jane’s
daughter’s forehead with my lipstick.

So though we knew little about Trudy’s marriage, it was
likely as perfect as the rest of her perfect life. Probably a little bland, I
would have to surmise, but solid. Trudy and Ken seemed like the
‘missionary-position-every-second-Friday’ kind of couple. If Karen had
confessed the sordid details of her extramarital sex romps to Trudy, she may
have spontaneously combusted.

I guess it did make sense for Karen to open up to me. I
smiled at my friend and gave her hands a squeeze.
“Your secret
is safe with me.” Then I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key.
Corny, I know, but I couldn’t help it. I spent a large majority of my time
hanging out with a six-year-old boy.

That afternoon, I drove to pick up my kids
from school with Karen’s confession replaying in my head. I knew that what she was
doing was wrong, and I pitied poor, clueless Doug. But I couldn’t deny the fact
that my friend seemed so full of life, of joy, of…
joi de vivre
! And her
skin looked fantastic.

It was the sex, I knew it was. Karen was
experiencing the passion and intensity of a new relationship, while I was
experiencing the same old thing I’d been experiencing for the past fourteen
years. Not that there was anything wrong with the way Paul and I
experienced
together. We both knew the routine to follow to ensure the desired results. It
was nice…
good
even. But it wasn’t exactly improving my complexion
anymore.

I pulled the massive SUV into a parking
spot bordering Rosedale Elementary’s playing field, and turned off the
ignition. The digital clock on the dashboard indicated that I was seven minutes
early. Since it was only Spencer’s second week of school, I didn’t want to risk
turning up late. I could practically hear him telling his future therapist how
he had abandonment issues because his mother wasn’t there to pick him up one
afternoon during first grade. It was a beautiful, September afternoon and the
sun, filtered just enough by the yellowing oak leaves, warmed my face through
the windshield. As I rested my head against the leather seat, my mind slipped
back to Karen’s admission.

It was a real dilemma. Despite her denials,
Karen and Doug
did
have a life together. They’d been married for six
years. They had a beautiful home. They were a part of the community. Doug was a
good husband, offering her stability, security, and companionship—and that’s
not to mention the time-share and the BMW. It wouldn’t be easy to walk away
from all that. Okay, maybe he was a little dull in the sack, but was that
really his fault? Any man could crack under all that baby-making pressure.

And if she were to choose Javier, what kind
of life would they have? They’d end up renting a dingy, one-bedroom apartment
in East Colfax, scraping to get by on his barista wages and occasional modeling
gigs. Karen would have to get a job. She’d left her event planning career
behind years ago; there was no way she could pick up where she left off now.
She’d be forced to waitress at some late night diner or a sleazy bar. They’d
have to eat canned ravioli and ramen noodles for most meals. There would be no
evenings out, no holidays, no meat that didn’t come from a can… They would have
nothing… nothing but each other and mind-blowing sex. I heaved a heavy sigh. It
was a very tough choice.

Suddenly, the SUV lurched like it had been charged by a
rhinoceros. I jumped in my seat, startled, until I heard the familiar giggling
of my son, and his friend Nigel, who had just propelled their slight bodies
into the passenger door.

“Bye, Poo hair!” Spencer called, opening the door to the
back seat.

“Bye, snot eyes!” Nigel called back, as he was hurriedly
corralled by his Filipina nanny.

“See you tomorrow, booger breath!”

“Okay, pee face!”

“Okay… ummm… diarrhea brain!” Spencer screamed out the
window.

“Spencer, that’s enough,” I said gently, but firmly. I was
glad he had a new school chum, but their entire friendship seemed to revolve
around assigning rude adjectives to body parts. “Those words are not
appropriate.”

“What words?” He asked, climbing into his booster seat and
buckling his seatbelt.

“You know which words—
bodily functions
, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, how was your day?”

“Good. Can we go now?”

“As soon as your sister gets here.” At that moment, I spied
my eldest child, standing in the school yard, ensconced in a gaggle of
squealing and giggling girls. At ten years old, Chloe was at least four inches
taller than her friends, and looked gawky, coltish, even spindly. She also had
enormous front teeth that would be demanding orthodontia in a year or two, and
an unflattering, center-part hairstyle, that worked with neither her fine hair nor
her narrow face. Lately, when I looked at my daughter, the term
awkward
stage
came to mind. “There she is,” I said to Spencer. “She’ll be here in a
sec.”

“I really need to go home,” he responded, his blue eyes
wide. “I’m starving and dying of thirst and I have to go pee sooooo bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Can you wait until we get home or do you want to go back in
the school?”

“Umm… wait! …I think.”

“Okay. She’ll be here in a minute.” But Chloe appeared to be
in no hurry to join us, laughing, shrieking and throwing pine cones at a group
of nearby boys. To be fair, she didn’t realize her brother was about to pee on
the seats of our forty thousand-dollar SUV, but my patience was wearing thin. I
tooted the horn briefly to catch her attention. Chloe’s eyes darted nervously
in our direction, but she angled her body away from us and continued her antics
with her friends.

“I need to peeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Spencer moaned.

“Let’s go back in the school.” I undid my seatbelt.

“No. I want to pee at home in my home toilet.”

“What’s the difference? Just go to the bathroom here.”

“It smells in there and sometimes the toilets flood and
there’s wet paper towels stuck on the ceiling.”

“Fine. Cross your legs and I’ll get you home as fast as I
can.” I leaned on the horn once, following up with three staccato bursts. This
time, Chloe didn’t even turn around.

“I think the pee’s coming!” Spencer shrieked.

“Hang on!” I cried. Hopping out of the car, I called to my
daughter. “Chloe! Come on! We have to go!” It was obvious that she was pretending
not to hear me. Despite being only ten, Chloe liked to give the impression that
she had no family, and lived alone in a small apartment, supporting herself as
a cocktail waitress in the evenings.

From inside the car, I heard, “Oh no! Oh no!”

“CHLOE ATWELL! NOW!” I bellowed. It had the desired effect.
Not only did Chloe turn, but I now had the attention of approximately two
hundred Rosedale students. Suddenly, I heard a car door open, followed by a
sound like running water. I turned to see my son, standing on the sidewalk,
relieving himself on the chain link fence. The entire schoolyard erupted into
laughter and horrified squeals. Chloe’s face registered her mortification. She
stalked silently to the car.