Who Knew?

I always wanted to be a small town mom. Actually I guess I always wanted to be a mom, really. I can remember being about eleven years old and saying to myself – ok, I’ll try to hold off getting pregnant until I’m fifteen. It’s probably sort of important to have a bit of a childhood and stuff. Plus, I hadn’t really met any boys who were cute enough to father my children. They were always missing that certain something in their eyes. That was before I knew how people got pregnant. If I’d known...well.

The funny thing is, I can’t really remember why I so desperately wanted to be a mom. I always liked babies, I guess. And toys. I liked baby paraphenalia in general – like strollers, car seats, cradles. Sweet smelling baby shampoo that never smelled as good in my own hair. Baby powder. Onesies. But why the hell was I so kid crazy? Was it dressing them in little overalls that had me salivating? Naming them cutesy little names with imaginative spellings like Kaerein? Good God – was it a control thing?

Who knows. All I remember is a general tug in the region of my womb, this gravitational pull thing that had me wanting a baby. Then another. Then another. Then...that’s right. Another.
Unfortunately I didn’t feel the same sort of gravitational pull towards marriage. Marriage – well I guess it was more a means to an end than anything. It got me what I wanted – namely Callum (15) Ben (13) Jack (10) and Nathan (9).

When my marriage ended seven years ago it turned out I could finally be a small town mom. My husband wasn’t much for the small town dad scene...seemed he thought viable employment and security were more important.

Jack ass.

Within four weeks of asking my husband to move out I had packed up my unbelievably small children and our entire big house, driven the two hours or so to my hometown and settled in. To be a Small Town Mom.

I thought I knew what I had coming to me. I would become someone who preserves things. I would become a pickler of various vegetables like carrots and beets. I would learn to build fires in my real wood-burning fireplace and walk a dog I didn’t have and grow flowers in the garden I swore I would tend. I would join water aerobics....because I just assumed my small town had water aerobics. It would be perpetually autumn, and the boys and I would walk home from school every day – possibly holding hands in one long, loving line – kicking up leaves and wearing browns and oranges from the J Crew Fall Collection.

I would instantly look thinner in a small town, I was sure of it. My ass would always look great in my mom jeans. My hair would have natural blond streaks and would be thick and lustrous. I would look like Kelly McGillis before she got her hair cut and starting looking like a dude.
The boys would be the star of every school play. They would have lessons in really cute things like the mandolin and maybe one or two of them would learn to play the banjo. They would take to organic broccoli and we would do family yoga together every night. After I’d gotten the fire going in our hearth.

We would have a hearth.

And there would probably be some man who lived on our street...some guy who looked like George Clooney but didn’t know he looked like George Clooney. I hadn’t quite worked out how we would work out...I was still a crumpled, bloody mess from my marriage after all. But even through the months of insomnia and throwing up and long lonely walks when I poured over every bloody conversation we’d ever had just so I could turn all of our problems into his fault, I knew that eventually I would want a George Clooney. Even if it was just for sex – most especially if it was just for sex.

The kids left to see their dad every second weekend. I was planning on using that time to explore the town, go for hikes in my LL Bean hiking boots and stop at local cafes for a green tea in the afternoons even though I loathe green tea. The staff would know my name. And I would belong for the first time ever. Because I would be the quintessential Small Town Mom.

I’m an unmitigated moron.