New chapter for Day Care

 Like my character Brenda, I realized I was missing something from my first draft. I added it last night and this morning. Of course, there will be many more drafts, but at least the hole is filled and is ready for polishing, polishing, polishing. Brenda is writing a book about these four mothers who have daughters in day care and how they support one another.

I wake in the middle of night. I realize there is an entire something I haven’t done. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am a professional writer, aren’t I?

I’ve been so busy observing and interviewing/observing the women individually or in small groups, I never asked how they happened to become such good friends. There’s the day care connection for sure, but is there some other bond?

I send an email to them all. “I would like to invite you and your daughter(s) to my house for a spaghetti feed at noon on Sunday. Bring toys.” All answer yes within an hour.

I’m not a woman who likes entertaining. Maybe sometimes, I’ll have a friend over for a drink. I like even less preparing a meal. It is not that I can’t cook. I am a good cook when I bother. The food I make for myself is usually on the healthy side and simple. I also rely on the Indian, Mexican and Syrian take-out restaurants in Harvard Square.

Take out did I say? Delivery is even better. Okay, I’m lazy.

However, for this group, I’ll to make a huge pot of spaghetti sauce. An Italian landlady when I was in college taught me. And since these women have been so generous in feeding me, it is the least I can do. A green salad, some French bread from Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square.

Wine?

They’ll be driving back to Reading from Cambridge. Maybe give them the choice. And Coke as a treat for the kids.

I don’t have enough chairs, so I borrow two from my upstairs tenants. Nice thing about being a landlady myself. My reasonable rents, or at least reasonable for the Harvard Square area, guarantees my tenants want to stay on my good side.

That’s not really fair. The second floor tenants are working on Ph.Ds and have lived here three years. The third floor is occupied by two professors, one at Northeastern and one at Simmons. It means they commute across the city, but the walk to the T is about three blocks and they change the Redline changes to the Green at Park Street so there commute is not horrible. They say the love the Square and it is nice not to be near where they teach and run into their students. They’ve been here seven years.

I’m not really friend-friends with my tenants, but we are more than just nodding-on-the-staircase acquaintances. Once a year we have a barbeque in the backyard. When I go to France, they will notify me if there’s a problem and have offered to help whoever is staying chez moi.

I make a mental note to firm up dates with Sue and contact the local universities to see if they have visiting professors who would like to rent my place for a year. If they can’t find anyone, then I will deal with an agency.

The women arrive in two cars. Parking is always at a premium in this area. I have a narrow driveway. The professors are away for the weekend and that leaves room for Anne-Marie’s car. Sally drives to the hotel garage at the end of street and uses their underground garage. I wonder if she and Maura will split the cost. I won’t ask.

“You said to bring toys,” Sophie says. She holds up an airplane. “Lydia wanted to bring at least ten, but Maman said only one each.”

Each little girl shows me what toys they have brought, a hodge podge of things for transportation and dolls.

They’ve spent enough time in each other’s home that they know all the toys and there is some on-going game that they launch themselves into.

“I think the rules change by the minute, but it keeps them quiet,” Sally says.

The dining room is off the living room where I’ve set up a picnic blanket on the floor. We can watch the kids through the arch between the two rooms.

The women automatically help serve. The kids amuse themselves.

Once I bring out the coffee, I ask. “Can I bring out the recorder?” It is an old-fashioned one, but since it works, I’ve seen no need to replace it with anything newfangled. I’m not a Luddite, but I am frugal.

They agree. I push the button.

Me: What I want to know is how you all got so friendly.

Maura: Violet started in day care as soon as she was out of diapers.

Ashley: I had an au paar but after my husband died, I though Maude would be better with other kids.

Maura: My family knew Ashley’s.

Ashley: We weren’t in school together or anything.

Maura: You’re a lot older. (Ashley is the oldest of the women at 44.)

Ashley: Don’t remind me. I could have been Maura’s babysitter, except I never baby-sat. My parents wanted me to earn money, so I offered to weed people’s gardens, shovel snow, cut grass. I even made up business cards.

Maura: My family never hired her. My dad was a cop and he figured that my brother, sister and I could do all that ourselves as a contribution to the family. But our fathers know each other. Her father is a lawyer and sometimes his clients were people my dad arrested.

Ashley: My dad also knew yours because your Dad often was the cop on duty at Meadowbrook events. (Meadowbrook is the local golf club).

Maura: My Dad with three kids and a mortgage took every extra duty gig he could get. (Even in a small town, there are class distinctions. That might be another book, one I’ll never write. I don’t see the women paying any attention to income or educational differences).

Sally: I’m the out of towner, okay one of them. (She nods to Anne-Marie.) I didn’t talk to the others that often because as a teacher, I picked up Grace earlier than they did. I only saw them mornings when it would be a quick exchange of good morning or have a good day as we rushed to get to work.

Anne-Marie: I met Maura when I was looking for an apartment after I left Jean-Marc. She told me about the daycare center. Our au paar was going back to France about the same time and I didn’t have room to house another body.

Me: So how did you build the relationships you did? (They look at each other as if they are trying to remember.)

Sally: I was running late because of an after-school teachers meeting. We were all there are the same time for a change to pick them up. They were engrossed in a game.

Maura: They were pretending they owned a store.

Ashley: None of them wanted to come home. We started chatting. It was me who suggested we eat together that night—nothing formal. I mentioned I had a slowpot of beef stew brewing.

Sally: Boy, did she stress it was nothing special, but it was good. I stopped at the store on the way to her house and picked up a head of lettuce and a bottle of salad dressing.”

Anne-Marie: And I bought a carton of ice cream,” Anne-Marie said.

Maura: I didn’t bring anything. Anyway, the kids continued playing together and the four of us talked and talked. “I can’t remember who came up with the idea of each person taking a weekend to give us all some freedom.

Sally: I think it just kinda evolved. Ashley kept all the kids one Friday night. A couple of weeks later Anne-Marie had a sleepover. Maura, did you suggest we formalize it?

Maura: Maybe. I think so. Everyone agreed so quickly, I bet we were all thinking about it.

Me: However, you support each other in different ways.

Anne-Marie: I guess we do. It is nice to have an adult to listen to you.

Maura: We have ranting privileges.

Me: Ranting privileges.

Maura: When my boss drives me crazy, I can call Anne-Marie. The head of her department is a pain in the ass, so she understands.

Sally: I really have no family. Ashley’s dad took Grace to father and daughter day at the daycare.

Ashley: That was really stupid. So many single moms. (All the women nod). At least they held it on a Saturday.

Me: How often are you all in contact?

Sally: Depending on many things, sometimes every day on Facebook or email. Sometimes we only see each other when we drop or pick up the kids. Often on Saturdays when we pick up the kids, we will end up eating together.

I click off the recorder. I have what I need.

When everyone is gone, I sit on the couch. I really enjoy these women and I have the prologue that I need for the book. Not only that, they left my kitchen spotless.

The phone rings. It’s Barbara.

“Hello, agent of mine.”

“If you can get to New York, next Tuesday, Fransicka Lazlo will meet with you.”

“Who?”

“The woman who commissioned Day Care.