Chapter 1 of Preschool Confessions

July 12.

It was a dream job. A job most women dream about and would kill for. I was able to bring my children to work with me every day, and still get paid. I’d get a real paycheck with my name printed on it—something I hadn’t had in four years. I’d get to see my kids throughout the day: tend to them when they were sad, kiss a skinned knee, and tuck them in at naptime.

It was an ideal situation.

I was beyond excited. I wanted this. I needed this. Our family desperately needed the money, and I urgently craved grown-up interaction and a break from the day-to-day monotony before I lost my last few remaining brain cells.

It was only a few weeks ago that the decision to head back to work had been made for me. July 12, a Wednesday. The kids were napping, and I had just put away the last bit of laundry for the day. I heard the mail box latch shut, and popped my mug of coffee into the microwave and set it for 35 seconds, to heat while I grabbed the day’s mail offering. A pennysaver magazine, two fliers from local realtors, a PG&E bill, and a letter addressed to me, in my own handwriting. The postmark was from New York City.

I could tell it was bad news by how thin the envelope was, and that the sendee didn’t bother to attach a return address label or stamp. He/she didn’t want to hear from me again, nor did He/she care if this letter got lost in the postal maze.

I took a deep breath and tore open the envelope.

Dear Ms. Jessica Swanson:

Thank you for your submission of  PERFECTLY YOURS. While this work does have merit, it doesn’t seem to be quite the right fit for our team right now. As you know, we are taking on very few new authors at this time.

Thanks again for considering us for this project, and we do wish you the best of luck with this elsewhere.

Cordially,

Betsy Rickers

Literary agent

I sat down on the curb next to the mail box, and returned the latest rejection to it’s envelope. The sun reflected off the newly paved street—so new, there weren’t any oil splotches or painted lines, causing me to shield my eyes with the pile of mail. Across the street there were 2 houses, both with For Sale signs. One was brand-new, never-before-lived-on construction, and the other was a foreclosure nightmare. I met the mom once, but saw her often. She had 3 little ones ages 4 and under, and always wore a bright pink velour jogging suit. The one time we spoke, she told me that her husband was in construction (everybody’s husband around here was “in construction”) and that he traveled a lot. She looked a bit overwhelmed, and I told her that I was around if she ever needed help with anything.

It was a pleasant conversation, but I suppose I could have been a bit more forward, and asked her in for coffee. But I didn’t. The kids were running around the cul-de-sac shoeless, and I didn’t want them on my carpet. The asphalt was still giving off color.

I saw them a few times a day, and figured at some point I’d invite them over. Once they had settled in.

Then they were gone. Pam. That was the mother’s name. She evidently packed the kids and house up one weekend while we were away camping and disappeared. Emily, on the corner, said Pam told her they were moving back to North Carolina to be with family. Emily said it was obvious to her that she’d been crying.

2 days later the yellow foreclosure notice was posted on the front door.

It was a beautiful house—the 2640 square foot model, with a sunk in master tub overlooking the valley. Now the lawn was brown and overgrown and there was a SaveMart shopping cart overturned on the front porch.

Shaking my head, as if the clear the cobwebs, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands, and walked back to my own house and went inside. The kids were still napping---it was quiet.

The microwave beeped once, reminding me that I had neglected my coffee. Again. The digital readout said 3:34.

Time to think about dinner.