Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom

Chapter Nine

Good sex warps a woman’s mind. I realize that now. But when Stuart asked me if I could throw together another quick cocktail party, I was still lost in that sated morning-after glow. Apparently, one of the paralegals was supposed to host the thing that evening, but she’d come down with something. I murmured yes and then buried my head back under the covers, happy, content, and full of orgasm-induced confidence.

It wasn’t until my alarm went off five minutes later that I realized my mistake.

By that time Stuart was already pulling out of the drive, probably practicing his cocktail party banter as he drove to the gym for an early-morning workout. I toyed briefly with dialing his cell phone and backing out, but then abandoned the idea. It wasn’t a huge shindig. Only five couples. And this was what I was supposed to be doing—helping my husband, stepping in during a crisis, being a good wife and mom. Yes, he may have cheated a bit by asking when my body still tingled, but I’d said yes, and now I was stuck.

And considering I had to get two kids up and dressed—and then drive Allie and three other kids to school before the 7:45 warning bell—I really didn’t have time to sit around regretting my decision.

I tossed on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail without bothering to brush it. Allie’s a bear to wake up before seven, so I headed for her room first, pounding on the door and calling, “Up, up, up.”

Her muffled response filtered through the door, and although I couldn’t understand the words, the tone was loud and clear—Go away, Mom, you’re bothering me.

“First day of school, Allie, remember? Come on. We’re running late.” A lie, but I figured that might get her moving faster.

Next, I headed for Timmy’s room. This was about the time he usually woke up—six-fifteen—and I could hear him whispering to himself. I pushed the door open with a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Tim.”

“MOMMA, MOMMA, MOMMA!”

Now there’s a proper morning greeting. I headed over to his crib and soaked up the light from his toothy grin. He held up Boo Bear. “He sleepy,” he said.

“Me, too.” I took the bear, gave it a big kiss, and then very seriously spoke to his little bear face. “Boo Bear, we need to get Timmy up. What do you think? Time for a fresh diaper?”

I didn’t give the bear (or the boy) time to answer. Just schlepped them both the short distance to the changing table. Less than two minutes later (I’ve been doing this for a few years) Timmy had on a fresh diaper and clean clothes and we were heading into the living room. I plunked him on the couch, turned on Jo Jo’s Circus, and continued toward the kitchen to heat up a sippy cup of milk.

Forty-five seconds later Timmy was holding the cup in his chubby little hands, I had my cordless phone cradled at my ear, and I was heading back up the stairs to pound at Allie’s door once again.

“Dupont Mental Institution,” Laura said, obviously having checked her caller ID.

“How are things at your end?”

“The inmates are restless,” she said.

“At least yours is up and moving.” I pounded on Allie’s door again. “Now, Allie. If you’re not dressed at 7:20, I'm leaving without you.” The first day of car pool is always a challenge, and Karen and Emily were unknown commodities. If they were the kind who ran late—where you ended up sitting on the street, engine running, laying on the horn—I wanted a little padding in the schedule.

I switched my attention back to the phone. “What have you got going this morning?”

“Laundry,” she said, sounding about as excited as if she were having a root canal. “Carla refuses to step up to the plate.” Carla came in twice a month to do Laura’s heavy cleaning. This is a point of great envy on my part. One day I'm hoping Carla can be cloned. “And bills. I could be talked into procrastinating,” she added. “If you’ve got a better offer, I mean.”