Left Neglected Read Free Page A

content to leave him in peace until he comes to them with an offer of a new activity. With me, I have all the magnetism of a favorite rock star without the bodyguards. They’re
on
me. A typical example: Linus is under my feet, whining, begging to be picked up, while Lucy hollers, “Mom, I need help!” from another room, while Charlie asks me forty-seven hundred relentless questions about what happens to trash.
    I grab my coffee mug and sit opposite Bob for our morning meeting. I take a sip. It’s cold. Whatever.
    “Did you see the note from Charlie’s teacher?” I ask.
    “No, what?”
    “His teacher wants to talk to us about his report card.”
    “Good, I want to know what’s going on.”
    He reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out his iPhone.
    “You think she can meet with us before school?” he asks.
    I grab my laptop off the counter and sit back down.
    “I could do early on Wednesday and Friday, possibly Thursday if I move something,” I say.
    “I can do Thursday. You have her email?”
    “Yup.”
    I shoot an email to Ms. Gavin.
    “You going to his game today?” he asks.
    “No, are you?”
    “I probably won’t be back in time, remember?”
    “Oh, yeah. I can’t, my day’s packed.”
    “Okay. I just wish one of us could be there to see him.”
    “Me, too, honey.”
    I believe he’s being entirely sincere, but I can’t help taking his words “I just wish one of us” and translating them in my brain into “I think you.” And while the gears of my internal language interpreter are greased, it transforms “could” to “should.” the majority of women in Welmont with children Charlie’s age never miss a soccer game and don’t earn special good mother status for being there. This is simply what good mothers do. These same mothers herald it an exceptional event if any of the dads leave the office early to catch a game. The fathers cheering on the sidelines are upheld as great dads. Fathers who miss the games are working. Mothers who miss the games, like me, are bad mothers.
    A standard dose of maternal guilt sinks to the bottom of the cold coffee and Lucky Charms soup in my stomach. Not exactly the Breakfast of Champions.
    “Abby can stay and watch him,” I say, reassuring myself.
    Abby is our nanny. She started working for us when Charlie was twelve weeks old, when my maternity leave ended. We were beyond lucky to get her when we did. Abby was twenty-two then, right out of college with a degree in psychology, and lived just ten minutes away in Newton. She’s smart, conscientious, has tons of energy, and loves our kids.
    Before Charlie and Lucy were old enough for preschool, Abby watched them from 7:30 in the morning until 6:30 at night, Monday through Friday. She changed their diapers, rocked them to sleep, read them stories, wiped their tears, taught them games and songs, bathed and fed them. She grocery shopped and cleaned the house. She became an essential member of our family. I can’t imagine our life without her. In fact, if I had to choose between keeping Bob and keeping Abby, there have been times when it would’ve been difficult to pick Bob.
    This past spring, Abby told us the unthinkable. She would be leaving us to attend Boston College for her master’s in childhood education. We were stunned and panicked. We couldn’t lose her. So we negotiated a deal. With Charlie and Lucy already in school for seven hours a day, we were willing to put Linus in day care in September for the same hours. That would mean we’d need her only from 3:00 to 6:30, and we’d pay for part of her tuition.
    Sure, we could’ve combed through Craigslist and found someone who would probably be good and would definitely be cheaper. Or we could’ve hired someone through a find-a-nanny agency. But Abby already knows our kids. She knows their routines, their moods, their favorite things. She knows how to handle Charlie’s inquisitions, Lucy’s tantrums, and she knows to never, never forget to