Saving Face: Chapter 2

"Hey Erica," calls Danny as I help Ellie into the mudroom, shopping bags sliding down my arm. Sam ties on his Batman cape. He's been cheered immensely by repeat playings of his current favorite song, "Dumpy Wumpy Baby" ("I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, that much is true"), on the way back from school. We hang up jackets and put backpacks and today's art offerings into bins. Ellie lunges crazily for Chairman Meow, the cat. "Gaaaaaaaaaaa," she shrieks.

Ellie isn't talking yet. For a while, we thought it was funny that she was like Maggie on The Simpsons, and it was so fun and ironic to have a baby who would alternately fall down and then be silent. But now we're starting to worry a little. I have an appointment with the pediatrician to discuss this on Tuesday.

"Snacks in here guys," calls Danny, and they race into the kitchen.

"How was your day?" he asks me. Danny is young enough to listen to the answers to such questions and possibly even young enough to remember them a day later.

"The usual," I say, tossing my purse onto a kitchen chair. "Periods of prolonged waiting punctuated by brief flurries of lateness."

Danny smiles as the children launch themselves at his thighs. Having a "manny" makes me the envy of all my friends; he's a college senior who's been helping out since Ellie was born. He was Sammy's camp counselor that summer and it was love at first sight for both of them. Danny's off to med school next year, and I have not-infrequent visions of packing up the entire family to follow him there, cramming the four of us into his tiny New York bachelor apartment with our baskets of dirty laundry and demands that he replace our dead batteries. It's an immediate blast of relief to walk in and have him here: He's already cut the grapes in half, put away the breakfast things, and emptied out the dishwasher. Danny is what my husband would be if I paid him $14 an hour.

Read the rest of the chapter in Slate.