Free How to Be a Grown-up by Emma McLaughlin

as I should have about practicing. I didn’t honestly care if he was a french horn prodigy. Except he kind of was. And maybe all ten-year-olds were just incapable of making themselves do anything but play World of Warcraft. I was the opposite of a Tiger Mother—a hamster. I was a Hamster Mother.
    “I don’t know,” I confessed. “It clouds with my computer. Maya, why did you change?” She had removed the outfit we’d agreed on and put on a party dress. With her Miss Piggy pajama bottoms.
    “I wathn’t feewing it.”
    “I see.”
    You are . . . late, the voice said louder. I would have to name it. “Maya, we can’t wear pajamas to school.”
    “I want the piggy pants!”
    Before I had children, I wondered why little girls were dressed like Fruit Loops, as if we all had cataracts and it was the responsibility of children’s clothing manufacturers to make sure we could discern form. Even after Wynn, the mystery lingered. To this day, he is relatively fine to throw on whatever, barring that summer he wouldn’t take off his Thomas the Tank Engine rain boots and we had to sneak into his room while he slept to spray antifungal on his little feet.
    Then I had a daughter whose opinions are violent and quixotic. When she was a baby, she would burst into tears for no reason. Dry, fed, burped, rested, she would wail at me like I was an imbecile. I now know that she will not wear anything with a tag, discernible seam, or reverse stitching—like polka dots. Any kind of texture against her skin is unbearable to her. And she loves purple. With pink and turquoise and banana yellow. Loves it.
    So until Blake got back, she would be that kid. The one in the tutu and the rash guard. And I could not give a fuck.
    You are . . . late.
    “Okay, fine. Let’s go!”
    We were halfway to the train when the rain that wasn’t supposed to start until lunchtime broke. “My thandals! My thandals are getting wet!” Maya screamed as if lava were falling from the sky. I heaved her onto one hip, feeling my vertebrae do something that looked like an accordion midperformance.
    Blake had been away for weeks at a stretch before, but always with an end date. Now, not knowing when I was going to be able to tag myself out and catch my breath was unnerving. I realized that I depended on his returns as if they were finish lines. I used them to determine when to flat-out parent (impromptu giant art projects) and when to conserve my energy to go the mothering distance (Dora).
    You are moving in the wrong direction!
    “Mommy, are we?” Maya asked as Wynn and I ran with our jackets raised over our heads. My phone rang. We tried not to slip down the subway stairs.
    “Hello?” I answered breathlessly as I pulled out my Metrocard.
    “Rory,” Kathryn said, sounding like she was dry in a town car. “Listen, I’d be curious to see the mechanicals for the launch pages as soon as they’re compiled.”
    “Uh, sure,” I said, unsure if it was actually an “uh, sure” situation. Guessing that if Taylor wasn’t allowed to know I knew Kathryn, it probably wasn’t.
    “Thank you.” She hung up, and I tapped at the settings as we waited for the subway but couldn’t figure out how to disable it. Wynn even gave it a try. When we turned off the sound, my phone shook without stopping like a vibrator going for a Christmas bonus.
    “Mom,” Wynn said sharply as we approached school. “Turn that off . You look weird .” What, with the Cuisinart in my purse?
    I set it on a low volume. You are moving in the wrong direction, she whispered urgently from my bag. It was starting to feel that way.

    By the time I got to the therapist’s office, I had to take off my ballet flats and tip the water out. The bottoms of my pants were dripping.
    Blake smiled at me as he opened the door to the waiting room, his hoodie sweatshirt similarly sodden. Aren’t we a pair? he seemed to say as we glanced around at the other couples sensibly covered in Burberry.
    This was