The wine mom pours what she deems a serving into the glass she was gifted by her mom friend. It’s one of those rejects that ends up at T.J Maxx because the majority of the population finds it tacky; she loves it. The oversized glass reads “Therapy.” Which is ironic, considering the email from her former therapist that’s decaying in her inbox. It’s hard to find the time for that sort of thing.
The wine mom is with her wine mom friends for their weekly communion. They all talk their husbands (Matthew, Stephen, and Andrew) into babysitting their children for a few hours. The husbands (Matthew, Stephen, and Andrew) are praised; not everyone can say they have such a supportive spouse. Before children, the women had a book club. Now, it’s hard to find time for that sort of thing.
The wine goes down and the room begins to have a pulse. It can go differently depending on the week. Most weeks it starts with comical stories about their little ones. Children say the darndest things. As the bottles dwindle the husbands (Matthew, Stephen, and Andrew) slowly become the topic of conversation. It turns out; husbands also say the darndest things. Matthew doesn’t like to help around the house; his mother never expected his father to. Stephen changed the passcode on his phone out of the blue; if she really trusted him she wouldn’t need to know his passcode. Andrew thinks his wine mom ought to get back in the gym; it might help their sex life. The women give a sympathetic sigh upon hearing Andrew’s request. They all agree, it’s hard to find time for that sort of thing.
Before they know it, the night is over. The numbness is slowly lifting and falling on their shoulders is the same stress they drank to forget. The carefully crafted counter argument they each helped each other create is filed in the back of their mind. On their journey home, there is a moment for each of the wine moms where they catch a glimpse of themselves. In the reflection of the sliding glass door, in the bathroom mirror, in their dark phone screen. At this moment they remember their names (Paige, Susan, and Louise). They remember the complexities of their minds. They remember who they were before the world forgot about them. It’s not that they dislike being mothers; they dislike being only that. They wish they could talk to the other wine moms about this but they would never understand. They are good mothers. Selfless. Without self. The wine moms shake off these thoughts as one would shake off a venomous spider. One day when the children grow up there will be an opportunity to be human again. For now, it’s just hard to find time for that sort of thing.