I didn't want to see the hair on the calves of her legs or notice the too tight denim capris she was sporting as we stood there on the dividing line of my front yard where our tall grass meets her neatly manicured lawn. My girls, however, had seen Mrs. B out with her dog and had begged to say hello. So there I stood as they made a big fuss over her furry ankle biter.
Mrs. B is a teacher now at Sissy's school and I've lived next door to her for over a decade and yet I'd be hard pressed to write a paragraph with our conversations over the years. There was a time when I was the young twenty-something living in the run down house beside hers. Of course back then I saw it differently. Through idealistic eyes I saw a house with potential and filled up with my dreams.
Back then she was a poodle haired housewife with a couple of kids. Now the situation is reversed. Her children are grown. I feel awkward when I talk to her. I ramble about how I'm having my oldest read books from the library this summer and how she fusses and says, “Summer is for fun.” We laugh but I really have nothing to say and just feel uncomfortable. I want to run into my house and put that baby down for nap, send the girls to the playroom while I shower in peace and listen to my Jodi Picoult book on cd I got for myself the other day.
Finally, I couldn't take it another second. Told the girls to come on and leave Mrs. B alone. I hauled tail inside with my young'ns in tow but the thing that's sticking in my mind is the biggest compliment Mrs. B ever gave me was just now when she said I make it look easy, this being a mother thing that is. Ha! Right.
