Something New Read Online Free PDF

generous thighs to the world. He pulls them down every few minutes, then proceeds to yank his underwear free of his crack in one violent motion. It is an ongoing display,and I often wonder if JoAnne even sees it happen or if she’s too busy pilfering his snacks to notice. Maybe someone ought to write her a note:
Get Lionel some new shorts!
    “You shouldn’t joke about it, Rita,” Maddy admonishes sweetly. “Lionel has a problem with his thyroid.”
    “He has a problem with
Cheetos
, more likely,” Rita fires back, then cackles with glee. Maddy promptly turns around and continues her discussion of banana peels and apple cores and this wonderful new product she found that keeps the compost stink to a minimum.
    “Peter’s playing well today,” I venture, and Rita gives me a sideways glance.
    “Honey, the only time Peter touches the ball is when he gets hit with it. But it’s nice of you to say so.” She nods to herself. “I noticed that Matthew hasn’t tripped at all today.”
    “Not yet,” I say, and immediately feel guilty for having been so insensitive. But Rita just cackles.
    “You’re a good mom, Ellen,” she says. “You recognize and accept your children’s limitations.”
    By putting it that way, I am able to absolve myself of guilt. But I wonder if she’s right. I love my children fiercely, and I do accept them for who they are. And although I strive not to draw comparisons, sometimes I cannot help it. All three of Jill’s kids, for example, are all-around hyperachieving kids. No matter what they are playing at, they succeed. Now, Connor is great at baseball and water polo, but karate and ice hockey, not so much. And Matthew struggles with both soccer and baseball (which I choose to blame on his feet). And he’s absolute crap (if I have to be completely impartial) at Wilderness Scouts, having earned only three badges so far while the rest of the scouts in his troop have at least seven apiece. He does excel at putting models together (since that has absolutely nothing to do with his feet) and has shown anaptitude for science. Jessie plays tennis and has a mean forehand for an eight-year-old. She’s also a terrific swimmer. But she wants to be the next Hannah Montana, and unfortunately she cannot carry a tune in a bucket.
    I am concerned that none of my children will achieve greatness. I am concerned that they will all be forced to settle for mediocrity and it will somehow be my fault. I am concerned that I am not pushing them hard enough, that I am not nurturing their dreams or supporting their aspirations. Or perhaps I am merely projecting onto them my own feelings of complacency, inadequacy, and mediocrity. God. My poor kids.
    And then, like an apparition out of a nightmare—like the one where you are naked in the middle of a crowded room, or you’re uncontrollably urinating in a pool full of people—I see Ben Campbell sauntering across the parking lot toward the soccer field, with a fair-haired boy of about ten in tow. As I watch the father and son approach one of the coaches, I am silently thankful that I altered my appearance since our meeting this morning. I traded my holey sweats—which are currently lining a trash bin in the garage—for a pair of jeans, and my peace shirt for a collared rose-colored blouse that complements my figure to the degree that any article of clothing can. I have also applied a smattering of makeup and a pair of earrings. I don’t know why I took even a small amount of care with my appearance this afternoon. (At the time, I didn’t correlate my embarrassing dialogue with Mr. Handsome-Next-Door-Neighbor to my wanting to look halfway decent.) But I am awfully glad I did.
    The coach nods and shakes the boy’s hand. Then the boy shrugs shyly and trots onto the field with the coach as introductions are made all around.
    “Oh my,” Rita says, and I assume she is talking about BenCampbell, who is wearing a pair of Levi’s—these look slightly less faded than