When Life Imitates Art

I had an opportunity today to go to lunch and meet a local writer, Ayelet Waldman. Even better, I am writing a story about the event, so it was as close to a working lunch as I get anymore.

If you aren't familiar with Ayelet Waldman's work, she writes stories about Moms. She is the mother of 4 kids aged 3-11 and lives in the Bay Area. Her most controversial work, an essay that appeared in the New York Times, basically challenged Moms to love their spouses more than they loved their kids. While the essay had a very sexual tone, its message was that a lot of women get so involved in loving their children, they forget to love their spouses. I thought her observations were spot-on. In fact, after reading the essay I could practically list the people I thought fell into that trap. But so controversial was this essay, it landed her on Oprah's infamous couch. It ruffled a lot of feathers with my peers, that is for certain.

Personally, I am a fan Waldman's Mommy Track Mystery series. The protagonist is a public defender who stayed home after her daughter is born and became a private detective. The character's attempt to work while juggling two kids is my life. Sure, I have never answered the door to the Fed Ex man while breast feeding, but I have had to put my kids in a time out while in the middle of interviewing someone for a story. (If you read this, I was interviewing people at the park while mayhem was breaking lose.)

There I am today. I'm lunching, enjoying adult conversation about writing, listening to someone who's work I've read. I hear a cell phone vibrating. Surely, that is not my cell phone, because I'm having a good time. I ignore it. About 10 minutes later, I hear it again. I move my foot over to my foot and feel my purse quiver. Damn! It's my friggin' cell phone.

When I get away from the table, I discover I have 2 messages. Poor Nana and Papa have the Magster and no blue blanket. This is Maggie's personal Hurricane Katrina. It's nap time. There is screaming in the background and Papa sounds a little stressed during the messages. Ugly. I immediately stop what I'm doing to end their drama. I grab my van keys, offer a quick apology and head home to find "wankie".

Now, isn't that ironic? A scene right out of one of her books. I haven't interviewed the shop owner, I haven't really interviewed the writer - though I was asking loads of questions- and the role of mom jerks me right back to my peanut-butter-smeared, Dora-dominated reality. While I was disappointed to leave without saying good-bye, I figured the mother of 4 and the woman who wrote some funny books about just such circumstances would totally understand.