I guess it was the way I said it. Maybe I slurred the “tex” to sound like “trix?” Still, I stood blinking at the soft spoken Indian man beside me who had just brought me over to a giant literal vat of a male performance enhancement pill called VITRIX.
“No, that’s not it,” I said frankly.
“VITRIX,” said the man pointing to each letter of the word individually, as I do with the letters of your names. “V. I. T. R. I. X.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t say Vitrix. I’m looking for a vitamin, for me, something for women, that I would take,” not able to take my eyes off the imposing giant gray vat that reminded of a gym guy, or something you’d see in a kitchen cabinet at a share house in the Jersey Shore.
“Not this. Thank you.”
“No, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m looking for this,” and I showed him the name scribbled on a piece of paper, which was clearly not for male performance enhancement or of or even near the name Vitrix.
“Oh.” He paused. Then leaned in as if to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Like he had the good stuff. “You need this?”
Because clearly a women who blows into GNC a disheveled mess in gym clothes at 10:30 a.m. on a Thursday is looking for a vat of male performance enhancement. Right.
It was the type of thought I deserve to get slapped in the face for. I could have one child with my closed! Which doesn’t even make sense.
But that’s what I was thinking yesterday afternoon when I took you to the doctor solo, Baby Boy, easily taking you in and out of the car without having to do the octopus leg grip around your sister in the parking lot, or fish the one who’s not being attended to out of the front seat when he/she dives in and turn on the hazards, or out of the back trunk when he/she jumps there to hide and refuses to get out and I have to walk around to the back dragging the other by the glove, open the latch and pull him/her out all with one arm, ah, fun.
We walked calmly through the parking lot hand in hand.
In fact, we held hands a lot.
(We were true buddies.)
The waiting room was great.
You sat on my lap and I read you two books.
When leaving the office the elevator door opened and we entered, alongside a very tall young man.
He looked like he was in twenties, and was big, wearing an NYU sweatshirt.
The three of us stood in a line with you in the middle, all bundled up in your coat and your hat. (That was another time that where I noticed the twin difference, it didn’t take me twenty-minutes to gear us up in hats and coats! Go ahead, slap me!)
You looked at the guy.
You looked up at me.
The elevator was silent.
“Mama,” you said, breaking the quiet, and you pointed up at the guy as if to say, “biiiiggg!” You knew he wasn’t a dad, how dad will come to be the barometer of all things “old,” especially in college–he’s not old, like a dad, as if that is terrible–but you knew he wasn’t a kid. (Cue Britney: “I’m not a girl, not yet a women.” Actually, don’t.)
I looked at you with your eyes big as the moon, and had to laugh. “Yes, he is a big guy. Some day, buddy.”
The guy laughed, too. He reached down and patted your head. “But don’t rush it! Enjoy it while it lasts!”
And the elevator stopped and the doors opened and he sprang out into the hallway, the picture of vitality, leaving behind the two other ends of the spectrum, one waning, one innocent.