When Amanda Corin arrived at Mommy & Me Yoga, everyone could see that her new baby had turned into a glass of wine. Her friends felt bad. Their baby shower gifts—booties that looked like tacos, wool diaper covers from women-owned New Zealand farms, a onesie with Leonard Peltier’s face—all of them were useless now. As some of the women held the Cobra Pose and others nursed fussy babies, Amanda reached into the baby carrier and drank the glass of wine. When the women stared she said, “Oh, it refills itself.” And it did.
A month later, the couple who’d just moved into the yellow house were carrying around an iPhone in their BabyBjörn. “We still call her Molly,” the mom said, not looking up. “One second, I just have to reply to this text.” On the neighborhood Facebook group Robert said he’d heard the dad complaining it was an iPhone 14, and not even a Pro. But everyone knew Robert had lost out on the bidding war for the yellow house. The moderator took down the post.
At Riverdale Park the twins got into a sand fight and their moms had to rush the shorter twin to the emergency room for a scratch on her cornea. After they’d left someone said the moms probably wished their twins would turn into something without hands, right Amanda? Amanda sipped her glass of wine and gazed at the children on the swings.
The Hernandez-Lee brothers were replaced by Sennheiser HD 800 S headphones, and their parents went jogging with them every morning. Up and down the street the babies and toddlers and children changed and the grown-ups were ecstatic. At the Fall Into Fun Block Party Molly’s parents drunkenly offered to trade Molly for the gold 2-seater Porsche that used to be the worst bully in the third grade. Everyone laughed, but then waited to hear his mom’s reply.
By the time the neighborhood came to Robert’s Craftsman (really, it’s much bigger than the yellow house, he kept saying) to watch the Superbowl on baby Ollie’s 98″ screen, there were hardly any flesh and blood children left. Their parents urged them to play with the golf clubs and the Instagram account, but the children left the golf clubs in the yard and whispered that they wanted to go home early. In houses on Rosebank Street and Pebble Court, the parents lay in bed, the cheers from Robert’s house drifting in through the windows. They murmured about what their children might turn into. A promotion to senior managing consultant. A plane ticket to Finland. One of the parents cried, unable to say he was afraid their little boy might be replaced with the three years of text messages he’d secretly exchanged with CJ Hernandez-Lee.
In March, a new WhatsApp chat appeared which included all the members of the Friday Book Club except Amanda Corin, who had arrived the night before to discuss Swamplandia and then abruptly left when one of the moms started to nurse her baby. “I never thought she was anti-breastfeeding (sad face),” posted the mom who’d arrived in her Porsche, “but I guess you never know about some people.”
By November, most of Tiny Seeds Montessori had turned. Parents sent regretful emails. Two teachers were let go, and the other classrooms consolidated into one. Now the Facebook group was filled with parents talking openly about what everyone was calling The Turn. One father wanted 100,000 followers on TikTok. A mother wished for a summer house in Montauk. CJ asked if anyone thought a child could turn into a decision? Like someone leaving a bad marriage? All the parents but one weighed in.
Molly’s dad went over to Robert’s house to watch the NBA Finals and they never did turn on the TV. They ended up in the backyard where Robert confessed that he was the one who’d keyed their SUV and Molly’s dad said that he couldn’t stop thinking that he was never going to see Molly’s first steps, and they sat there in the dark, for a long time, in silence.
When Amanda Corin drove into a tree, so drunk she thought she could fly, the paramedics arrived fast. Amanda was slumped against her seat belt. They found her wallet and checked her vitals. “Amanda,” they said loudly, patting her cheek, “Amanda, can you hear me? Amanda, you’re going to be okay.”
The rear-facing car seat was soaked in wine. There was glass everywhere.
Sage Tyrtle writes things unsettling enough for The Offing yet NPR let them on air. A Moth GrandSLAM winner and Pushcart nominee, they’ve taught 150+ workshops globally, proving life’s weirdness makes the best art. Their work lives at the intersection of literary craft and “wait, did they just say that?” Find stories that linger at tyrtle.com.
The Disappointed Housewife 