KidTags
“This one gets me every time. Because who hasn’t wished they were a better parent? Who hasn’t wished they had it all together? Add a little dark humor, and suddenly a normal suburban neighborhood grows teeth.”
This story won an Honorable Mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.
Today I’m a bad mom.
The sun is shining, the air is gloriously warm, and I’m worried as hell.
Where is my son?
You know in movies they always show how it’s beautifully sunny when Secretariat wins his race or there’s a terrible storm when Elizabeth and Darcy have their fight? That’s Nature reflecting cinematic life. But real life? Oh, no.
I’m convinced Nature, in all her unfeeling majesty, hates me. She’s always sending me bad weather on good days and great weather on rough days. It flooded on my wedding day – washed out the reception site completely – and blizzarded when my son was born. And now . . .
Now it’s absolutely perfect outside and Lucien is God knows where.
Yes, I named my son after my favorite ACOTAR character. Everyone always talks about how awesome Rhys is, but Lucien . . . He’s the real gem.
Not my son, though. He’s more like a rock pushing down on me, crushing my spirit until I can’t breathe. I can’t find him anywhere. My heart is racing and my hands won’t stop trembling. This is the third time this week he’s gone missing.
Why me?
I’ve already done a cursory search through my house, but I look in all the usual places again just to be sure.
3,200 square feet of domestic bliss, that’s what our realtor said when she sold us our house. Think about how much space there’ll be for kids, for crafting, for entertaining! What I didn’t think about was how much space there would be to clean. And how much space there would be to search when Lucien decides to wander off again.
He’s not in his room. Or his sister’s room. He’s not under my bed or at the back of our oddly deep coat closet. He’s not in our basement storage room or hanging out on the toilet on the third floor where he likes to go to when he’s got “long business” to do.
Where the hell did he go?
My doorbell rings.
Oh, thank God. He must’ve gone out front and accidentally locked himself out. I’ll need to explain to him – again – the importance of leaving the door unlocked and telling your mom when you leave the house.
I thought parenting wasn’t supposed to be hard until your kids are teenagers.
But it’s never been easy. Not with Lucien.
He’s wild. He’s stubborn. He’s emotional. He’s smart.
And I hate him sometimes.
I know. I’m a bad mom.
But why can’t Lucien just be obedient like his older sister? I’ve never had to worry about her. Except, you know, when she was a baby and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and I was always worried she’d randomly die if I wasn’t watching her constantly.
The doorbell rings again and is quickly followed by loud knocks that echo through the house.
Right. Lucien. When did he start knocking so hard?
I rush to the front door and open it.
“Lucien, I swear to God, the next time you –”
Why are there two police officers standing on my front porch?
“Umm.” I’m great with words. “Officers?”
So great with words.
“Good evening, ma’am,” says the cop standing closest to me. He’s tall and muscular with short brown hair. Swirling tribal tattoos peek out from under his short sleeves. They’re the same color as his black uniform shirt. It looks like his uniform melded with his tattoos somehow. Weird. Cool. Kinda hot.
“Do you know where your son is?” Tattoo asks.
I run a hand through my crazy hair. God, I wish I didn’t look like crap. I didn’t have time to do more with it this morning than throw it into a loose ponytail. “As a matter of fact, I –”
“Mom!” Lucien calls, poking his head out from behind the other cop. This officer is short and wiry and looks like he missed his calling to ride racehorses for a living.
“Lucien, what on Earth?”
Why is my son with the police?
And why is there . . . orange spray paint on his sleeves?
“We found him at the school, ma’am,” Tattoo says, pulling my attention back to himself. He hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his pants and I try hard not to stare at his big biceps. Those tattoos really emphasize his sculpted muscles. I wonder how much of his body they cover. His muscles, not his tattoos. Although now I want to see how far his tattoos go.
I’m a happily married woman. I’m a happily married woman. I’m a –
“Mom, I swear I didn’t do it!” Lucien cries, running up to me and grabbing my arm with paint-crusted hands. Not just orange. There’s green and blue on him, too.
“What the hell happened?” I ask. I’m not sure if I’m asking Lucien or the cops.
“He and a group of kids were vandalizing the school, ma’am,” Shorty the police officer says. “They changed ‘Home of the Mustangs’ to ‘Home of the Mus-taints.’” He’s got a disapproving frown on his face so sharp I bet he could cut through a butternut squash with one look. I hate butternut squash.
I didn’t know Lucien knew what a taint was.
God, did he learn it from me? I’m such a bad mom.
“Other kids?” I look past the cops to their empty patrol car, conspicuously parked in front of my house, lights flashing. Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue. Oh, God. I’m sure every neighbor has noticed by now. Just great.
“They managed to run off,” Tattoo says with a frown, and I suppress a little shiver. They should put his picture up on anti-crime posters all over the city. There’s nothing scarier than a hot, yoked guy with a badge and a gun. And those tattoos. Just how far do they go?
I force myself to look at Lucien. He wilts under my gaze.
Why can’t he just stay out of trouble? Why can’t he just be good?
Why can’t he just not get brought home by the police?
I told you Nature hates me. It’s so perfect outside, all I want to do is sit on my porch and chill. But here I am, talking to the police while my felon child trembles next to me.
Why me?
I don’t really remember what happens next. Tattoo talks some more and I try to pay attention to his words instead of his muscles. Shorty says some things, too. I respond to them. I think I promise this will never happen again. But it’s Lucien, so I’m probably lying.
My kid isn’t even ten and he’s already ridden in the back of a police car.
The cops finally leave, taking their awful blinking car with them.
Seriously, did they have to leave their lights on the whole time? What are the neighbors going to think?
I bring Lucien into our house and close the door behind us.
What do you do when your child vandalizes the school? Do you ground him? Take away his electronics? Send him to bed without dinner?
The doorbell rings again.
Oh, God, why me?
“Go to your room,” I tell Lucien, and he shuffles upstairs. I’ll deal with him after I’ve gotten rid of whoever this is.
I open my door and groan.
Myrna Keene. Of course it’s Myrna Keene. Right now. Right freaking now. With her perfect freaking hair.
“Hi, Myrna,” I say, trying to sound casual. I know it’s too much to hope she didn’t see the police car, but maybe we can pretend the cops weren’t just here. That’d be nice. We can talk about the upcoming neighborhood block party. I think I’m supposed to make cupcakes for it. Make, not buy. God help me.
“Hey, Amy,” she says, looking down at her nails. “What was all that about?” How are her nails not chipped? She’s got four kids! How can she have four kids and still look so put together?
I sigh. There’s no use lying to her. She’ll find out eventually anyway. Myrna runs the gossip in this neighborhood the way some people run marathons: with focused dedication, unnatural enthusiasm, and constant practice.
“They caught Lucien spraying graffiti at the school,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets so she won’t notice my chipped nails. She’s shorter than me, but somehow I always feel small when I’m talking with her.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she says, lips drawing together in a cute little pout. Freaking Myrna Keene. So beautiful, so lovable. Even when she frowns you just want to hug her. And then put on a clean shirt and some mascara. God, I’m a mess today.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say, and tears prickle at my eyes. Not now, tears! Keep it together. I can cry later when I’ve got a full glass of wine in hand. I lean against my door frame and stare at my concrete front porch.
Myrna reaches out and squeezes my arm. “We’ve all been there.” Her voice is sympathetic, which is nice. I half expected her to gloat.
“Really?” I have a hard time believing Myrna’s ever struggled with her children. “Your kids are so well behaved.”
They are. It’s freaky. They even walk to school together in a perfectly straight line. I’ve been wanting to ask Myrna how she manages that, but I always chicken out.
She gives me a small smile. “They went through a hoodlum phase, believe me.”
“How’d you snap them out of it?”
She cocks her head, studying me. As if she’s trying to decide whether or not to tell me something.
“Have you heard of Air Tags?” she asks.
“Like, for your keys?” I scratch my head. “Sure, I guess. You attach them to the thing you don’t want to lose and now you always know where it is.” I attempt a smile. “I’ve thought about getting one for my mind.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“Umm,” I say. See? I’m great at social interactions. So glib.
“Anyway,” she says, flicking imaginary dirt off her perfectly white blouse. “I use KidTags – they’re similar to Air Tags. I had them implanted, oh, about a year ago, and they’ve changed my life.” She sighs. “Now I always know where my children are and I can bring them home whenever I want. It’s even helped with their little tantrums.” She gives me a significant look.
I shift my weight to my other foot. “Can’t you just call their phones?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Sounds too good to be true,” I say.
A strange sort of smile slips across her face. “Let me show you.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens an app. Four little teal icons pop up – from where I’m standing they look like cartoonish renditions of children, just with no facial features – and she taps one. “Bring Carson here.”
The teal icon flashes yellow.
She shoots me a smug look. “Won’t be long.”
I shift my weight again, trying to come up with some small talk.
“So did you hear about –”
“Hey, Mom,” comes a child’s voice. It’s Carson, her . . . third child, I think. I can’t keep them straight. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing hard. Did he sprint here?
Myrna smiles at her son. “There you are, sweetie. Are you having fun with your friends?” She stokes her long fingers through his sweaty hair.
“Yes, Mom. Lots of fun.”
“Good.”
She presses on his shoulders, turning him so his back’s to me. Her fingers lift the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s got a vertical white scar right there below his hairline, about the length of my thumb.
“What happened?” I ask, taking a step forward. Did he have surgery? I didn’t realize her perfect little family had ever had medical issues.
She shoots me a sly look. “I told you it was just a simple little implant. And we’ll remove it when he’s fully grown.”
“Umm.”
“Go along now, Carson. I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner,” she says, giving him a gentle push away from my porch. He runs off. She watches him as he goes, a fond smile on her face. “Motherhood is all about worrying, isn’t it?”
“Worrying?”
She meets my gaze. “You know. Will they get good grades? Will they turn out all right? Will they make it home from school safely?” She shakes her head. “I’m so glad I don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve got parenthood under control.”
I have no freaking idea what to say to that. I mean, she’s right. Motherhood is the state of perpetual worry, of constantly being scared something terrible will happen to your children and they’ll end up dead or maimed. Or that they’re going to do something terrible and end up in prison and on national news. I don’t know which would be worse.
“Here,” she says, typing away on her phone. “I can’t recommend them enough. And they’ll give you a discount if you tell them I referred you.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket a second later. I pull it out and look down at the screen. Myrna’s sent me a text. “KidTags,” it reads. It’s a hyperlink.
Myrna grabs my hand and pulls me close to her.
“Do it. You won’t regret it.”
Her breath is the one part of her that’s not perfect. It smells like rancid garlic mixed with kimchi. And eggs.
***
Today I’m a bad mom of a bad kid.
I’m sitting in Vice Principal Merkh’s office at the school listening to a litany of Lucien’s offenses. Just from this week.
“I’m very concerned, Mrs. Stepple.” Vice Principal Merkh sets down the paper she’s been referencing and looks at me with hard, shiny eyes. Yeah, she’s totally judging me.
There’s framed photos of her perfect little family all over her office. Her oldest daughter is on the school honor roll and her youngest kiddo took home a prize from this year’s Lego Robotics Fair. Stupid, perfect family.
I’d be willing to bet every penny I have that her children have never thrown rocks at other kids during recess, dumped their hot lunches on kids’ heads in the cafeteria, or – my personal favorite – stripped down completely and run naked through their classrooms.
That last stunt is the reason I’ll be spending next week on administrative leave from my job, hanging out with Lucien at home. He’s been freaking suspended.
God, why me?
I really do hate Lucien sometimes.
What goes through his hard little head?
“I understand your concern,” I say to Vice Principal Merkh, “And I promise you, we’re doing the best we can with him at home. We’ve worked through the progressive discipline book you recommended last time we met, but nothing’s working.” I spread my hands.
Just what am I supposed to do?
Of course it’s freaking beautiful outside – Nature is vindictive. Vice Principal Merkh’s office has a large window overlooking the trees bordering the school’s soccer fields. It’s finally spring, and the trees are all bursting with white and pink flowers. They look like sticks of cotton candy at a fair, all sweet and pretty and reminiscent of happier times.
I pull my gaze back to Vice Principal Merkh.
Why is she looking at me with pity?
Oh, right. Because my son sucks.
God, I’m a terrible mom.
“Here,” she says, voice gentle. She reaches into a desk drawer and hands me a charcoal business card with shiny red letters.
“KidTags
Parenthood Under Control”
“You have them, too?” I ask her.
She smiles. “Absolutely. Had them implanted about eight months ago. They’ve changed my life.” She gestures at the pictures of her kids I’ve spent the past half hour resenting. “My children are thriving now.”
I fiddle with the card, turning it over and over in my hands.
“I’ve started recommending them to every Mustang family with . . . energetic children,” she says with another smile. “Just over half our students have them, and we’ve seen a marked improvement in academic performance.” She raises a brow. “And a marked decrease in behavioral issues.”
“It’s a quick process, right?” I ask her.
“So quick, and hardly any pain.”
I slip the card into my wallet. If Myrna Keene and Vice Principal Merkh swear by KidTags . . . Maybe they’ll do Lucien some good. God knows, nothing else has.
I hate admitting I’m not good enough to get him to behave.
Suddenly I need to get out of here. I’m about to break down in tears and I don’t want Vice Principal Merkh watching me, either with pity or judgement. “Thanks for the recommendation,” I say, rising from my seat. “I’ll look into them.”
She gives me an understanding smile. “You won’t regret it.”
***
Today I’m a good mom.
I’m standing on the sidewalk outside my house with Myrna and some other neighborhood moms. The weather this evening is absolutely fantastic – warm without being too hot, breezy without threatening to ruin my hair – and I’m thinking Nature might’ve finally decided to call a truce with me.
For once, the weather and my life reflect each other.
I’m so proud of myself. I’ll actually manage to have dinner ready at a decent time. I mean, it never happens. I try, I really do, but every night I’m throwing food at my kids way later than I want to. Six thirty. Seven. God, one time it was seven fifty.
And it’s even worse when my husband’s out of town on a work trip, like he is this week. When I’m on my own, everything just piles up and tasks that usually take five minutes in isolation suddenly take thirty minutes in combination. I don’t know why. Is that what time dilation is?
But not tonight. Myrna shared a slow cooker recipe with me I’m trying out. She said it’s her go-to weeknight meal. I threw all the ingredients in my slow cooker this morning, and dinner will be ready any minute now. Before dark, for once. And there’s vegetables in there too, so it’s healthy.
It’s been a great day. I even put on some makeup this morning since Lucien and his sister got ready for school with no fuss – or bloody noses, thank God – and left our house on time. For once.
Is this how Myrna feels every day?
Why didn’t I get KidTags sooner?
A new family moved in a few houses down the street about a week ago and the other moms and I are trying to figure out when we want to introduce ourselves. We know the new family has three kids – Stacy, the stay at home mom two doors up from me has seen them walking to and from the school.
The new kids are running up and down the street like absolute hoodlums right now. Doesn’t their mother care about their safety? What if they got hit by a car or, God forbid, kidnapped right off our street?
All of our kids are playing at the playground around the block.
Someone’s got to go have a talk with the new mom, and my money’s on Myrna. She’s the neighborhood queen, no matter how much she pretends we’re a democracy. Everyone bows to Myrna’s will.
At least she’s nice about it. She even got us all discounts on KidTags.
I glance at my nails. Not a single chip. Myrna let me borrow her go-to polish four days ago and it’s holding up amazingly.
Myrna’s in the middle of getting talked into approaching the new mom when my phone alarm goes off. Dinner’s done!
Now I just need to get my kids inside.
I open the KidTag app on my phone and stare at it for a moment. I’ve only used the summon feature a few times, and the icons aren’t intuitive yet. There’s two teal kid-shapes, just like on Myrna’s phone. I tap each one. “Bring the kids home,” I say, and the figures flash yellow.
Myrna gives me an approving look and I stand up just a little straighter.
Less than a minute later – I kid you not – I see my children sprinting up the sidewalk from way down the street. Their little legs are pumping hard, and Lucien does this amazing hurdle over a bike a kid from the new family left lying across the sidewalk. Their mom really should teach her children how to clean up after themselves. Someone could get hurt.
“Hey guys,” I say as my kids reach me, chests heaving. “You ready for dinner?”
“Mooooom, my neck hurts,” Lucien whines. He’s rubbing the back of his neck and has a deep scowl on his face.
Myrna frowns at me and shakes her head once.
“You’re fine,” I say, smiling and waving to Myrna and the other moms and I guide my kids toward our house.
“But it really hurts!”
“Stop messing with it and it’ll stop hurting.”
He’s picking at the Band-Aid on his neck. If he’s not careful, it’ll peel right off. I’m honestly surprised it hasn’t fallen off yet, considering how sweaty he is right now.
After dinner I’ll have the kids shower and I’ll put new Band-Aids on their necks. I think I might even get them in bed on time for once. Clean and in bed on time. Finally.
Today I’m a great mom. God, it feels amazing.
I hold the door open for my kids and they file inside.
But Lucien is still whining. “It hurts so muuuuuuuch!”
I don’t have time for this. Dinner’s ready and we’re going to eat at a normal time like a normal family, damn it.
I pull out my phone and open the KidTags app. I press on Lucien’s icon and a menu pops up. I scan through the options before pressing the “Stop Whining” button. I haven’t tried any of the KidTags behavior options yet – just the scheduling ones – so I’m not entirely sure how this’ll work.
“Mommy, please make it –” his voice cuts off abruptly and he drops his hand to his side.
He looks at me, eyes and face blank. “Is it dinner time, Mommy?”
A huge smile breaks out over my face.
“Yes it is, buddy.”
He walks over to our table and sits down without another word, hands in his lap.
Amazing.
Thank God for KidTags.
