Momzillas Read Online Free

eleventy times, I started to go nuts and suddenly wanted to clobber her à la Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote with frying pans and destructive implements from the diverse Acme product line. I turned off the TV and tried to scavenge what I could from Violet’s suitcases, retrieving a white eyelet dress that looked cute enough, even by New York standards.
    I finished brushing Violet’s hair, put on her best cardigan, pink, lined with a striped brown-and-white grosgrain ribbon, and began my walk to Central Park. The July sun was gleaming through the trees on the Fifth Avenue border of the park and I pushed Violet up the rows of hexagonal stones under a canopy of green. The trees, I mean. The other side of Fifth Avenue also was lined with green canopies: hunter green awnings, each with posh addresses written out in script—
Eight Twenty-Five Fifth Avenue.
    â€œMommy, Mommy?” my precious daughter said, looking up at me.
    â€œYes, love muffin?”
    â€œBirdie!”
    â€œVery good! Yes, that kind of birdie is called a pigeon. Can you say
pigeon
?”
    â€œIgin!”
    â€œGood job, Vi! Pigeon,” I said, patting her soft head. “We’re going to see a lot of those here.”
    I thought about how even Josh’s hero Woody Allen called them rats with wings.
    As Violet’s eyes slowly began to close for a nap, I looked at the pedestrian traffic of hordes of nannies coming toward me, pushing strollers, some out of
Mary Poppins
—huge Silver Cross prams with mosquito netting as if the coddled nugget inside were in the wilds of the Amazon. Some nannies were Filipino, wearing starched, pressed white uniforms, some Hispanic, some African American, all pretty much pushing these infant blondies with hair so platinum it was semi
Children of the Corn
. I looked at these white-haired kids and their diverse stroller-pushers and wondered what Martians would report to their mothership if they landed their space pods next to Central Park midweek.
“Captain, come in, Captain! We have found life! These creatures start out small and light and grow up big and dark!”
    I approached Seventy-second Street, my meeting point with Bee. She had texted me to meet her by the bench near that entrance to the park, and sure enough, there she was, perfectly turned out, in a full pleated skirt, kitten heels, a white blouse, and a Vuitton diaper bag, with her son, Weston, passed out in the stroller.
    Within minutes of greeting Bee, I realized something right away: there was a war brewing. Whispers to the east of a dark, seething force, an echo from the west of an impending clash, a haunting rumble from the depth of the ground beneath our feet that tingles the spine of every soul who roams with inevitable doom.
    I know this sounds straight out of
Lord of the Rings
, good versus evil. The problem with this bloodthirsty combat is that each side thinks theirs is good, the other, evil. And I’m not talking about Frodo and the gang versus the Orcs and those other beasty people that emerge from that weird flaming vagina thing. I am talking about the epic swordfight, the all-out, gut-churning violent, vitriol-laced battle between the most fiery of enemies: the working moms and the stay-at-home moms.
    Back in California, while I was lucky enough to have just been wrapping up my thesis during Violet’s first year, most of my friends worked and often made comments about the stay-at-homers who were so bored that they turned gossipy and malicious. I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but I’d known a few moms at the playground to get a little too wrapped up in bullshit, but hey, it wasn’t over-the-top or anything. But in New York, everyone was wound tighter and I knew the two sparring factions were not just sides: they were poles.
    Bee and her equally plucky and smiley friend, a very pregnant Maggie (“We were in the same eating club at Princeton!”) Sinclair, said hello to me and then I stood