Maternity Leave (9781466871533) Read online

  It surprises me to hear Zach sound insecure about parenthood. He always appears, at least through my sleep-blurred eyes, like it all comes naturally to him. “Really? Because you always seem to know what to do, or when to hold him, or when he wants a song or a silly face. He never laughs at me.” I pout.

  “That’s because you’re always making faces like that. And as funny as I think you look, the comedy is not quite broad enough for Sam’s palate.”

  “You think I look funny?” I ask.

  Zach engulfs me in his wide chest. “I think you look beautiful. A little tired, but even that’s beautiful because you’re a tired mom. You’re not just my tired wife anymore. In fact, I would have to say that being a mom has made you even more beautiful. Thank you for giving me our little son, Sammy.” Zach sounds overcome with emotion, as though he might cry. What is it about me that makes all the males in my life such crybabies?

  90 Days Old

  UGLY REPORT:

  Bags under my eyes.

  Black shit in my belly button.

  Zit still on my chest.

  And now my hair is falling out in mass quantity. I read that this is all of the hair that did not fall out during my pregnancy. I don’t mind losing the hair, but the problem is that in order to not clog the drain, I can’t just let the hair fall where it may. So I untwine the nest from my fingers and stick my hair to the wall until my shower is over. After I dry off, I use a toilet paper wad to wipe the hair off the wall and toss it into the garbage. Only, by the time I’m done with my shower and start to dry off, Sam usually wakes up crying. Then I forget about the hair installation, and by the next morning the wet hair that was once stuck to the wall has now dried and fallen all over my shampoo and conditioner bottles. In order to get the hairy mess off my bottles and hands, I end up rinsing it down the drain anyway. Zach has already had to make two runs to Target for extra Drano.

  File under: Stuff they don’t tell you about in pregnancy books.

  91 Days Old

  My mom calls to check in during a break at her mah-jongg tournament.

  “We got in trouble,” she whispers into the phone. “They told us we needed to be quiet while we listened to the rules, but who doesn’t know the rules already if they’re at a mah-jongg tournament?”

  “Quite the rebel, Mom. I’ll get you a leather jacket with a mah-jongg tile on it for your birthday.”

  “Make it three bam. That’s my lucky tile.”

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving me here all by myself in a week,” I bemoan.

  “Not this again. Anyway, we can Scope while I’m gone. It’ll be just like I’m there.”

  “It’s Skype, and it’ll be nothing like you’re here. Say good-bye to my sanity. I doubt it will be here when you get back.”

  “Gotta go—the game’s about to start. Love you!” She hangs up.

  I can’t wait until I’m old enough to abandon my adult children.

  93 Days Old

  My vagina seems not to hate me quite as much as it used to during my treadmill time. I managed to run an entire five minutes. The worst part of my workout are the Kegels. Someone should make a workout video for Kegel exercises. I’m envisioning constipated, twisted expressions on the instructors’ faces while they squeeze their inner lady parts. The hilarity of that makes me pee a little bit.

  To: Annie

  From: Louise

  I am going fucking insane. It is beautiful and sunny and 72 fucking degrees outside, and all I want to do is curl up under my covers and hope it all goes away. Gertie cries all the time. Like I’m feeding her, and she’s crying while I’m feeding her. I don’t want to take her to the doctor because all they’ll do is ask me a bunch of questions and then have zero answers. Plus, they’ll be all, “She’s getting so big,” and I have to pretend I give a shit. And if I have to take Gertie to the doctor that means I have to bring Jupiter, and every time we go to the doctor’s office Jupiter feels the need to take a shit. It’s like some Pavlovian response to the office. And I have to take her into that bathroom where all of the disgusting sick children go to puke and touch everything. Not to mention I still have to wipe her ass after a poo, so I’ll have to stand holding Gertie while I wipe Jupiter’s ass, then wash her hands, and somehow wash my hands while attempting not to drop the baby in the toilet.

  FUCK.

  —Lou

  94 Days Old

  I made plans to get together with Louise because she seems like she needs to get out even more than I do. We meet up at a park near her home in the city.

  “I swear I’m going to pack up and move without telling Terry.” Lou’s been threatening, to me, at least, to move out of Chicago for years. “Another house on our block foreclosed, and don’t tell me that wasn’t a crack pipe we passed while coming to this park. Of course we bought the house before the market went to shit, and now it’s worth half what we paid for it, even though we put a buttmunch of money into it.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and slowly smiles at me. “I’m sorry. It’s just so nice to get to bitch to an actual person, and not a computer screen.”

  “I don’t mind. It makes me feel better to hear someone who hates their life more than I do,” I admit.

  “Does it sound like I hate my life?” she asks guiltily. “Because I don’t. Not all the time. I just don’t feel like I’m doing anything right. It’s hard enough with a baby you can’t communicate with, but wait until Sam’s an actual kid and you really fuck him up. My guilt cup runneth over.”

  “I can’t wait until Sam can talk. Right now he’s this roly-poly ball of poo. I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what to do with him. He has the attention span of a donut.” I pause.

  In unison, Lou and I ask, “Do you want to get some donuts?” We giggle.

  “Watch me, Mommy!” Jupiter yells from the monkey bars.

  “I’m watching, honey! She can’t do anything without someone watching,” Louise asides to me.

  “It’s more interesting than watching a baby try to lift his head up. Why is this so hard? Why do people love being moms so much? I’m terrible at it. I hate being terrible at things. Give me the days when I was acing tests and job interviews and traveling the world on ten dollars a day. Now I’m spending hundreds of dollars on crap from QVC just so that I have someone to talk to.”

  “Watch me, Mommy!”

  “Seriously. We’re eating lunch, and every bite she takes she’s like, Watch me eat this spoonful of cereal. And I’m like, Why? Why the fuck do I need to watch the way you eat every single bite of food? Once is cute, and that is it. I have no patience for this shit.” Louise takes a sip of water from a Nalgene. “How exactly do you talk to QVC?”

  “I call in. Order over the phone. Once I was even in a queue to give an on-air testimonial, but they ran out of time.” I sigh dejectedly.

  “You know there’s this little thing called the internet. Makes spending shitloads of money really easy.”

  “It’s not about the shopping. It’s about the human interaction,” I counter.

  “Okay, so there’s this place called a mall…,” Lou starts.

  “I know, I know. But I’m not up for that much human interaction. QVC is a happy medium. I don’t have to get dressed or, even worse, get Sam dressed and pack up all his crap. I don’t have to deal with him crying in public or having to breastfeed him in front of people—”

  “Watch me, Mommy!”

  “I’m watching! For fuck’s sake. Shit’s exhausting. Speaking of breastfeeding, do you mind if I whip out the old milk jugs? It’s time for Gertie to eat.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say. “How do you know she’s hungry? She’s not crying,” I observe.

  “Yeah, the one thing that keeps her from crying is being outside. She loves the sun. But that means I have to leave the house. Some of us don’t have the luxury of loathing our kids in the privacy of our own homes.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who came to you. Besides, if taking her outside stops her from crying,
isn’t it worth it?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to be coerced into leaving my house by someone who does her shopping over the phone like it’s 1925, and you’ve flipped open your Sears, Roebuck catalog, thank you very much.”

  “Fine,” I yield. “Be miserable inside.”

  I’m surprised when Louise takes Gertie out of her stroller and proceeds to lift up her shirt and pop out her breast without the use of a cover. She catches me looking at her. “What?” she asks.

  “You don’t put anything over yourself?” I ask.

  “Nah. I did with Jupiter, but now I’m too droopy and tired to give a shit. I’m not half the MILF I used to be.”

  “That should be the title of your memoir, The MILF I Used to Be. We snort.

  “You look great, honey! You’re a superhero!” Louise calls to Jupiter, and I can see the love for her kids behind all of the grumbling.

  Sam wakes in his stroller and commences his bloody murder bellow.

  “Damn. He is loud,” Lou acknowledges.

  “Yes. I am so proud.” I take Sam out of his stroller and fish around for my nursing cover.

  “You don’t have to wear that around me, you know,” Lou informs me.

  “I know. I’m not quite as comfortable with the public breastiness. I’d like to keep the minuscule air of mystery my boobs have left. After giving birth, I feel like my vagina has its own TV channel.” I loop the cover over my head and help Sam latch. I wince at the initial tug.

  “He’s still hurting you?” Lou asks.

  “Yeah. Not all of the time, but he latched badly yesterday, so now I have to wait for it to heal again. I will not miss the never-ending cycle of boob pain.”

  “But you’re going to stick with it. Fight the good fight?” Louise is definitely more outwardly aggressive about the importance of breastfeeding.

  “I’m going to try,” I say. A man, probably around sixty, walks past and looks our way.

  “Good morning.” He nods, and I watch as the recognition grows on his face that he just saw a woman’s breast. He turns his head speedily in the other direction.

  “Hope you got a good look, pal! If it offends you so much, go to a different park!” Lou yells after him. The man walks faster.

  “Impressive. You just harassed a man for saying good morning.”

  “Yeah, right. He’s heading home to jack off at the memory of the women in the park with babies attached to their boobs.”

  “Mine are covered,” I remind her. “Do you really think guys get off on watching women breastfeed?”

  “Oh, sure. There’s probably a subgenre of porn dedicated to lactating women. That dude totally subscribes.”

  “If it’s by subscription, then maybe we can make a little extra money,” I propose.

  “Watch this, Mommy!”

  “Jupiter is supercute, by the way. And so smart,” I offer my praise to Louise.

  “Yeah, the doctor started recommending gifted schools for her yesterday. But I don’t have the money for that.”

  “So you ended up going to the doctor?” I ask.

  “Yep. It turned out Gertie wouldn’t stop crying because she had an ear infection. She’s on antibiotics and is a billion times better already. I’m the worst fucking mother on earth because I didn’t take her in sooner.”

  “Watch this, Mommy!” Jupiter deftly climbs a mini rock wall, turning around to check the status of her mom’s attention.

  “Obviously, you are an amazing mom. Look how Jupiter’s turning out.”

  “Just wait until she starts stealing my car and using that crack pipe we found on the sidewalk.”

  “Well, I think you’re doing a great job. You have to stop beating yourself up about things.” I dole out the advice I’ve heard a thousand times over.

  “I will if you will,” she bargains with me.

  We nurse our babies in silence and watch Jupiter as she hops from one piece of playground equipment to another. Two moms, doing the best we can. And possibly starring in a porn video coming soon to a computer near you.

  95 Days Old

  Sam has his first cold. I don’t want to trace its origins, so I’ll pretend it had nothing to do with our day at the park. I’m awake most of the night trying to keep him upright so he can breathe. Thank goodness I’m not sleeping, or I would have missed this classic QVC sales pitch for a pair of stretch pants:

  “This is an antigravitational zone! No more wiggle, no more jiggle!”

  I totally bought them.

  Not that I’ve even worn stretch pants in public.

  The woman on the phone was really nice.

  I bought two pair.

  96 Days Old

  I return to work in two months. I hate myself for looking forward to it. I miss the regular, quantifiable success of students learning. I miss the intellectual challenges of lesson planning. I miss showering on a daily basis.

  I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing all day with a baby. Sam is awake enough now that I have to find ways to entertain him. But what more can I do with a three-month-old? Am I missing something? We do tummy time, listen to music, I read aloud from a Stephen King novel (he has no idea what I’m saying, right?) to let him hear language, and I hold and feed him. A lot. What else can I do?

  Annika texted me the other day and asked me to drive into the city for brunch. I told her I couldn’t, not bothering to explain why. She doesn’t seem to comprehend that a baby complicates scheduling a tad more than the days of the Pee Sharps. I have to time everything correctly with naps and feedings and diaper changes. I have to make sure I have all of the necessities—toys, diapers, wipes, covers for both my boobs and gross public bathroom changing tables. And even then there is no guarantee that Sam won’t cry the second I walk into the hipster brunch joint where people with all the time in the world spend two hours waiting to eat overpriced, underwhelming waffles (which I can get tastier and cheaper at our nearby truck stop), so we won’t be able to eat there even after driving a tortuous hour in the car. Did I mention the death-defying drive where I have to keep one hand on the steering wheel and the other arm flanked over the back of the seat like a sideshow contortionist in order to hold the pacifier in Sam’s mouth because he spits it out every five seconds even though it seems to soothe him when he bothers to keep it in place?

  Text to Annika:

  Sorry. Can’t today. Maybe another time?

  Like when Sam’s in college.

  97 Days Old

  Today my mom makes her annual trip to San Francisco to stay with my aunt Mabel for the summer. I am officially on my own. I acknowledge that I have Zach, and I realize I could try to find a babysitter, but by the time I find someone I trust enough not to drop my child or taint the breastmilk I would have had to spend weeks pumping to have enough for our time away, I’ll be back at work anyway.

  Before Mom left, we had this little exchange:

  “Last chance to change your mind, Ma.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” she assures me.

  “Grandma,” I speak in a baby voice, “if you go away, I will forget who you are. Don’t leave me with this mean mommy.”

  “They called my flight, honey. Be good. Love you!”

  Click

  Shit just got real.

  98 Days Old

  Today Zach and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary. He gave me a pair of handmade garnet earrings from Etsy. I gave him a monogrammed back scratcher and a Battlestar Galactica t-shirt. As we eat our romantic Burritoville takeout anniversary dinner, Zach broaches the delicate subject of sex again.

  “Since tonight is our anniversary, and you are in fighting shape—you’re looking lovely, by the way—I was thinking it might be a good time to try, you know, a little celebration lovin’?”

  Zach and his weird, creepy sex euphemisms.

  “I can’t even think about sex until we buy some condoms. There is no way I’m risking getting pregnant again this soon.”

  “Right.
Condoms. I forgot you used to be on the pill.” Zach seriously considers this. “Can you come with me?”

  “You’re a grown, married man with a child who desperately wants to have sex, and you can’t go out and buy condoms by yourself?” I chide.

  “They don’t know I’m a grown, married man.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, dear. You look all of your thirty-six years. And you’re wearing a wedding band.”

  “I know, but it will look cooler if you and Sam are with me. My trophy wife plus the product of our previous intimate times together.”

  “I have never been referred to as a trophy wife before. Well played. Fine, we’ll go with you. We can let Sam pick the style. I’ll take a picture and write about it in his baby book. ‘The first time I went shopping for condoms was…,’ Right next to a picture of him with the Easter Bunny.”

  “Are we going to get those pictures? Us raising him Jewish, and all.”

  “I won’t tell the Easter Bunny if you don’t.”

  “I don’t think he really knows Jesus anyway.”

  “How did our dinner conversation go from condoms to Jesus?” I ask, taking a bite of my burrito.

  “It’s my sneaky non-Jew way. I like to get a sprinkle of Jesus in every other year.”

  * * *

  The trip to Walgreens is an anniversary special event. Zach refuses to buy the condoms at our local Walgreens because he doesn’t want one of the regular cashiers to recognize us and see our purchase.

  “Seriously, Zach, they don’t give a shit. And I highly doubt they recognize you.”

  “You don’t know how often I sneak off to Walgreens late at night to buy supersized Snickers.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “I’ll never tell.”

  We drive fifteen minutes out of the way and land at a new Walgreens three towns over.

  “Don’t you feel like you’re on vacation every time you step into a new Walgreens?” Zach asks as we approach the welcoming sliding doors.

  “I feel the same way!” I exclaim. “I guess that’s why we’re still married.”