Maternity Leave (9781466871533) Read online

  I hold Sam with one arm and throw the nursing cover over my head. I slide myself back into the booth, Sam rooting around my fully dressed chest, the smell of my milk driving him mad. His behavior is so primal and animalistic, I’m a tad creeped out by him. His neediness only adds to the pressure of feeding in public. I flick at the hook on my nursing bra until I feel it release, and I whip the nursing cover over Sam’s head so he is now hidden from others’ views. I, however, can see him as I look down into the bowed opening. My mom really did a great job. I fumble underneath and pull down the bra cup so my breast is available, then I grit my teeth and hold my breath while I hold Sam to latch.

  And he does.

  I wait for him to pull off or cry, but he’s just sucking away like this is what he is meant to do. After a minute like this, I relax and even manage a few bites of my waffle. When it comes time to switch breasts, Sam cries only the tiniest bit while I flip him around and unhook the other side of my bra. Then he latches again, and we finish our meals at the same time.

  An older woman hobbles by with a walker, looks down at me, and says, “You’re doing a good job.” She smiles and trundles on.

  Is she some sort of angel who’s been watching me the last month and knows my thoughts on self-loathing? Or is she just a nice woman who says kind things to people? Or is she a crazy lady who thinks I’m smuggling saltine crackers and rolls underneath my cover, and she’s commending me on my thieving skills?

  Whatever it is, it makes me feel damn good. Better than I have in a long time. As we leave the restaurant, Sam back in his car seat and me blissed out by the elderly compliment, Zach points out, “You’re looking a little lumpy. I think you forgot to hook your bra things back on.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Don’t ruin it.”

  To: Annie

  From: Annika

  Hey Baby Mama! How’s your little guy? How are you? I have to come visit sometime. Or you could always bring him into the city for lunch.

  So Kesha is coming in concert, and I know you love her. Why don’t we go? Maybe it will inspire us to get the Pee Sharps back together. ☺ You can wear Sam on your back and the guitar on the front!

  XXXOOO Annika

  35 Days Old

  Hmmm. I do love Kesha. I think she reminds me of my college self, which would then make a lot of sense for me to see her with Annika. But this show is in Milwaukee, about an hour from my house, and I’ll need to bottle some breastmilk for Sam and pump somehow at the show if I don’t want to explode or get a breast infection. We’d probably be the oldest hags at the show, but it could work. I’ll ask Zach how he feels about having to put Sam down for bed without me.

  This is too weird, right? I’m a mom. Moms don’t go to Kesha concerts. Moms drop their kids off at Kesha concerts.

  My mom reminds me how just last month she went to a Neil Diamond concert, and her hands were raw from clapping so much.

  Fuck it. I’ll go.

  To: Annika

  From: Annie

  I’m in for Kesha. Brunch and Pee Sharps reunion will have to wait.

  36 Days Old

  Zach thinks it’s hilarious that I want to see Kesha in the first place, because, as he puts it, “You could be her mom,” which is so not true. I mean, I guess I technically could, since I got my period when I was eleven, but whatever. The concert is in five weeks, and hopefully I’ll be walking 100 percent normally by then. I have my six-week appointment next week, and that’s when I get the go-ahead for all kinds of things: lifting, running, sex. Oy. I can’t even think about anyone going in or out of my vagina right now. I’m still completely addicted to my squeeze bottle. I hope my midwife encourages me to keep using it. Forever.

  I’m also going to ask her when my massive quantity of hair will start falling out. I know some people love that their hair gets extra thick and lustrous during pregnancy, but I already have a shit ton of hair and having more just makes me look like the Cowardly Lion after he had his Emerald City makeover.

  I definitely need to ask about all of this black shit in my belly button. It’s like a caked-on layer of crud that I can’t pick out, not that I would try. Sticking my finger in my belly button makes me want to heave. But I don’t want it to look like I have filthy hygiene habits. Does everyone have crudded-up belly buttons after giving birth? Why don’t any of my pregnancy books talk about this? Or the fact that I have so many new veins on my leg that Google Earth might mistake them as a route to the local 7-Eleven. And is this stripe down my stomach going to go away? It magically appeared during the pregnancy, so can’t it just magically disappear now that the pregnancy’s over?

  One last thing: the bright, shiny, Rudolph-intensity pimple that blossomed a week after the birth smack-dab in the middle of my chest. How long is this douchebag going to hang around?

  I better write all of this down and bring it to the appointment with me. Wouldn’t want to forget anything important.

  37 Days Old

  Devin emailed me from work and asked if I wanted to bring Sam to an English Department meeting. At first I was totally game. Why not? I’ve seen other people do it, and I’ve taken part in the mass adoration of new staff babies. But the more I think about it, the more I recognize the potential for a clusterfuck. I’d have to see my sub. Everyone would witness my still jiggly belly. Sam would most certainly cry and need to nurse, and then there is the possibility of one of my students or—gasp!—colleagues seeing my breasts. And what if it’s a bad latch day? Or Sam poos all over himself? Or all over me? What if he catches some nasty middle school disease? What if he gets lice, and there are itty-bitty bugs crawling around his downy hair?

  I better turn down the offer. It sure would have been nice to get out of the house, though.

  THE SEXIEST THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME THIS WEEK:

  I found a new tributary of veins on my leg the shape of Billy Dee Williams (head only).

  38 Days Old

  Damn. Sam’s smile is really cute. He smiles whenever Doogan walks by and brushes his tail over his face. And he smiles at my mom. Way more than at me, of course. He does kind of look like Zach. But I’m not going to tell anyone I think that quite yet.

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  I love when I fill out a health form for Sam and it asks for his marital status.

  39 Days Old

  Devin skipped out of work for lunch today because they were setting up for the retirement party in the library.

  “I told them I’m allergic to deviled eggs, and the smell was giving me a headache.” She offered to pick me and Sam up and take us out to lunch, but with the car seat and all of Sam’s crap, I thought it would be easier to meet her.

  The way things went, she would have been better off with the deviled eggs. Sam, when not screaming so loudly that I couldn’t hear a single word uttered by Devin, was rolling around in my arms so aggressively while I was trying to feed him that I needed twelve more hands just to hold my nursing cover in place lest I flash the entirety of Panera.

  I wanted to hear Devin’s gossipy goodness from work, since everyone tells the librarian everything (they are the keepers of information, after all), but Sam was not going to let that happen. After a hurried and hellish half hour, I admitted defeat and we parted ways. I suppose I’m going to become her new fodder for a juicy tale: Annie is a terrible mom. It will pass around the faculty until even the annoying part-time teacher’s assistant looks down on me. I’ll have to find a new line of work, dye my hair, change my name …

  Maybe the circus is hiring.

  40 Days Old

  Zach’s moms are coming to visit in a week. I’m going to pretend I forgot and see if he remembers any of the things we need to do to get the house ready. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he married me: so I could remind him of things he needs to do. Did he ever wish his family Happy Birthday before we met?

  41 Days Old

  Sam had another crappy night last night, which means I had a crappy night. For a while there we had three-hour/three-hour/t
hree-hour stretches of sleep, so I was averaging about six hours of total sleep, divided up into two-hour chunks (taking into account the length of time it took to feed Sam and then get myself to fall back asleep). Last night I woke after three hours, but Sam slept until four. So I lay awake, waiting. Then, after I put him down, he woke up after one hour. So I fed him and put him down again. Then he woke up an hour later. So I fed him and put him down again. Was I supposed to feed him every time? Was I supposed to let him cry? Who holds the correct answers to all of my fucking questions?

  I am painfully tired. Doogan looks so cuddly curled up on Sam’s floor that I may have once fallen asleep there next to him. At least I didn’t have to walk as far the next time Sam woke.

  42 Days Old

  Who needs therapy when you’ve got QVC? I might start buying one of everything just so someone can say nice things to me on the testimonial line.

  Today a woman purchased a pair of white, bedazzled capri jeggings, and when she called in to tell the host that she made the purchase, the host actually exclaimed, “I’m so excited for you!” I want someone to be so excited for me and my ludicrous-looking pants. When I told my mom what I bought, she one-upped me and told me she already has three pairs. Is QVC hereditary?

  43 Days Old

  Sam is six weeks old today. Things I know about Sam so far:

  1. He likes to eat from my boobs.

  2. He doesn’t like to go to sleep.

  3. He doesn’t like to stay asleep.

  4. He thinks Daddy is funny.

  5. He likes when Grandma holds him.

  6. He giggles when he touches Doogan’s fur.

  7. He hates me.

  44 Days Old

  My favorite part of my six-week midwife appointment: I only weigh twelve pounds more than I did before I got pregnant.

  My least favorite parts:

  When the midwife went near my vagina.

  When the midwife said I could start exercising again.

  When the midwife said I could start having sex again.

  Why did she have to go near my vagina? Hasn’t it done its time as whipping girl for this baby? It did not want to open its doors for anyone, particularly one wearing latex gloves and shining an unflattering light in its face. I get the icky shivers every time I remember the speculum greeting.

  So now I’m allowed to exercise. I don’t get how celebrities start exercising earlier than normal humans. My midwife explicitly told me that I could not do anything strenuous before six weeks because my body needed time to heal. She made this gross analogy of a towel getting stuck in a washing machine and if I tried to pull it out, my insides would never rebound. Or maybe it was that my insides would get messed up like the towel? It sounded grotesque either way, and it was a great excuse not to exercise. Do celebs have different doctors whom they pay off to allow them to exercise earlier than real people? I don’t envy them and their obscenely unrealistic need for perfection. Part of me really wants to hop back on the treadmill because I never hated exercise, but the other part of me much prefers refreshing my Facebook page sixteen thousand times and watching Say Yes to the Dress from the vantage point of my couch. I’m trying to remind myself how much I loved running and how good it made me feel. Even better than … So I’m allowed to have sex now. Do I have to let Zach know?

  * * *

  Side note: Of course I forgot my list of questions and couldn’t remember a single one.

  Later

  Awaiting me on the porch when I arrived home from my six-week appointment were four enormous boxes, like the type you pack your clothes in when you’re moving. Inside: Fern sent me eighteen boxes of diapers of various sizes, because eighteen represents good luck to Jewish people. Attached was this note:

  “May your poos always be lucky poos.”

  Dear Fern,

  Thank you for the eighteen boxes of diapers. Instead of putting them on Sam’s tush, I was thinking we could use them as extra insulation in our attic. It does get pretty cold around here in the winter.

  Love,

  Annie

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  There sure are a lot of people running this morning on Facebook. Am I the only one sitting on the couch eating cereal? I mixed two kinds, if that helps.

  46 Days Old

  Did everyone I go to high school with suddenly become marathon runners? How did this happen? Some of them are even doing Ironman races! Are they trying to make all of us who haven’t exercised in months feel like shit? Are they trying to motivate us? I have mixed feelings about the motivation. For some reason, looking at really fit women makes me feel like I’ll never look good enough. But looking at really fit men, like, say, Channing Tatum, makes me work harder. Is it the muscles that motivate me or the distraction? Whatever it is, it is time. Today I get back on the treadmill. Now where did I put that Blu-ray of Magic Mike?

  Later

  I swear my uterus started falling out when I tried to run. Everything down below felt draggy and heavy and wide open. My uterus, my lady lips, my … well, let’s just say I took an involuntary bathroom break less than a minute after trying to squeeze my Kegels as tightly as I could while simultaneously plodding along pathetically.

  Next time I’ll start with a nice, slow trot. Or perhaps a canter. I don’t know which is which. I’ve never ridden a horse. The way they look at me with those sad eyes, like, “Bitch, have you seen how skinny my legs are, and you want to sit on my back?”

  I wonder if horses ever pee themselves when they run. This one girl on Facebook posted about her Ironman race and how she had to pee on herself while riding her bike. If I didn’t have a baby, would I try an Ironman? Doubtful, but what about a marathon? Half marathon? Who am I kidding? If Sam weren’t here right now, I’d be spending eight hours playing The Sims on my computer and planning our next summer vacation overseas. We always said we’d go to Australia, but fuck if I’m ever going to be able to sit on a twenty-hour flight with a child. We’re stuck taking road trips to the world’s largest chicken for the next eighteen years.

  Peeing myself during an Ironman looks more appealing by the second.

  47 Days Old

  The in-laws arrive tomorrow. I don’t have the time or energy to do any real cleaning, so I took out a tub of Clorox wipes and cleaned every surface imaginable with them. The house smells like a school bathroom, and there are remnants of lint clumps everywhere. But at least it looks semipresentable in that college-student-cleaning-up-for-their-parents’-visit-so-they-don’t-worry-them-and-visit-more-often kind of way.

  And, yes, I did strap Clorox wipes onto my slippers with rubber bands and skate over the kitchen floor. Duh.

  Middle of the Night

  Why the frak will this kid not sleep more than two hours without having me feed him? Not even QVC can make this better. How many fucking minutes can they talk about self-tanning towelettes?

  I hope they work. I ordered three boxes.

  48 Days Old

  The in-laws have arrived. Thankfully, they offered to stay in a hotel. Dawn, Zach’s mom, claimed it was to give our family space, since our nights are so tough. I’m guessing it has more to do with the gross-out factor of our house. I don’t think Mimi could handle the random patches of spit-up that we never bothered to clean off the carpet. (I figure we’ll get to them all at once when Sam’s done with his spit-up phase. Or we’ll get new carpet.)

  It’s hilarious watching the battle of the grandmas. There is a constant neediness emanating from their Chico’s jackets. I can tell Zach’s mom is trying to be diplomatic, but I also see a fire in her eyes when Mimi wants a turn that burns, “It’s my grandbaby by blood.” Slightly scary. I can’t wait until we have dinner with my mom tonight. Three grandmas in one place. I hope Sam still has all of his limbs when it’s over.

  Dinner

  Sam slept through most of the parental dinner at Indian Palace, until I had to nurse him. I’m getting better at feeding him in public, although it didn’t help when Mimi felt the need to act
as my guard dog and barked, “That’s what breasts are made for!” at anyone who dared glance my way. Since I was wearing my nursing cover and most of my torso was concealed by the table, I think it mainly made Mimi look like a raving lunatic instead of a protective mother-in-law.

  The conversation between bites of palak paneer and aloo gobi went something like this:

  * * *

  My mom: So I’m Grandma [finger quotes]. What would you like to be called? [Ballsy move on my mom’s part to stake her claim on the classic Grandma, but she always thought Bubbe made her sound too old. Plus, her mom was Grandma, so she wanted to continue the tradition.]

  Dawn (Zach’s mom): I always thought I’d be called Mimi because that’s what Zachy called his grandma.

  Mimi: But my name’s Mimi.

  Dawn: But the baby doesn’t know that.

  Mimi: The baby doesn’t know anything yet, and even if he doesn’t know it now, he will know it someday. I thought he could call me Mimi.

  Dawn: I understand that Mimi is your name, but it’s not your grandma name. My mom was a Mimi, and it is important to me that my grandbaby know his family connection.”

  Mimi: Are you saying I have no family connection?

  Dawn: You know I’m not saying that, nor have I ever said that. You know what I mean. It was my mother, for God’s sake.

  [Huffy silence.]

  Mimi: Your point is valid. I propose a compromise.

  Dawn: I’m listening.

  Mimi: How about you’re Mimi, and I’m Mimi Two?

  Dawn: Like we’re both called Mimi? That will confuse the poor boy.

  Mimi: No. Like Mimi Part Two. The number. The sequel. Kids love sequels.

  Dawn: I suppose that could work.