Thus, Zach’s mom became Mimi, and Mimi became Mimi 2, the Sequel. And my mom retained her reigning title of Grandma.
49 Days Old
Zach’s moms are insisting Zach and I go out for a dinner date. I argue that I have to nurse Sam, but Dawn says we could leave right after I nurse him and get back in time for his next feeding.
“He might be fussy. Dinnertime is his fussy time of day. Well, one of them,” I warn them.
“We can handle it,” Mimi 2 says as she strokes Doogan on her lap. She has taken to holding Doogan when her turn with Sam is up. I watch Doo try to struggle out of her arms, but Mimi 2 refuses to relinquish her grip. I telepathically send him a message that I’ll give him an apple, his favorite fruit, later.
“Sam will be fine. We’ll only be gone for an hour.” Zach tries to convince me that all will be okay, but I don’t know how he can just leave our baby in the hands of people we see only once or twice a year. I can barely get myself to leave Sam alone with Zach, even on those days when I feel like I could leave Sam screaming alone in his crib while I escape through an underground tunnel I’m kicking myself for not having installed. If something goes wrong with Sam when I’m with him, at least I can blame myself. If he’s with other people and something goes wrong, what happens then? Would I leave Zach if he accidentally dropped Sam down a flight of stairs? Sue Dawn for letting Sam roll off the changing table? Attack Mimi 2 for feeding Sam organic whole-grain gingersnaps before he’s ready for solids?
“I don’t think we should go,” I say, running through all of the incidents of negative possibility in my head.
“We’re going. I already have my shoes on.” Zach points to his feet.
“Oh, well, if you already have your shoes on,” I say sarcastically.
After taking my sweet time nursing Sam, changing his diaper, and tucking him into a new outfit, I reluctantly put on my own shoes.
“Our cell phone numbers are listed next to the phone,” I tell the Mimis.
“Thank you, dear. We also have them programmed into our cell phones,” Dawn reminds me. “Because you’re not leaving him with a babysitter in 1985.”
Zach finally manages to usher me out the door and into the car. Five minutes after we leave the house, I shout, “Wait! We have the car seat base in our car. What if there is an emergency and they need to drive somewhere with Sam? Turn around.”
Zach opens his mouth to attempt a calming sentiment but quickly realizes that this is an argument he does not want to have with me. When we pull into the garage, I unlatch my seat belt and bolt inside, informing Zach, “I’m just going to check in.”
My sneak attack proves fruitless, as the Mimis and Sam appear to be in exactly the same position they were in before we left the first time.
“Back so soon?” Mimi 2 asks.
“We took the car seat with us, but brought it home just in case you need it. Not that you will. Just if there’s an emergency. Please don’t drive anywhere with Sam,” I mumble, backing my way into the garage.
On the road again, I remind Zach, “We have approximately 1.2 hours door-to-door.”
“I don’t understand why we didn’t leave them a bottle of breastmilk. We have a bunch stored in the freezer.”
“That is only for absolute emergencies, like Kesha concerts and murder mysteries. I’m not wasting it so you and I can go out to dinner. That’s liquid gold we’re talking about.”
“Right. So where are we going?”
“I’m dying for some meat. How about you?”
Zach and I are not technically vegetarians, although we both were when we first met. When I got pregnant with Sam, my cravings steered toward the fleshy variety. Zach had been holding back his own meat cravings for a while, so together we began sporadic indulgences in chicken or turkey. Once Zach ordered a steak, but it was too officially dead animal–like, and he stuck with poultry from then on. For me, if the meat seems at all meaty, I’m out. But there is a barbecue place that serves the most incredible, falling-apart chicken sandwiches that has been clouding my hungry brain. And that is why Zach and I have our first official postbaby dinner date at a place called Porky’s Meat Hut.
50 Days Old
Middle-of-the-night feeding. I ordered a floor steam cleaner from QVC because it kills 99.9 percent of germs and doesn’t use harsh chemicals. I hate to think of Doogan licking poison from his paws. Maybe someday I’ll feel the same way about Sam, too.
51 Days Old
It is becoming a common occurrence for me to sit on the shitter while breastfeeding Sam. Every time I nurse him on the right boob, I have the urge to take a poo. According to my boob guru, Joanne, something about the hormonal rush can trigger nausea in some women. She told me a story of a woman who threw up every time she breastfed. And yet she kept doing it. Are we mad?
52 Days Old
I took a trip to Target today, wore Sam in his wrap, and all went well until he started screaming during checkout like I was ripping out individual toenails from his plump little feet (my favorite part of his body, if someone made me select one at gunpoint). I already had most of my items on the conveyor belt, and the cashier in red and khaki was beeping away and placing the items into my reusable Target bags (you get five cents back every time you use one!). I panicked and began rapidly unspooling the Moby Wrap, whipping the yards and yards of fabric hither and yon until it landed in a floppy purple puddle around my feet. Sam’s screaming made me feel harried to the extreme, so instinctually I did the one thing I knew would make him shut up: I lifted my shirt, dropped my bra, and shoved his head at my boob. Instantly he was calm, eating happily as I reached for a box of tissues I was about to purchase. Cradling Sam in my left arm, I ripped the cardboard cover off the tissues and began wiping down the sweat oozing from my forehead and upper lip. I crumpled the used tissue blob and tossed it into one of my red bags. When it was time to pay, I fumbled one-handedly through my purse and eventually managed to extract my credit card from my wallet. The woman behind me in line, a close stander (which meant she was getting an eyeful of boob), commented, “Nice multitasking.”
“Thanks,” I told her. “You should have seen me in the bathroom this morning.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Really, lady?
53 Days Old
I awoke this morning with the most disturbing firmness in my right breast. It was too large and developed to scare me into breast cancer territory, but the size wasn’t the disturbing part. It was square. I had a square protrusion on part of my breast, and it hurt. Inside and out. I called Joanne, who answered right away (seriously, is this lady the angel of boobs?). She said it sounded like a plugged duct and gave me orders to ice it before I feed Sam, massage it gently while he’s eating or if I pump to release the milk, and take ibuprofen to bring down the swelling. She said if it seemed to be taking too long, I could even hold a vibrator up to my breast to help loosen it! I don’t know where she gets all of this information, but it’s brilliant. When the plug clears, I plan on baking her a bunch of cookies. Or buying some. Maybe a cookie bouquet? What would my boobs be without her?
Later
The square is still there. It’s royally grossing me out. I have the inclination to get a piece of tracing paper and do a rubbing of it just to prove the squareness of the situation to Zach, who sounded skeptical over the phone. He also said someone brought Lou Malnati’s pizza and cheesecakes to the bank for lunch. I told him he better bring me a cornucopia of theater-sized candy boxes on his way home from work for all the shit I have to go through while he indulges in endless lunch delights and pain-free boobs. I thought about asking how he’d like it if he had to put ice on his testicles every couple of hours but thought better of it if I wanted that candy.
THE CANDY COUNTDOWN:
It’s 5:30 already. He better be gift wrapping that candy!
5:33. Where is he? Is he monogramming each individual piece of candy?
5:36. I need something sweet. I’ve already finished of
f the only sugary cereal we have, which is Alpha-Bits and barely counts.
5:41. I think we may have some Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. Maybe I can squeeze that onto a saltine.
5:43. Zach arrives home, and I practically knock him to the floor for my Charleston Chews. “Nice to see you, too, honey.” I snarl at him as I tear at the chew like a werewolf coveting his freshly killed prey.
54 Days Old
Plug seems to be clearing. Now what to do about the indigestion I’ve given myself after scarfing Sour Patch Kids, Junior Mints, and Raisinets (fruit!) for breakfast.
55 Days Old
My mom carries in lunch from our favorite local Italian restaurant.
“Your hair looks nice,” I note of the newly darkened color and covered roots.
“Thank you. Yours could use a touch-up,” she remarks.
“I know. My grays are glowing like a shiny beacon of oldness. But I don’t have time. And it’s not like it matters. Who sees me except you and Sam?” I stuff in a mouthful of salad.
“Your husband, for one. Don’t you want to look nice for him?”
“I have no obligation to look good for him right now. I just birthed him a baby.”
“Well, for you, then. Maybe it’ll put you in a better mood. You’re always so surly.”
“Three hours of sleep a night will do that to a person.” I glare at my mom. “You know, making me feel like shit about the way I look isn’t going to improve my mood.”
“Forget I said anything.” My mom chews her food superiorly.
I stand up and fish through our kitchen junk drawer. “What are you doing?” Mom asks. I ignore her until I find what I was looking for: a brown Sharpie. I whip it out and march into the bathroom. I remove the cap and spend the next ten minutes seeking out the two inches of gray invading my otherwise chocolaty-brown hair. Each metallic strand is quickly coated in the stench of permanent marker. When a suitable number of grays are marked out, I exit the bathroom and present my newly colored hair to my mom. “Voilà. Is that better?” I ask her.
Mom, the keeper of the perfect beat, holds her tongue for a classy three seconds, then offers, “You can get cancer doing that, you know.”
I was this close to drawing a permanent marker mustache on her face.
56 Days Old
I tried running again this morning. Things went well for maybe a minute, but then it felt like the bottom was about to drop again. What a bizarre sensation. I envision my vaginal area looking something like a Hellmouth from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and if I shake it up too much, everything—demons, vampires, fallopian tubes—is going to start flying out into the new dimension I opened. Not to mention the extra sixty pounds of boob I feel like I’m toting around. I don’t know if I could run even if I managed to stop up my giant nether-chasm.
Best walk instead. Wouldn’t want to sweat too much and agitate the marker on my scalp.
57 Days Old
My mom dropped off a box of Pixies from Fannie May on her way to knitting. “Don’t go rubbing these all over your head now. They are brown.” I might have thrown them at her if I didn’t intend to eat the entire box in the coming hour.
58 Days Old
Zach and I are watching a behind-the-scenes flashback show about Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I just put Sam to bed, which means absolutely nothing in my cyclical sleep-wake-sleep-wake lifestyle, but it’s the time of day when Zach and I get into bed and watch TV as though I’m about to sleep like the sandman intended. I’m enjoying a detailed dissection of Damone and his piano scarf when out of nowhere Zach asks, “Do you want to have sex?” The marker makeover must really be working.
“What?” I’m barely hiding the look of disgust on my face. “What do you mean?”
“You know. Knocking boots. Do the nasty. Sex?” Zach clarifies. I’m not a fan of when Zach uses gross slang for sex. Maybe he thinks it’s funny, but all I can think of is the guy I lost my virginity to my senior year of high school offering me the “hot beef injection” à la The Breakfast Club.
“I just had a baby,” I remind him.
“Two months ago,” he stresses.
“I don’t know if this area”—I gesture in a circular motion to my crotch—“is quite ready.”
“Didn’t your midwife give you the okay after six weeks?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Put your eyebrows in check. We may technically have the all-clear, but Betty Sue has the final say. It still feels … different down there.” Not to mention my giant dark areolae, the line down my middle, the filthy belly button, and the hideous mass of a pimple that my chest birthed just as I did to Sam.
“Different can be good,” Zach notes.
“What are you talking about, Zach?”
“I don’t know. Watching this show about teenagers having sex is making me want to. I can’t help that I have a beautiful wife who inspires lurid thoughts.”
Points for the compliment and use of the word lurid. Still, “I’m just not ready, Zach,” I say in a gentler tone. “Can we cuddle? Later on you can masturbate into the toilet like Judge Reinhold does as he fantasizes about Phoebe Cates taking off her bikini top.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he retorts.
Thankfully, the cuddling was enough for tonight, and Zach fell asleep within two minutes of cuddle time. But how long can I keep him at bay?
To: Annie
From: Louise
This new baby is such an asshole. She doesn’t want to eat from me, wakes up a million times a night, and she farts all the time. ALL THE TIME. Her doctor says I should try changing my diet because maybe she’s having a reaction to something in my milk, but fuck that! I already had gestational diabetes for this turducken when she was inside me, pricked myself 75 times a day, and couldn’t eat a single thing I wanted. A pregnant woman who can’t stuff her face is not a pregnant woman!!! Fuck. I’m going to go eat the leftover from Terry’s birthday cake. There’s about half left. That should be enough. Burn this email after you read it.
xo Louise
60 Days Old
My sister, Nora, came over to snuggle Sam today. She seemed perfectly content, giggling and cooing. Sam was eating that shit up (probably thinking, You’re much nicer than my mom, who can’t think of a single thing to do with me 90 percent of the day. Her breastmilk doesn’t even taste that good), but I’m consumed by guilt. How did it happen that I so easily got pregnant and totally suck at this mother thing, but Nora wants a baby so badly and is a complete natural at it and can’t get or stay pregnant without having to go through repeated invasive interventions? Why does life work that way? High school girls, crack addicts, and people who didn’t even know they were pregnant and give birth on the toilet get pregnant all the time. Babies are born to people who truly do not want them, yet my amazing, responsible, kind, deserving sister can’t seem to have a baby. It kills me.
I walk over to Sam and kiss his forehead, trying to appreciate what I have. I sit down on the couch next to Nora, who has Sam propped up on the coffee table.
“Don’t you just love babies?” she asks. She’s not the first person to ask me this. It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question, because what kind of satanic sociopathic sonofabitch doesn’t like babies? However …
“You mean as a group?” I ask.
“Yes. They’re small and cute and smell so good, and they need so much from us.”
“Tell me about it.” I shrug. “Not really.”
“Not really? Why?” I’m surprised that she’s surprised by my answer.
“Because saying ‘I love babies’ is like saying ‘I love cats.’”
“Don’t you love cats? Look at little Doogan.”
Doogan scrunches up in a ball beside me on the couch. I stroke his side for a moment, until he bites me. “Damn, Doogan! Why ya gotta hate?” I ask. I turn to my sister. “I love Doogan, yes, because I know him. That took a while. I wasn’t such a fan when he used to knock everything off my dresser in college. Or when he bites me.” I shoot
Doo a glare. “That doesn’t mean I love all cats. Just like I don’t love all babies.”
“You love your baby, though, right?” Nora holds up Sam in front of her face and babbles, “Mommy loves you. Yes, she does.”
“Yeah, of course,” I admit. And I think I do love him. “But I’ve known Doogan longer.”
“So are you saying you love your cat more than your baby?” Nora’s still talking in baby-babble voice.
“Not necessarily.”
“Give it time, Annie. How could anyone not love this little butterball baby? Nomnomnom…” Nora eats Sam’s belly.
I lean over and rest my head on Doogan’s pillowlike frame. “You bite me, and I throw you off the couch,” I warn. “How much time am I supposed to give it?” I ask, muffled by Doogan’s fur.
“When he starts talking. Or crawling. Or maybe just smiling more. Hopefully something will just click, and then you’ll realize what a lucky person you are.”
Dig the guilt dagger a little deeper, why don’t you? I should just hand Sam over to Nora right now. She’s more deserving of him than I’ll ever be.
62 Days Old
TODAY’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
• Folded three pairs of underwear.
• Ate a bag of candy corn I found hidden in a cabinet (I was the one who hid them, and they weren’t all that stale).
• Made Sam laugh when I tripped over his bouncy seat.
• Wrote 1.5 thank-you notes.
• Set another lunch date with Devin for next week.
• Cut six out of ten of my toenails.
63 Days Old
I am reading celebrity magazines voraciously. I have a stack of novels on my bedside that I naively expected to devour during my maternity leave, but I can’t get through a single chapter without falling asleep. These magazines are vapid crap, yet I am addicted to digesting them. I wish I could go back in time and write a paper for my women’s studies classes on the way these magazines try to make women, and moms in particular, feel like ass. What the fuck is wrong with how celebrities look without makeup? Why do I have to care how fast a celebrity who just gave birth lost her weight? It’s fucking disgusting. As if we don’t have enough pressure to bolster a human life, we also have to look good while doing it? I wish for once there would be a celebrity, a really famous and talented one, who would always leave the house without makeup and be pregnant with mighty tree stump kankles and then give birth and show off her stretch marks and puckered stomach and veiny legs in a bikini, her gray roots showing because she’s too tired to get them colored.
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