Either way, I’m one step closer to going back to work.
150 Days Old
Today was a triple drive-thru kind of day. Sam did not want to take a nap, and I was too sad to be at home. Every empty, sunny spot on the floor reminded me of Doogan. I keep finding catnip pillows tucked between couch cushions, behind doors, under the bed. His hairs continue to appear in my cereal bowls. It’s too much, so Sam and I are out for a drive.
After a drive-thru donut breakfast, Sam falls asleep in the car and I get myself lost in the back roads of Northern Illinois. It’s hard to believe that this is still considered the suburbs of Chicago, because there is nary a skyscraper in sight, and all roads lead to farmland.
A multitude of turns later, we end up at the Volo Auto Museum. Sam awakens when I shut off the engine, and I nurse him in the front seat without a cover. No one walks by the car, and his head does a nice job of protecting my breast from possible scandal. Even though I’m tired, even though I’m sad, I feel a modicum of pride at this moment. Here we are, mother and son, out on the (small) town, without the need for bottles or packed lunches, just a boy and his trusty boob, a woman and her trusty strawberry-frosted donut with sprinkles. When Sam’s through eating, I rest him in the hatchback of our station wagon and adeptly tie the intricate Moby Wrap around and around my body until I have magically created a safe haven for Sam. I feel another twinge of triumph at how natural it has become to tie Sam against me. His head is at exactly the right height for kissing, and I repeatedly partake of inhaling the fuzziest hairs on the top of his head.
We pay our entrance fee to the auto museum, and as I walk I explain cars to Sam. I tell him his grandpa fixed cars for a living, but his dad has never even changed a flat tire. “You and me will learn how to do that together, Sammy. I want you to have all sorts of useful skills.”
It dawns on me that Sam will not always be this little log of a person who can’t get anywhere or do anything by himself. Someday, Sam will be able to change a tire. Or cook a gourmet meal. Or fly a spaceship. He has a future.
We laugh as we walk through the hall of famous cars: the Batmobile, the Mystery Machine, Ecto One from Ghostbusters. “You’ll see those movies when you’re a little older, Sam,” I tell him. Sam will watch movies.
In other buildings stand rows and rows of classic cars, and I imagine myself tooling around in a 1952 pink convertible. “What do you think of this one, Sam? Too pink? How about this yellow one?”
Someday Sam will drive a car.
I buy a grilled cheese and chips at the museum restaurant. The cashier, an older woman with a gap-toothed grin, asks, “How old?”
“He’ll be five months tomorrow,” I tell her.
“That’s a good age. They’re all good ages. Enjoy every minute.”
For the first time, I am not annoyed by someone telling me to do so. “I’ll try,” I agree.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Sam.”
“Short for Samuel? My late husband was a Samuel. What’s his middle name?” she asks.
“He doesn’t have one,” I answer, followed by the obligatory explanation: “I don’t have one, and his last name is hyphenated, so we thought we’d keep it simple.”
She nods, an appeasing sort of nod, as if she’s judging my middle-class white-woman hyphenated-naming ways. I will have to get used to it.
“Well, he can always add one later, if he wants. I always wanted my middle name to be Anastasia. I thought it sounded fancy. Better than Wanda, my real middle name.”
“I like the name Wanda,” I assure her.
“It’s not bad. I was named after my aunt who died right before I was born. My mom was very close to her, so she wanted to give me her name as a memory.”
“That’s a very nice sentiment,” I say.
“I suppose it is. I better get this next customer before he goes hungry. Have a nice visit. Bye, Sam-with-no-middle-name.”
Sam and I grab a blanket stored in our trunk for winter emergencies and spread it on the lawn outside of the museum. A young couple sits at a nearby picnic table, and two children play at a playground set up on the grass. Sam fiddles contentedly with his toes while I eat my greasy grilled cheese. When I’m finished, I take out my nursing cover and feed Sam, not necessarily because he’s hungry but because it keeps him content. The woman of the couple catches my eye and smiles at me. Again, that pride glows inside of me, as though I’m doing something right.
When Sam and I finish our lunch, we stroll across to the antiques mall on the other side of the museum. It boasts six buildings of antiques, and we wind in and out, Sam snug against my chest, happy to look at the sometimes heirloom, sometimes kitschy, items stuffed into every nook and cranny of space. The floor creaks precariously under my feet as I finger a goofy set of Wizard of Oz dolls. Maybe Sam will like the film as I always have, or maybe he’ll be terrified like Nora was. I buy a set of the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow for $35. If he doesn’t like them, I can always give them to Nora’s daughter. I am certain she will have a daughter someday.
As I pay, I have a similar conversation with this clerk as I had with the restaurant cashier. Maybe they are trained to ask women with babies about their kids’ names, but all of a sudden Sam-with-no-middle-name doesn’t seem like enough. An idea bubbles into my brain, and by the time I’m strapping Sam into his car seat I’m certain I can convince Zach of the change.
Sam falls asleep immediately in the car, and I smile the entire drive home. I even reward myself with a Heath bar Blizzard from a DQ drive-thru. Any excuse for a Blizzard, really.
Later
I tell Zach about our day over dinner, and I almost have to slap the annoying grin off his face.
“What?” I demand.
“You look happy, is all. It’s nice to see you enjoying your maternity leave, especially since it’s almost over.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say, and I’m not sure if I do it as a reflexive statement or if I mean it.
“Well, make the most of your last few weeks,” he says. “Wizard World is next weekend.”
“I know. I’m excited! Even though it’s hardly about comics anymore, I still love being amongst all of my kindred nerd spirits. I’m thinking of dressing up Sam.”
“Oh yeah? Like who?”
“I’m not sure yet. It has to be somewhat easy, since I have to make it in a week. I’m thinking someone classic, like Superman or Batman. Seeing as he can’t even walk and most of his costume will be hidden by the Moby Wrap anyway,” I consider.
Zach laughs to himself.
“What? Use your words,” I demand.
“This is how I pictured it, you know, having a kid? Going to comic conventions, dressing him up like a nerdling, being happy.”
“I like that you pictured what having a kid would be like,” I admit.
“Like it enough that you want to jump my bones?”
“Like it enough for you to refer to sex in some way other than that of a fifteen-year-old boy.”
“Ouch.”
“So I was thinking today—”
“About sex?” Zach asks.
“Is that all you think about? Because that wasn’t all you thought about before we had a baby.”
“It’s not all I think about. I thought I was recognizing a subtle segue.”
“No. That was me changing the subject. To Sam’s middle name.”
“Thwarted again. You’re not still pushing for Atreyu, are you? Because I thought we put the kibosh on that in your second trimester.”
“No, I was thinking, though, that maybe we could give Sam a middle name. I’m not married to him not having one, and maybe it would be nice to give him a name that has sentimental value instead of merely sci-fi value.”
“Samuel was my great-great-grandfather, and the S is for my dad,” Zach reminds me.
“Whatever. Since we have a family name from your side”—I pause to dole out a heaping helping of charming eyelash bats—“we
give him the middle name from my side. After, you know, Doogan.”
“After the cat? Won’t that be a little weird?”
“Doogan can be a human name, too. Like that movie Max Dugan Returns.”
“I never saw that.”
“Me neither. But no one has to know why we gave him the middle name Doogan. Maybe they’ll think we named the cat after someone, and we’re carrying on the tradition by giving our son the same name. They don’t have to know that the someone is actually the cat.”
Zach ruminates as he shovels pad thai into his mouth.
“He was a good friend. A great pet. You loved him, too. Can we do it?” I press.
Extra pause.
“You realize you’re not allowed to say no, since I’m the one that spewed Sam out of my cooch.”
“You’re going to hold that over me for a while, aren’t you?” Zach asks.
“Every damn day until I die,” I confirm.
“Okay. Samuel Doogan Schwartz-Jensen it is. But you have to figure out how we get it on his birth certificate and everything.” Zach looks over at Sam, batting a frog toy hanging above him in his bouncer. “Sammy D.,” he announces. “I like it.”
“So do I,” I agree. And my heart feels so full, I can barely swallow.
It should be the norm to wait on baby names.
What if you name your kid at the hospital, and they end up not looking or acting like the name you gave them when they were merely a blob of a person? I can already tell Samuel Doogan is the perfect fit.
To: Annie
From: Louise
Dear Annie,
Sorry about my last email. Sometimes I wish I can delete emails I send, not just ones I receive. Make sure you delete all the horrible ones you get from me, ok? I don’t want any of that dark shit coming back to me if I ever try to apply for a new job. Speaking of dark shit, how’s your belly button looking? I can’t believe mine is going to start spreading again. Will it ever go back to its pre-baby cuteness? That was always my favorite body part: my petite belly button. And my right earlobe. The left one has a beauty mark with a hair sticking out of it.
I’ve slightly warmed up to the idea of another baby, and that’s only because Gertie has been extra cute lately. I’m sure it will pass. Or maybe my baby brain will kick into extra high pregnancy gear, and I won’t remember all of my misery anyway.
Do you have time for another mommy date before you go back to work, and I become a bloated toad? Let me know—
Lou
151 Days Old
Sam and I may be on better terms, but he’s still a buttwad at night.
I am amazed to learn that there are over four hundred people waiting on the QVC phone lines just to order a velveteen table runner. I hope they don’t sell out.
152 Days Old
I spend the week constructing a baby Robin costume, à la Batman and Robin circa the television shows of the 1960s. I found a pair of white baby tights, a green diaper cover (both from the girls’ section, but I won’t tell if Sam won’t), and I’m sewing the red tunic out of felt. I also fabricated a black mask that will probably stay on Sam’s face for only 1.3 seconds. As long as it’s enough time for a picture I can post on Facebook, I’m happy.
153 Days Old
After working on Sam’s costume and imagining the never-ending stream of cosplay photos people will be taking of him, I realize that the person holding him will be in the photos, too. Me. And my jiggly stomach that stays put only inside the magical waistband of my yoga pants. But I can’t wear yoga pants to a comic book convention. I don’t want to look like a dork.
Before I try any of my clothes on, I hit the Spanx drawer. Some people bow down at the altar of Spanx, but my relationship has always been less worship and more acquaintance you smile at when you greet them but give them the finger behind their back after they walk away.
I pull out the biker shorts variety, taupe in color and already eyeing me condescendingly. Wearing underwear (I cannot convince myself to go undieless in Spanx, no matter how many people tell me that it is the norm—I know full well what’s about to go down in the cotton-stitched crotch area, and I don’t think any amount of hand washing can undo the damage), I step each foot into the leg holes. Down around my ankles, things feel promising. Then I yank the waistband upward. That’s when the party begins to stall out. My thighs, which have never been my most problematic areas, turn into fat-dappled sausage meat wrestling with their casing. I tug them up as high as they are willing to go, and I have a sickening dividing line between where the Spanx end and my leg begins. It grows whiter by the millisecond. I can see knee fat. My stomach may look smoother and stay relatively in one place when I walk, but the newly formed belly roll that settles over the top, along with its matching thigh Twinkies, is enough to make any woman look for liposuction Groupons.
Did I mention the sweat? Proving me brilliant for wearing underwear, my vagina is already a good fifteen degrees warmer than its average setting.
I look horrid. I feel even worse. The Spanx are so tight that my thumb can barely squeeze its way into the all-powerful waistband.
The juices continue to stew, and I make a mental note never to touch an already opened package of Spanx at a department store. Not that I will ever touch a pair of Spanx again. What sadistic minion of Satan devised these things? Why am I supposed to be keeping my body still anyway? “You will not oppress me any longer!” I yell at the Spanx, and I grab a pair of nail scissors from my nightstand. The tiny blade is no match for the sinister force of the spandex, but I am determined. Plus, I really have to go to the bathroom now. I hack away, little bits of nylon falling willy-nilly until, finally, relief comes as the waistband sags away from my skin and I’m able to roll the beast off of me.
A red mark is etched into my stomach, but I wear it with pride. I fought a battle, and this is my scar. I am the victor. Until we meet again, Spanx. Until we meet again.
154 Days Old
Today I managed to wash and dry one load of laundry, fold it, and put away every last piece. This calls for a chocolate cake shake. I need the extra calories and energy because I’ve started to store up more breastmilk for Sam when I go to work. The timing of everything is beyond complicated: I feed Sam when he wakes up, I feed Sam when he goes down for his nap. So when do I pump? My best bet is to do it while he’s sleeping, but if I just fed him, there isn’t anything left to pump. If I wait an hour and I start pumping, I’m guaranteed he’s going to wake up early. Maybe the melody of the pump motor wakes him up. Sometimes I swear I can hear the grinding breaths of the pump even when I’m not pumping. I better get used to it. Me and Old Pumper are going to be spending a lot of time together in the coming months in a storage closet. I wish that were as sexy as it sounds.
To: Annie
From: Annika
Hey Annie!
What have you been up to? Isn’t your maternity leave almost over? I bet you’re going to miss all that free time, sitting on the couch, kissing your baby, and working out. You won’t have any time to work out when you go back to school. Hope you don’t gain back the baby weight! You look pretty good for someone who just had a baby. Almost as good as Gwyneth. If you squint, right? If you have a chance, let’s grab brunch before work and you’re too busy to remember your friends.
Xo,
Annika
Dear Annika,
You think I’m sitting on my ass all day watching “The View” and eating Thin Mints while toning my abs?
I am with this baby all the time. Every second. I spend at least 35 percent of my time trying to get him to sleep, and when he does—the time you think I must be fanning myself on my chaise lounge—I have to be so quiet as not to wake him that I can’t do 90 percent of the things I need to do. Not that I have the energy to do them because I am up with him every three hours during the night. He is sucking all the nutrients from my body because not only did I grow this human inside of me, but I am now giving my body to SUSTAIN HIS LIFE. I’m losing weight becau
se I can’t possibly eat enough to regenerate all of the calories lost to this person who grows an inch every month. And, oh, maybe I manage to put in a load of laundry here and there, but then Sam wakes up and I forget about it and by the time tomorrow rolls around the wet laundry smells so bad I have to rewash it. This week I washed the same load of laundry four times.
And what do you think I’m doing when he’s awake? Setting him on a bed of homemade blankets while I smile at him and read GOOP? He will not let me put him down for a second. I take shits while he sucks on my boob. He needs constant feeding, constant connection, and constant entertainment. We played peekaboo for an hour yesterday.
And you think all I do is sit on my ass? I haven’t sat on my ass since this kid was born.
Don’t you have a brunch to go to? I’m sure your ass will have a grand ol’ time sitting there. My ass has more important things to do.
—Annie
PS: I look a hell of a lot better than Gwyneth because I am REAL, thank you very much.
To: Annika
From: Annie
Hey Annika,
Sorry, but I’m so busy trying to squeeze in every last minute I have with Sam before I go back to work I probably won’t have time to get together.
Talk soon—
Annie
That other letter would have gone over her head anyway.
155 Days Old
Sam made a new friend! I suppose babies don’t yet have the ability to make friends. Or do anything much more than roll over at this stage. But I did get together with a mom and baby from his music class, and I think that constitutes friend status.
Sam’s new friend is one of the Jacksons (the non-x version), and my new friend is named Katie. They live one town over, and Jackson is her first child, too. After music class, Katie asked me as I gathered up Sam and put on my shoes if we’d like to go to the park just outside the building. Neither of our sons can do anything at a park aside from flail around in a pile of wood chips, so we found a grassy spot nearby.
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