How to Party with an Infant

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  Her exposed breast is spraying milk all the way to the dash. It’s like an old-fashioned hose-end sprinkler. Zoë latches on and sucks desperately, and Georgia’s unused breast drips. Zoë pops off, takes a few breaths, then goes back.

  Chris looks out the right of the car, then reaches down for his shake. He sucks on the straw, then stops. He turns the radio’s volume up a little louder, looks down at the baby, then looks away. She knows she has lost him. He sees her for what she is, for the only thing she can be. The beautiful woman and the soldier are gone. He gets shot in the head. She breaks her neck somehow. Everything has vanished.

  And now Gabe is awake, in tears, his face red and critical. He makes the sign to be fed over and over again. Gabe want milk. Gabe want milk. All of her children are always so hungry.

  “Use your words,” Georgia says, but Gabe keeps signing. She doesn’t know why she ever taught him such a thing.

  “You’re not an ape!” she yells. “Use your words! Just say what you want! Just speak like everyone else!”

  “Mom,” Chris says.

  “What?” Georgia yells. “What, Chris?”

  Georgia has ripped Zoë off her nipple, and her depleted breast hangs like a sock. Zoë roots around her chest like a little pig looking for truffles. The woman’s voice on the radio does a kind of ethnic yodel, and all Georgia can think is that this woman seems terribly, terribly free.

  “Just ignore it,” Chris says. “Let’s just get home.” He takes Zoë from her arms, then gets out of the car to put her back in the seat. Does he even know how to buckle a car seat? Does she care? She fixes her bra and her shirt. Gabe screams and continues to make signs.

  “Stop that,” she says forcefully. “Stop making those signs or the bad men are going to get you. The gang is going to get you.” Gabe takes a pause, looks at her searchingly, then howls. When Chris opens the door to put Zoë in, he says something to his younger brother, but she’s not sure what. She faces forward, looks out at the lights below. Gabe is suddenly quiet. She glances back, and he has his pacifier in his mouth, his lids heavy with what looks like bliss.

  Chris walks back to his side, and as he’s getting in, the car brightens with someone’s headlights and for a second she sees them all lit up as if onstage. Two cars come into the lot, rolling in slowly over the gravel.

  “What if it’s them?” she says. “The gang with the artichokes.”

  “Yeah, right,” Chris says, in a way that’s not at all convinced. He holds his burger on his lap. “Let’s go,” he says. “We can finish at home.”

  She starts the car. The other cars seem to be waiting for her to leave. She reverses, then drives forward. One of the cars also moves forward, toward her left. Chris stares straight ahead. When the car gets closer to them it slows, then comes to a stop.

  “Just keep going,” Chris says, but she thinks this could be the wrong move to make. In fact, even thinking about moves is the wrong move. These are probably just teenagers or maintenance men, or someone who’s lost. She stops and puts her window down. “What are you doing?” Chris says through clenched teeth. He shifts in his seat, putting a foot on the dash, then putting it back down.

  The driver of the car grins at her. He’s small—compact and ropy. His car is a honey brown that glistens.

  “You’re not waiting for us, right?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so,” Georgia says. Two guys in the back of the car laugh, and the driver nods as though she’s said something wise. He looks into his rearview mirror, and Georgia looks ahead at the car behind him, which is somewhat blocking the exit. On the other side of the exit is a patch of trees and a Dumpster.

  “You sure you’re not waiting for us?” the driver says, and his passengers laugh again, though less so this time.

  “Just go,” Chris says, and she realizes her son isn’t nearly as bad as he’d like to be, that jail was just a fluke, a stroke of bad luck, something he’s probably proud of.

  Chris is afraid. He thinks they are going to die, and for some reason this gives Georgia a small thump of joy. She is his mommy.

  “Hey, you’re listening to the same song as us,” the driver says. He reaches forward to turn his volume up, and she hears the woman on both radios. Her cries are insistent, firm taps. They blend with the drums, simmering like flavors, building toward something exquisite and exotic yet entirely expected.

  “Nice,” Georgia says. “Like a duet.” The driver bobs his head, then says something to the others in Spanish. She doesn’t understand why she isn’t frightened. Maybe residual adrenaline has morphed her anger with Gabe into something like courage or something like apathy or something like hope. She loves when days don’t go as planned, when she’s not on a playground bench staring into space, when she’s not at home watching other people on television making love, drinking pretty cocktails, fighting wars, or asking Pat for a T, please. She loves that her son is afraid and that she isn’t.

  She feels the cold air blow through her wet shirt. The driver looks at her again, nodding to the music and tapping his fingers against his lips.

  “Good-bye,” she says, but the driver just nods.

  “I was waiting for you,” she wants to say to the little man. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

  “Go,” Chris says, and Georgia goes on.

  Has anyone tried Julie’s Method? We’ve done the diaper countdown, telling her that now no more diapers exist in the world. My husband and I have committed and gone cold turkey. However, we’d like to revisit diapers at night to avoid doing so much laundry, and also we have a wedding this weekend and we’re not sure if the babysitter can handle this. I feel like we would break our contract, but what do you do for night and special occasions?

  —Carrie Lee

  Yes, I’ve done Julie’s Method. Do not put a diaper back on! That’s the whole point of Julie’s Method. We created a potty song, loaded our daughter up on juice boxes. She was in heaven! We practiced for three days, never leaving the apartment. I strapped the portable to me and shadowed her. I was totally committed. By day three she got it. She poops, she pees, she loves it.

  —Amanda Fuller

  I agree. Julie’s Method works. The biggest barrier sounds like you. I would wait until you are ready. Kids get things, and if you aren’t 100% into it, the kid will know and will work it. Like Amanda, I was committed. I was pregnant and did not want to be wiping two butts. Dude, poop is terrible. It’s so liberating for the child to have that control over their body. It’s easy. Good luck. I really hope for planet earth and your child that you do it!

  —Johanna Weller

  The Pant-less Method worked for us, except there were skid marks all over the house.

  —A.L., West Portal

  What was the last thing you ate?

  Thanks to Georgia, the last thing I ate was a burger from In-N-Out.

  She told me a story that left me stunned and humbled. You never know what’s behind a person. For a moment she lied her way into another life, so tired she was of her own, and I admired her lies, the way they revealed the truth.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” I said to her, thinking of her three children.

  “I don’t,” Georgia said.

  “But you do. You are.”

  “I envy you,” Georgia said, and I spit out a laugh. “I’m serious. You’re free.”

  “I’m not that free,” I said and stopped there. She could pour her heart out, but I wasn’t about to say: “I’m afraid and hurt and a tad desperate. The thought of being with a man sickens me, but sometimes I feel this pathetic need for one.”

  Also, by saying that I was free, I think she was talking about her marriage, the way it confines and limits her.

  Henry had come into the park during part of her story, and he was pushing Tommy on the swings. He did so much with his kids. I couldn’t imagine leaving someone who cared so much about my child. I couldn’t imagine leaving anyone who looked like Henry. I know he must be devastated about his
wife, but he had to be unhappy before. Why would he spend so much time getting away from her and everyone in his circle?

  “Imagine growing up in a neighborhood and never leaving it for the rest of your life,” Henry once said. “That’s what these people do. They go to the same schools, live in the same places, use the same designers, fight the same fights, go to the same parties, none of which are really parties. Then they have their kids replicate their steps under the impression that they’re making their own choices.”

  Henry was here, making his own choices.

  “Are you ready for the wedding?” Georgia asked, and it took me a moment to jump onto another line of thought. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no.”

  “I think it’s good you’re going.” Georgia got up to gather her things.

  “You do? Annie thinks I’m crazy.”

  “Ellie’s the flower girl. You have to be there. Just to watch her.”

  Georgia scanned the playground for Gabe, found him, check, and then she turned back to me. “Just have fun with her.”

  “And the vows, the kiss, the dancing? Feeding each other cake.” I was beginning to think Annie was right.

  “You’ll make it,” Georgia said.

  I sighed and sank a little, thinking about a dish for Georgia. Perhaps Thai-spiced burgers with French fries—creative, exotic fries, because Georgia, and so many parents, needs to be transported. An artichoke dish, of course, and mini–milk shakes. Neapolitan to avoid having to make a choice. Sometimes there were too many choices. Just let Georgia have it all.

  “Thank you,” I said to Georgia.

  At the wedding, during those hard parts, I’ll lie my way into another life. I’ll transport myself. I’ll watch my daughter and pretend we’re all extras in a movie, something utterly unreal.

  “Did you ever tell Eric?” I asked.

  Georgia smiled. “No. I think Chris really likes the secret. Things have been good with us.” She looked out, content, some private thought changing the normal structure of her face. She looked at peace.

  Secrets and lies, so healthy sometimes.

  She got up and walked over to the sandbox to take something out of Gabe’s mouth. I walked to Ellie at the play structure next to the swings.

  “What’s up?” I called to Henry, all cool and casual. I leaned against the metal bar and promptly slipped off of it.

  “Howdy,” he said, something I had never heard him say before, and he seemed a bit embarrassed by it. He crinkled his nose and shook his head as if he was disappointed. Henry has one of those faces where you know, absolutely, that he was very good-looking when he was younger. This isn’t to say he’s not very good-looking now—dark hair, with a few wisps of gray on the sides, dark eyebrows, green eyes, a strong build, but not an uptight triathlete build, more like the accidental strength that surfers or skateboarders have—it just comes with the job. I could tell he was a star once, and yet I never liked the stars, and the stars looked at the other stars—like Kate. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in timing. We could only be friends at the ages we are now. That went for all of us.

  A drunk homeless person was standing by the playground gates screaming to Ellie that she was wearing the cutest hat. Ellie screamed back in delight, smiling at this man who looked like he had scurvy. I picked her up and kissed the top of her head, a reflex. She needed a bath. Her hair smelled like expensive mushrooms. I put her in the other swing next to Tommy, and Henry and I pushed their small backs.

  “She had a really good story,” I said.

  “Better than mine?” he said. “Adultery?”

  “Different problems,” I said. “So how are things with you?” I faced Ellie’s back as I said this. It had been almost a week since he told me his story.

  “She’s not staying at home right now.” He faced the back of his child. There we were in parallel play.

  “Mommy’s on a work trip,” Tommy said, which must have hurt Henry—the lie of it, how he will have to lie to this boy for so long, perhaps forever. Children are always listening.

  I thought of Georgia and her yearning for something, anything. I found myself pushing so softly, Ellie was barely swinging. The metal squeaked, making a rhythm with a nearby bouncing ball and a distant bongo drum.

  I wondered if Henry would be like Bobby’s fiancée: forgiving because he’ll get something out of it.

  “Nice afternoon,” I said, so lame, but it was clear and crisp, promising something. But what? It was almost dark and I’d go back to my small apartment. He’d go back to his wifeless, big house. Or.

  “I’m craving In-N-Out,” I said, stepping to the edge of the diving board. If I could ask for this, I could eventually ask for more in life. Bobby was right. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Ellie wasn’t a baby anymore, and I was still reacting versus living. It’s just that these years went by so darn fast.

  “Want to go on a field trip?” I bit my lower lip.

  “Sure,” Henry said, his voice energetic, though that’s probably how all men respond to burger proposals.

  Thank you, Georgia, I thought.

  And so we took our separate cars to the south of the city, enduring traffic and hungry children and a glitch in our very set routine.

  The last thing I ate was a hamburger with tomato and onion and a root beer. I ate it in a booth with a married man and our two children, who had sword fights with their French fries. We didn’t talk about anything significant. The kids were there and we were sitting in the moment. I was planning on bringing up the wedding, asking if he was serious about being my guest. I had a speech, so as to assure him he’d be there as a prop, not as a date or anything, of course. He’d save me from a bit of humiliation. He’d make Bobby jealous. He’d make me feel less awkward and alone, but none of this sounded good or right to say. The speech highlighted my insecurity and made me rethink asking him at all. His presence would be proof that I hadn’t moved on.

  “Wow,” Henry said at our table, pushing away the rest of his fries. “That was something. Thanks for asking us along.” He ruffled Tommy’s hair. “Say thank you, champ. This place is a national treasure.”

  “Thank you,” Tommy said, grinning at his father with a fry in his front teeth.

  “Say thank you to Mele, not me.” Henry looked across at me. I tucked my hair behind my ear.

  “But you bought it.” Tommy shook a ketchup bottle.

  “Yes, but good ideas are harder to come by.”

  “Thank you, Tommy’s dad!” Ellie said.

  “Thank you, Ellie’s mom,” Tommy said.

  Think back to when you were young. You’re walking with some big guy on campus, and while you’re exhilarated in the moment, content with just him, you’re also looking around, hoping other people are seeing you, cementing the image of the two (or four) of you. That’s what it felt like being there with Henry and our kids. There was no better place to be, and I wished everyone could see.

  Of course you should provide food. Do you want your babysitter or nanny to be hungry? I don’t know about you, but when I’m hungry I become irritable. So who suffers? Your children.

  —SFMC response to “Should you provide food for the nanny?”

  I say no. You’ll get stuck in a cycle. We should have never provided food for our nanny in the first place. She is such a large woman. We finally had to sit her down and tell her that tonight would be her last supper.

  —SFMC response

  I just leave my credit card by the phone and a variety of take-out menus. It’s a simple solution versus a selfish one.

  —Tabor Boyard

  BAKE THE BABYSITTER

  Henry isn’t at the park today, and Mele feels a bit silly about her outfit. She’s wearing fitted jeans—very fitted, and a V-neck cashmere sweater. Even though her breasts have gone from melons to oranges and seem to be further transforming into week-old tangerines, they’re still respectable, edible.

  “Would you ever get a boob job?” she asks Annie, who is sitting next t
o her.

  “Nope,” she says. “But I’m, you know . . .”

  “Married,” Mele says.

  “Plus implants kind of scream, ‘I just turned forty!’ ”

  “That’s true,” Mele says.

  “And you’re only thirty. That’s insane.” Annie lays Max down on the bench and proceeds to change his diaper. It’s gross, but Mele can’t stop looking at his bare bottom, his little balls like spoiled grapes, his legs kicking in the air. She feels fortunate to have a little girl—vaginas are so much cuter.

  “How are your recipes coming along?” Annie asks.

  Mele hears a bit of ridicule in the question. Maybe ridicule isn’t the right word though. Pity. That’s what she hears.

  “Good,” she says. And it is good. She’s always loved that about writing—how it gives you an excuse to know something better, or know someone.

  “I want you to do my babysitter story,” Annie says. “I inspire Sloppy Joes. Or something spiked.”

  Mele laughs. Annie is such a character. Funny and tough, punk rock. She has a deep need to keep in touch with the person she once was (“Are you there, old self?” she imagines her friend asking her reflection. “It’s me, watered down.”). Yes, Annie has told her a lot of stories from her prior life. She thrived off a semiprecious list of youthful antics: heavy drinking, jail (just one night), promiscuous yucky sex, stealing, flashing, having keg parties in her nice suburban home when her mother was the president of the local MADD, the usual, and while all these things are now as distant as a tiny village in Nova Scotia, Annie has a hard time turning her back on the self she has outgrown.

  Mele thinks she has a hard time letting it go because then she’d just be “Mom.” She’d be like Georgia, Mele, and Barrett, people who in her prior life, she would have growled at.

  She thinks of the incident that happened almost a year ago. That would require something reckless or irreverent, something you wouldn’t think could taste good. Squid—ribboned to look like noodles with butter and garlic and shichimi togarashi. Something like that? Or is that just gross?