How to Party with an Infant

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  She looks at the graphic of the mom for her newest apron. What would you do for fun? she wonders. Talk to me. She imagines their voices, all based on people she’s met and things she and Mele have overheard on playgrounds:

  “I have dinner parties,” the graphic says. “I have them in my newly designed garden, which features manicured European-style plantings and Stockholm guild-stamped Swedish rococo chairs with blue velvet seats. Because of the economy, at last week’s dinner party my husband thought it would be really funny and yet responsible to get cheap beer and everyone drank it and said, ‘God, remember we used to drink this?’ It was especially humorous because our friends have respectable jobs: one’s a CEO, one’s a state senator, one is the granddaughter of the man who invented mini–condiments packets.”

  The next graphic is of a young, socialite kind of mom, who in real life would follow practically every assertion with “That’s my motto.” Even though she doesn’t cook she buys these aprons as gifts for friends. The friends laugh, as if they’re prank gifts, like edible underwear. Aprons? How kitsch! How retro! I could wear it to the library gala—isn’t the theme Mad Men? Oh, that would be ha-larious. How do you have fun? Annie asks.

  Well, fashion is my passion and my kids can’t get in the way of that,” she says. “I was just praised in 7x7 for my fearless combining of a vintage Dior silk organza jacket and a bubble skirt from Target. I’m known for my whimsical approach, for pairing couture with fuchsia tights and microminis. The thing is the media can’t pin me down, and so they keep tracking my fashion moves. One day I’m all Hawaii surfer–plantation owner, the next I’m all ice princess in ivory, cream, and ecru. Most of my closet is vintage or custom-made, but I also shop at Helpers Home Bazaar at Ghirardelli Square, which benefits retards.

  Annie remembers reading this in an actual interview. This actually came from someone’s mouth. “Why do I spend so much time creating and disliking you bitches?” Annie says. Because we’re real, they answer. And it’s what the company wants. Why would they want some graphic for cocktail napkins of a mom using a breast pump or crying from postpartum?

  She hears Jenny’s voice in the kitchen. An hour has passed and she hasn’t done a thing.

  “I don’t have much fun these days,” she imagines saying to Jenny. “When I was your age I was interested in gin, skinny boys with big ears (think ghetto Abe Lincolns), and going sledding after eating a Taco Bell gordita with shrooms in it.”

  Though she won’t say this, of course, she decides to give herself a challenge:

  Say something real today. Something revealing. Something true.

  * * *

  Sadly, this may be Annie’s favorite part of the day: driving Jenny to Tabor Boyard’s. Each time she hopes for a glimpse of her. The actual driving part, however, isn’t as thrilling. Jenny always sits in back like a scared tourist.

  The loud and obnoxious DJ whom Annie loves is talking about being on the couch with his hand down his pants. “I’m not masturbating,” he says. “It’s just how guys rest. We’re just checking in with ourselves, you know?”

  She pretends to be disgusted and presses seek, landing on a bubble gum pop station. Jenny begins to sing along with the song—a love ballad with lots of oohing and melismata. The singer manages to sing you at a variety of pitches, building and adorning it as if the word were a wedding cake.

  “Vocal diarrhea,” Annie mumbles, and yet she wants Jenny to hear what she has said. Forget CPR, forget TrustLine certification. If you like her humor then you’ve passed.

  “What?” Jenny says.

  “Her vocals are like Christina’s,” Annie says, backing out of the joke. “Aguilera.” She mispronounces the last name so that it sort of rhymes with diarrhea.

  “I love her,” Jenny says, then starts to make Max’s Piglet doll dance to the song. Max neighs.

  “I love Piglet,” Jenny says to Max. “Do you love Piglet, Max? Do you love Pooh? I love Pooh.”

  Oh, come on! Annie stifles a laugh. How she wishes Brian were in the seat next to her so they could stifle laughs together.

  She turns off Seventh, climbing up the back way to Ashbury Heights.

  “Any chance you can come this Friday?” Annie asks.

  “Shoot,” Jenny says. “I’m supposed to be at Tabor’s for sure, but I was thinking—it might be okay if Max came there? I could ask if it’s okay or even if she wanted to do a nanny share on Fridays.”

  “That would work,” Annie says, in a way that hides the fact that she’s thought of this countless times. A nanny share with Tabe.

  “Purse—that’s Tabor’s little girl—she’s the prettiest, sweetest thing.”

  “Purse?”

  “It’s short for Priscilla. She’s a really calm, friendly baby.”

  Max makes a braying sound.

  “Max would love it,” Annie says. Maybe she and Tabor would hit it off, too. You never know.

  “It’s super easy over there,” Jenny says. “They have tons of toys. Their whole downstairs is pretty much her playroom.”

  “How nice,” Annie says, embarrassed by her home. She imagines Tabor’s so rich and so together that the floor space between the fridge and the wall is spotless. “Max, you could play with a new friend!”

  “Does he interact with other babies yet?” Jenny asks.

  Annie thinks of him with the Panhandle babies and kids. “He notices them more now, but doesn’t really interact.”

  “Just parallel play?”

  “Yeah,” Annie says, not knowing what that’s supposed to mean, but then she gets it, and doesn’t understand why “doesn’t really interact” had to be translated into what she calls “baby bullshit language”—tummy time, CIO, separation anxiety, and so on. “Toddler bullshit language” is even more loathsome: “We need to calm our bodies, Isabella (or Gabriella, Ava, Bella, Ella).” “Use your words, Dash (or Gabe, Brody, Parker).” It’s like yoga language: “Honor your intentions, bring awareness back to your breath, squeeze out the toxins.”

  “He loves his parallel play,” she says, knowing that this isn’t the time to reveal anything about herself whatsoever. Now is the time to impress, to have Jenny go to Tabor’s and tell her what a classy, smart, together mom Annie is. For fun she does yoga! For fun she scrapbooks! She needs to say something like that and remembers that god-awful mani-pedi moms’ party she went to the other night, in an attempt to embrace her husband’s absence and enjoy herself.

  It was hosted by SFMC, and she sat in between a brunette who talked like a drag queen and an obviously new mom who had her hair pulled back into one of those severe ponytails.

  They were chattering back and forth about pumping and dumping. The woman with the bitchy ponytail was explaining her circumstances: “If we have to go out I’ll nurse first, then when we get home I’ll pump out the spoiled milk. I wait a few hours so that most of the alcohol can get metabolized? One time, though, oh my God. Drank way too much, and when I pumped, I could actually smell the alcohol in the milk and so I’m like, ‘I’m not giving Brayson that!’ and so I pumped and dumped every two hours for the next twelve hours and supplemented with formula so I wouldn’t give him an infant hangover? But because I pumped so much—total rookie maneuver—my body signaled my glands or whatever to make more milk and I got totally engorged. I looked like I had a botched surgery! That was not fun at all. I don’t even drink wine anymore—it’s dehydrating and there are all these pesticides on grapes? I’ve been sticking with beer because I know the yeast in beer stimulates milk production? Have you tried Otter Creek organic ale? It’s pretty good—it’s local.”

  Fuck me, Annie thought. Or: fuck me?

  The woman on the other side of Annie was quasi-listening, dismissing everything she said with quick shakes of her head. Annie could just see the words on her tongue waiting to be released like gas bubbles.

  “Forget it,” this other, been-there-done-that woman said. “I have three kids.”

  Ah, the three-kid exemption. When chick
s pulled out this card you were just expected to bow down.

  “After my first C-section I was on around-the-clock narcotics, still breast-fed, and Caitlin was fine. A bit unresponsive, but we both got sleep. You don’t need to dump, trust me. All my kids have turned out fine. And you want to know the truth? Alcohol breast milk is better than formula any day. The mothers who use formula are the ones who need to worry about the poison they feed their babies. I mean why wouldn’t you breast-feed?” She grabbed her left breast. “What else are they for? It’s like having eyes and not using them to see.”

  Annie turns onto Tabor’s narrow street. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she says. “I had the best time the other night. My girlfriends and I had a mani-pedi party. We reserved the salon and got the full treatment!”

  “Fun!” Jenny says. “That’s so awesome. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “It was so fun,” Annie says.

  “Fun,” Jenny says.

  “Super fun. So . . .”

  Annie thinks of the Korean woman who worked on her as though she were a horse. The woman was so fast and rough. It was like she wanted to hurt Annie, and she kept talking to the manicurist next to her and Annie knew they were talking about her sweaty hands.

  Annie stops in front of Tabor Boyard’s home, which must have views all the way to the Marin Headlands. Jenny opens the door and says good-bye to Max.

  “Don’t forget these!” Annie says, passing Jenny the tin of dulce de leche brownies through the passenger window. “You know how I have fun!” Her June Cleaver tone grates her ears, but Jenny’s eyes light up.

  “Oooh, thanks,” Jenny says. “I’ll share with Tabor.”

  “Yes! Please do!” If she couldn’t go to exercise class then Annie would give up sweets and make Tabor fat.

  “I’ll let you know about Friday,” Jenny says.

  Annie keeps her face as still as possible, not wanting to reveal her hope or her annoyance from having to wait in the wings. Jenny walks into the house, and Annie slowly pulls forward. This is the part she likes. She lowers her sunglasses so she can look out the corner of her eye at Tabor’s home. It’s brown with a creamy yellowish trim. She bets the paint is called Thoroughbred Brown and Golf Shirt Yellow. Every time she leaves she scans for another detail, for something she’s missed. She takes a last look back, spying the glimmer of a garden fountain. She says something to Max while looking lest she appear to be openly gawking, having the owner of the home mistake her curiosity for jealousy or worse, admiration.

  * * *

  Friday: no call from Jenny.

  The following Tuesday, Mele comes by with Ellie. Annie is making Baileys brownies and pours some Baileys into her coffee. “Want some?” she asks.

  “What time is it?”

  “Noon.”

  “Okay.”

  She pours some into Mele’s coffee, checks the chocolate in the double boiler, then sits down.

  “Brian still gone?” Mele asks.

  “Yup,” Annie says. Still staying in Palo Alto. She calls him at night, always with the intention of speaking calmly—it’s not like it’s his choice to be gone—but it always goes south. She assumes the position of haggard housewife, raising their child alone, sleeping alone, and she always hangs up angry with both him and Fletcher Webber IV.

  She pours in more Baileys, though not too much since Jenny will be coming soon. She looks at the clock.

  “Where is she?” She gets up to give the pot of chocolate a little stir. “And she could have called on Friday and at least let me know. I don’t see why Max just can’t go over there. It’s like I’m not mom enough or something. I get no respect.”

  The kids come back into the kitchen, Ellie walking, Max straddle-hopping.

  “Do something about it!” Mele says, bringing her fist down on the counter. “Do something!”

  The women laugh for no reason at all. They laugh because it’s Tuesday afternoon and they’re drinking Baileys and making brownies. Annie decides to ease up a bit and enjoy her friend’s company. She shows Mele some of her favorite dessert recipes, and they have their typical scattered banter fueled by

  Observations:

  “I hate it when my boobs sweat. You know, the underneath part?”

  “I hate that!”

  Questions:

  “Were you horny when you were pregnant? I masturbated constantly.”

  “I felt like an ape if I did that.”

  “I almost humped my bedpost. Oh, do you still want to do that kids’ craft thing? They’ve got paints and shit.”

  Criticisms:

  “He should so be potty-trained by now.”

  “It’s like she’s in a diaper coma.”

  And Notes on the Past:

  “Did you ever get the crab call?”

  “The what?”

  “The crab call. You know—‘I have crabs and I’m calling you and the other people I’ve slept with to tell you about it so you can shave your hair off and take crab pills.’ ”

  “I can’t believe someone called to tell you. I wouldn’t call.”

  “He was all business about it. Offered to make me an appointment.”

  “Whoa. That’s the kind of guy who’ll take care of a baby. He’ll do night feedings.”

  “I know.”

  “So did you have crabs? Are they actual crabs? Like with pincers?”

  “Didn’t have them. That’s why I wouldn’t call. I mean he endured unnecessary embarrassment. He will forever be the guy with crabs.”

  “Forever Crabby.”

  “It was my fault. I was such a slut back then. I always slept with people right away. It was my thing.”

  “I’ve only slept with three people other than Bobby.”

  “Really? You seem slutty. Like you’d be recognized by the back of your head.”

  “Oh, please.”

  The exchanges usually end in a gale of laughter. One such gale is particularly explosive, so powerful in fact that they don’t hear the front door open and the pitter-patter of little feet. It takes Annie a moment to notice a little girl in her kitchen, wearing a brown onesie with a kangaroo on it and a pink tutu-like skirt with an embroidered pouch.

  “Oh my God!” Annie yells. The little girl stops abruptly in front of Max and raises her fist, then sucks it with a smile. Jenny comes in after her, and the women are rendered silent.

  “Jenny!” Annie says.

  “Jenny!” Mele says.

  Jenny has on her usual expression—that uncomfortable compulsory grin and nervous eyes. Annie feels like a predator. Jenny always looks afraid.

  “Hi,” Jenny says. “Sorry. Tabor got stuck and I thought it would be okay if I brought Purse over here.” She guides Purse by the shoulders toward Annie. “I hope it’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Annie says, unable to stop looking at the little girl. Max looks like a thug next to her. He ogles her, smiling and shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe she’s real. He looks from Jenny to Purse and bangs his fists on the shape keys of a toy. “I’m a triangle! I’m a circle!” the shape keys sing, and now he looks like a thug with special needs. Where did that term come from in the first place? Everyone in the world has special needs. Purse gently wiggles her hips to the sounds of the toy, looking back at Jenny either for approval or just to acknowledge the entire audience.

  “So cute,” Mele says.

  “Cute,” Annie says.

  Jenny has her hands on the little girl’s head.

  “We didn’t hear you come in,” Annie says.

  “I called out,” Jenny says. “But it was loud.” She looks down, and Annie thinks back to what they were talking about. It’s irritating, really. Why bother cleaning up your act if you’re going to be caught talking about venereal filth?

  “So what’s Tabor so busy with?” Annie asks.

  Jenny rolls her eyes, a gesture to establish her and Tabor’s intimacy and perhaps, their lack of. “She has this fund-raiser for her old sorority. An
d her son’s nanny is on vacation . . .”

  Sorority, Annie thinks. Why, of course. In college those girls had backed away from her as if she were toxic, except for a girl named Heather, who was always looking for speed, and Annie would oblige, totally overcharging her for quarters.

  “I’m super busy, too,” Annie says, thinking of her graphics, her moms, her momtourage. “Just like Tabor!” Annie says. “I’ve been so busy, too. Hey, we’re doing the share already! Purse is here today. Max, you can play at Purse’s on Friday! She has a huge playroom! She has everything!”

  Jenny laughs uncomfortably, looking at Mele for solace. “Watch out,” Mele says and looks down at Jenny’s pink boots, which look like they’re made out of yak.

  Ellie twirls some pink yak fur around her pinkie.

  “Sorry, sweetie, I almost stepped on you!” Jenny says.

  Ellie holds up a toy, but brings it to her chest when Jenny tries to take her up on her offer. “What do you have?” Jenny asks.

  Ellie holds it up again, handing it to Jenny, who still hasn’t even said hello to Max, really. Purse giggles at Ellie moving the toy around. The girl is so cute it’s freakish, disgusting even. She looks up at Annie, her eyes deep, dark, and beautifully coy. This girl will sail through life like a schooner.

  “So that would be fine, right?” Annie asks. “If Max could go to Purse’s on Friday?”

  “Um,” Jenny says, pretending to be distracted by Ellie. “Sure, I’ll check to see if I’m even going to be there.”

  “If you’re not then you can just come here. Either way—we get to see Jenny on Friday!”

  Annie’s face is hot with determination and Baileys. She can tell that she’s even making Mele uncomfortable. Jenny doesn’t respond. Are Ellie and her little toy really all that fascinating? That’s when Annie sees what it is.

  “Max, your favorite toy!”

  Jenny, welcoming the redirection, holds up the top-like figurine. Max baas in delight and straddle-hops over to Jenny.

  “It’s the butt-plug toy,” Annie says, diligently keeping watch over Jenny’s expression. She doesn’t flinch.