“Doesn’t this feel like TMI?” I handed over my phone to Mira, the screen open to a shot of a colleague’s wife breastfeeding in a hospital bed. “I mean, how am I supposed to talk business with this guy now? We both know that I’ve seen his wife’s nipples.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Mira said, handing back the phone. “That’s what nipples are for.”
“Among other things.”
Mira let out a disapproving cluck. “I find it really sad that our culture doesn’t celebrate breastfeeding. Look at her. She’s giving life to her child. That’s incredible. Why should she cover it up, like it’s something to be ashamed of?”
“I’m not saying she should cover up all the time. Just maybe for the photo her husband is planning to send out to ten thousand of his closest friends and colleagues.”
• • •
We talked about having children of our own, of course. What couple doesn’t? But the whole concept of parenthood always felt—to me, anyway—theoretical and remote instead of logistical and immediate. Something we’d get to eventually but hadn’t completely thought through. Not unlike Spanish lessons or a trip to Southeast Asia. A fun project for another day. In truth, it was hard for me to wrap my head around the idea of adding such a huge commitment to my already demanding schedule. Not to mention the expense, which was staggering. I was making decent money at Hardwick, but was it enough to support a child in Manhattan? I wasn’t entirely sure.
Any pangs of paternal longing were effectively snuffed out every time I saw Dan, my closest friend from law school. Dan had three kids under three. Twins Sofia and Hannah, who everyone agreed were adorable, if a little high-maintenance; and then Max, who was a monster. Once Max arrived, Dan’s house was thrown into a perpetual state of chaos. Cheerios crunched underfoot. Sprinkle, the dachshund, became so irritable that he was sent off to live with cousins in Teaneck. Dan started smoking again. Agnes, his wife, not only kept the baby weight but gained a few pounds on top of it. They could never find a sitter. If we wanted to have dinner with them, we had to trek out to their house in Park Slope. Inevitably, the entire dinner was spent talking about breast pumps and potty training. Occasionally, Dan would just zone out in mid-conversation. He’d slump back in his chair and just stare into his drink, as though he couldn’t quite believe that his life had come to this.
On one such Saturday evening, we arrived at their house at the agreed-upon time bearing a Tupperware container filled with Mira’s homemade tabbouleh. It was dark and raining. Not a pleasant, light rain but a wet, bone-numbing downpour. We rang the bell and waited. Nothing. We shivered, stamped our feet like horses. The sound of a child wailing could be heard from the upper reaches of the house. I grumbled something about Max that Mira pretended not to hear. Instead she flipped up the hood of her coat and rang the bell again.
“Are we sure it’s tonight?” I said, staring impatiently at my watch. “If we leave right now we could still make a nine p.m. movie in Union Square.”
Before Mira could answer, there was a rustling on the other side of the door and an unclicking of locks.
“Oh, hi,” Agnes said when she saw that it was us. She looked harried and vaguely surprised, as though she hadn’t been expecting to find us on her doorstep. “You’re here.”
“We’re here!” Mira said with a big, cheerful smile. “Seven thirty, right?”
“Right, sure. Seven thirty. Come in.” She gestured vaguely at the entryway floor, which was littered with sneakers and munchkin-sized Crocs. “You don’t mind taking off your shoes, right?”
“Not at all,” Mira said, and shot me a look that squelched all protest. As if on cue, a series of loud, bloodcurdling screams emanated from the second floor.
“That’s Max,” Agnes said wearily. “Just ignore him. We’re doing ‘cry it out.’ ”
“What’s ‘cry it out’?” Mira asked, alarmed.
“It’s where you just let them scream. Until they fall asleep. It sounds inhumane, but it’s better for everyone in the end. Truly.”
Mira nodded and said something that was drowned out by an even louder wave of hysterics.
Dan emerged from the kitchen, beer in hand. “Sorry, guys. I feel like we should hand out earplugs at the door.” Instead he proffered a thick stack of takeout menus. “I know we said we were going to cook, but we’re sleep training Max for, like, the fifth time and we’re totally zonked. Do you mind ordering in?” I couldn’t help but notice a slight slur in his voice, though whether it was from drinking or exhaustion, I couldn’t quite be sure.
“How many of those have you had?” Agnes said, nodding at the beer. “Don’t you think you should slow down?”
“I will slow down once Max slows down,” Dan replied through a tight smile.
“So you’re planning to drink for the next eighteen years?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Are we scaring you yet?” Agnes asked Mira.
“Not at all. We totally understand,” Mira said.
“Speak for yourself,” I said. Everyone laughed, though I really hadn’t been kidding.
• • •
Three bottles of wine later, nerves had settled, and Max had finally stopped screaming.
“I’m sorry if I seemed stressed-out when you guys arrived,” Agnes said apologetically. “Bedtime is kind of the witching hour over here.”
Dan nodded. “You guys should come for brunch some weekend. During daylight hours the screaming is only occasional.”
“We’d love it,” Mira said.
“Mira is terrific with kids,” I said, already coming up with excuses in my head. “She is potentially the only grown-up I know who enjoys toddlers’ birthday parties.”
Dan and Agnes exchanged glances.
“So, what about you guys?” he said, emptying the last of the wine into his glass. “What’s your plan?”
“What’s our plan for what?” I asked. I glanced over at Mira, who was busying herself with a forkful of tabbouleh.
Dan laughed. “For having kids. You ready yet? What’s it been, a year since you guys got married?”
“A year and three months,” Mira said.
“A year and three months,” Dan repeated. He shot me a knowing grin. “So, how about it, Charlie?”
“Kids aren’t part of the immediate plan,” I said, annoyed at Dan for putting me on the spot.
Agnes raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
“I mean, I’m up for Senior Associate in two years,” I added quickly. “I was just thinking it made sense to wait until then, at least.”
Silence. Seconds ticked by. Agnes coughed a little. Dan winced, as though embarrassed for me. “Right,” he said. “That makes sense.”
“So, how about ice cream?” Agnes offered.
“Ice cream sounds great.” Mira hopped to her feet. She reached for my plate.
“I’ve got it,” I said, but she snatched it away before I had a chance to stand up.
“It’s fine,” she said, her voice sharp. “You sit, Charlie. I’ve got this.”
Suddenly we were all on our feet, bussing plates and glasses back to the kitchen, chattering quickly, as though if we just talked faster we could speed past the awkwardness of the last two minutes. Dan made a joke—something about teething—and though Mira laughed, she seemed distant. When I reached for her hand, she pulled away, following Agnes back to the table instead.
• • •
In the cab on the way home, Mira was quiet. She sat as far away from me as possible, her face turned to the window.
“That was weird about the beer, huh?” I said, sliding across the seat to be closer to her. “I mean, Dan’s not really a big drinker. Agnes seemed so on edge.”
“They’re just tired.”
“They’re always tired.”
“No one said parenting was easy.”
“Hey,” I said, dropping my hand onto her knee. “Are you mad at me or something?”
“Did you mean what you
said about not wanting kids for two more years?” she said, the hurt in her voice apparent.
I bit my lip. The truth was, I did mean it.
It’s just two more years, I opened my mouth to say. I’ll be thirty-one or thirty-two. That’s not old, especially in New York City.
But there was something about the look on Mira’s face that stopped me.
“I’m sorry I said that,” I said instead. “Dan just caught me off guard.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I do want kids.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, Mira,” I said, frustrated. “To be honest, I’m pretty overwhelmed at work right now.”
“You’re always going to be overwhelmed at work. That’s not going to change.”
“I know,” I said, nodding guiltily. “You’re right.”
“So when, then?”
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
She clenched her jaw and let out an exasperated sigh. “How’s seven months?” she said, so quietly that I almost didn’t hear her.
“Seven months?” I said, before realizing what she meant. Then: “Oh my God.” I slumped back against the seat, stunned. Inside, my heart was doing backflips. Everything I had just said—everything I truly thought I believed—about waiting to have kids suddenly felt utterly, completely idiotic.
“Yep.” She nodded slowly. “Apparently the pill is not one hundred percent effective.”
“Oh my God!” I shouted, and nearly levitated off the seat. “Oh my God, that’s amazing! That’s the best news I’ve ever heard!” And as I said the words, I knew they were true.
Suddenly she was in my arms, both of us laughing and crying at the same time.
“I’ve never seen you this happy before,” she said, her face flooded with relief.
“Except when I proposed to you,” I corrected her.
“When you proposed, we both thought we were about to die.”
“Okay, maybe when the plane landed safely. Shortly after the proposal.”
She laughed and wiped away a tear. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“No,” I said, and squeezed her tighter. “But I’m really, really happy about it. And don’t you worry. Seven months is plenty of time. I’ll quit smoking, of course. And we need a bigger apartment, won’t we? Damn it, I knew we should have jumped on that two-bedroom when we had the chance.”
Mira sighed and laid her face against my chest. “You know what, Charlie?” she said. “There are things in life you just can’t plan.”
What Kind of Father Are You?
Twenty-four hours later, Caleb is back to his old self.
“Let’s push Grandpa around in his stroller,” Caleb suggests over eggs and toast, as though he’s proposing we squeeze in a round of golf at the club.
“Caleb. That’s not something we say.” This is a line I picked up from Zadie, though I’m not sure it applies here. I can already anticipate the questions: What’s not something we say? That Grandpa’s in a stroller? Oh, a wheelchair, you say? What’s the difference?
“What’s not something we say?” Dad’s gravelly voice turns both our heads. He looks frail in his light cotton pajamas and moccasin slippers. Zadie told me he’s at his worst in the morning; sleep no longer comes easily to him. Still, he smiles. A surprisingly easy smile that says, You can tell me anything. I’m your grandpa.
“Daddy says I’m not allowed to push your stroller.”
“Caleb.”
“Why on earth not? What’s the point of being in a stroller if my own grandson can’t push me around? You might need Ives to help you, though. I’m heavier than I look.”
“I can do it myself.” Caleb slides out of his chair. He flashes me a jubilant smile as he wriggles past.
I glare at the two of them. I’m not sure who is annoying me more: Caleb for ignoring me or my father for encouraging him to.
Ives stands back, allowing Caleb to take his post. Caleb’s skinny frame disappears behind the back of the wheelchair. It’s an old-school number, not one of these electric jobs that weighs a thousand pounds. Still, this is going to be a Sisyphean effort for a kid who tips the scales at a mere thirty-eight pounds. Great. Now, in addition to teaching him that it’s okay to be rude to disabled people, we’re also setting Caleb up to fail.
“This is probably a bad idea,” I interject, but no one blinks.
“Give it your best shot, now,” Dad calls out. “Get your whole body into it.”
For a moment nothing happens. Suddenly the wheelchair lurches forward one inch, then another.
“Thattaboy! We’re cruising now!” They pick up speed. The wheelchair bounces slightly as it rolls across the tiled floor. Ives inhales when my father shifts his knees, narrowly avoiding the kitchen table. I can’t help but notice that they are on a collision course with the dishwasher.
“Stop it,” I say, sharply enough to halt Caleb in his tracks. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“Aw, you’re no fun.” My father waves me off. “Anyway, look at me. This body can’t get more broken than it already is.”
“Perhaps we might practice on the driveway,” Ives says diplomatically. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“No driveway. Let’s go to town. I want rocky road ice cream. Caleb, do you like ice cream?”
“I love ice cream!” Caleb cries, delighted.
“He hasn’t eaten his breakfast, Dad.” Dad. It slipped out, just like that. My hand flies to my mouth as though to stop the words from passing my lips, but it’s too late.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Charlie. This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not exactly Speedy Gonzales these days. By the time we get there, it will be lunch.”
As if that makes it better, I think with an internal sigh. Clearly my father has never seen a five-year-old come down off a sugar high.
“There’s a toy store in town,” he continues. “And a bookstore. Some clothing shops. We can make a nice little day of it.”
“I want a kite!” Caleb claps his hands. “And a dress!”
“Yes, we should all dress first.” Dad nods, misunderstanding. “We can’t go out in our pajamas. Ives, let’s get me into some real pants. You, too, Caleb. We have to look our best. You never know who you’ll run into. There may be some babes strolling around; it’s a beautiful day, after all. Charlie, I’ll meet you in the foyer in thirty minutes, all right? Don’t give me that face. The Goldwyn boys are going to town.”
• • •
The ice cream store is closed. This should come as a surprise to no one, given that it’s nine thirty in the morning.
“Oh, shit,” Dad mutters when we pull up in front of it. He looks to his left, then his right, then his left again, as though assessing whether or not he can escape before there’s a scene.
Too late. Caleb stops, stares, and then hurls his body at the dark storefront, practically licking the glass.
“You promised!” he wails. His eyes are shut, as though he can’t bear to look at me. “You said ice cream!”
A pin-thin mother with two perfect toddlers walks past, her face scrunching up when she sees Caleb. I glance up, and for a brief second we make eye contact. Ice cream at nine thirty in the morning? is etched across her face. Her children are snacking away on apples, no doubt handpicked from a local organic orchard. I look away, mortified. What kind of father are you?
A bad one, I want to call out as she herds her girls away from us. But trust me, the old guy’s worse.
Caleb turns to me. “I hate you,” he says, as though this is all my fault. “I really, really hate you.”
I open my mouth, springing to my own defense.
“Charlie?” I hear a familiar voice call from behind me.
All four of us turn; there, in a haze of morning sun, is Elise. She looks immaculate in all white. White jeans, white button-down shirt, sleeves tucked up against her thin, tan forearms. Instinctively, I lower my sunglasses onto my nose to hide
the bags beneath my eyes. With her trim body and radiant skin, Elise is a veritable insult to other parents. No matter what time of day, the woman looks gorgeous. She’s fresh off the Long Island Expressway, where she no doubt battled bumper-to-bumper traffic with a toddler in tow, and still she’s fresh as a daisy. If I didn’t know better, I’d write her off as one of those high-maintenance moms who obviously outsourced her kid to a nanny in favor of the salon and the gym. In fact, I’m not sure Elise has a nanny—or any help at all, for that matter. She and Lucas are joined squarely at the hip.
Thank God she’s going gray, I think, not for the first time. For one thing, it’s sexy. More importantly, it’s the only indication I’ve had so far that she’s human.
Lucas stands beside Elise, one foot on a Razor scooter. He has Elise’s hair—a full crown of thick, black curls—and her olive-skinned complexion. Though he’s a few months younger than Caleb, he’s taller and sturdier looking, the kind of kid that moms proudly refer to as “solid.” The kind of kid who ends up captaining the football team. Potentially the kind of kid who, in a few years’ time, I worry might beat the crap out of my son. Right now, though, Lucas is the new kid in town. He waves at Caleb, grateful for a familiar face.
“Caleb, say hi to your buddy,” I say, pushing him in Lucas’s direction. For once, Caleb needs no prodding.
“Hey, Lucas!” he shouts, enthused, the dearth of ice cream momentarily forgotten.
“Hi,” Elise says, coming over for a hug. “Fancy seeing you here.”
This Was Not the Plan Page 21