Mama's Got a Brand New Job

by Janis Powers

  He hunched over in his chair, giving a few furtive looks around the empty room. “No one can know about it!” I felt like I was in a bit of a gray area. He had said this wasn’t Parfum Aix business, yet he was confiding in me. About alcohol.

  I hunched back. “No one can know about what?”

  “Créneau!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” I asked, trying to translate the term.

  “Créneau! It means to put something in reverse. It’s what I am calling the gin you just sniffed.”

  I looked back at the bottle. “You made this?” He nodded. Now I really wanted to try it. I felt like I was supposed to take a surreptitious sip in the office. Ordinarily, I would have done it. But I was anything but ordinary now—I was pregnant. “Wow,” I said, stalling. “I would love to try this, but. . .” And I waved at Joy, who had been watching the entire exchange through the glass window.

  Jacques collected himself. “Well, of course not now! That’s the last thing you should be doing in the office! Someone might smell it on your breath and then the secret would be out.” In more ways than one, I thought. “Let me explain. I was so inspired by your exposition on Bombay Sapphire gin that I decided to try to make it myself. I started backwards, though, with the herbs first, not the alcohol. So I made it in reverse!”

  “And that’s where the name came from? Créneau?”

  “Exactemente. It’s just a side hobby right now, but I thought you would be the perfect person to test-taste my prototypes. But I don’t want to over-step my bounds . . . .”

  Pregnant or not, this was one opportunity that I wasn’t going to let slide. “You’re not over-stepping, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your respect for my opinion.” I wrote down my home address on a card and handed it to Jacques. “You should probably send the prototypes to my home, rather than to the office. It’s just simpler that way.”

  Jacques stood up to leave. “Wonderful. I am excited to learn your opinion of the first prototype. A woman of your age has the perfect palate!”

  Like alcohol, caffeine was to be avoided during pregnancy. However, the time had come when I had to decide whether the miniscule odds of negatively impacting the fetus’s development by drinking a cup of coffee would outweigh the joy and relief I would attain if I could just have a bowel movement.

  So I drank that cup of coffee. And nothing happened.

  I was tempted to drink another when I pulled on my last pair of “fat pants,” only to learn that I could barely button them. The metal clasp that was supposed to reinforce the button had bent 45 degrees when I tried to secure it. Did I finally need maternity clothes because I had gained baby weight, or was it because I was constipated? The answer was irrelevant. Shopping for maternity clothes was a loathsome indicator that my body was changing, probably altered forever, and I had to buy a whole new wardrobe just to clothe it.

  Bloated from the early summer heat, I hopped the Lexington Avenue subway line downtown. It was Saturday, which meant no commuters, so I could sit down for the short ride. I planted myself on an orange molded seat next to a window. Whizzing by the blackened steel columns of the NYC subway system was hypnotic and strangely calming. It was a helpful aid to sorting out the myriad issues on my mind. And maybe the vibrations from the train would help me go to the bathroom.

  I got off at 59th Street and headed towards a cluster of maternity shops. I glanced through the shop windows of each one, ranking them by apparel style, selection, and most importantly, a minimalist approach to decorating with pastel colors. After all, maternity clothes were for me, not the baby. A new shop, Mother of Manhattan, won the prize. I entered forthwith.

  I was immediately descended upon by a perky young associate. Judging from her size zero capri khakis and skin-tight halter top, this sweet young thing was probably just out of adolescence. I felt fatter already. “Welcome to Mother of Manhattan! Are you shopping for yourself, or for a friend?” That must have been MoM code for, “I can’t tell if you, dear customer, are pregnant. So better to err on the side of a well-placed compliment if you are, and avoid an insult if you’re not.” Christine, as her name tag identified her, was now on my good side.

  “I’m the pregnant one,” I admitted. “I haven’t been shopping for maternity clothes, so I have no idea what size I am.”

  Christine smiled broadly as she sized me up. “How far along are you? It must be early, because you don’t seem to be showing.”

  Yes, an un-tucked ruffled tunic and tights can do wonders. “I’m just entering the second trimester.”

  Christine seemed genuinely surprised. “Really? Well, you look great.” More points for Christine, as she insightfully guided me past the casual clothes up front to a section with fashionable (at least by maternity standards) professional attire.

  I gestured at a few items that seemed to suit my style. Almost everything was black. Some of the dresses were brighter, but considering that I would be sporting the clothes through the fall and winter, I communicated my interest in just accessorizing with color. For me and my growing belly, black was beautiful.

  After trying on the first pair of pants, I realized that I was too large for the first trimester line of clothing. Christine expertly spun this in the positive: I had saved several hundred dollars by avoiding the purchase of a set of clothes that I could no longer wear.

  At that point, I stopped looking at the price tags. It was hard enough to look in the mirror. Despite Christine’s excellent salesmanship, my style of dress had transitioned from tailored and chic to comfortable and utilitarian. The concept that I had already saved money, coupled with my sudden urge to speedily remove myself from Mother of Manhattan, fueled one of my most expensive shopping sprees to date.

  Sensing my tension, Christine noted that one of the benefits of buying such good quality maternity clothing was that I would be able to wear it all again when I got pregnant with my next child. I had to applaud her optimism. But I had other plans for the clothes after I gave birth, and they did not include taking up my precious Manhattan closet space. A bonfire on my apartment rooftop with some stretchy maternity pants as tinder was more like it.

  I texted Paola while Christine rang up my purchases. I had finally been able to get her to commit to a social outing by telling her that I was pregnant. I guess she knew my days of socializing were numbered. Distracted by the logistical gymnastics required to schedule a date with Paola, I inadvertently handed Christine my business card, rather than a credit card.

  “A lot of customers tell me that the most stressful part of pregnancy is organizing their household to prepare for life with baby.” Christine handed back my card.

  Flustered, I juggled my phone and wallet. I wasn’t sure how to acknowledge her comment, since I hadn’t even begun to deal with what she was talking about.

  “I’ve heard of some pretty good nanny agencies if you’re interested.”

  “Really? That would be a fantastic help!” I sputtered.

  She closed out my transaction, and then wrote down a few names on some receipt paper. “I hear about these three all the time. I can’t vouch for any of them personally, but this one is supposed to be the most comprehensive.” She placed her pen next to the first name, NYC Baby Prep.

  “By ‘comprehensive’ do you mean ‘expensive’?” I was only half joking.

  “I don’t know. Check it out for yourself.” She walked me to the front of the clothing store and winked. “It might be a good fit for you.”

  8

  Visiting McCale on the weekend was like working at a different company. The lights were dimmed, the air was stagnant, cubicles were empty. My heart-rate always slowed a few beats as my body acclimated to the space. Occasionally, I would see someone, but any interaction was brief as conversing would have lengthened the amount of time both parties would have to spend at the office. Everyone at McCale knew that mindless chit-chat negatively impacted billable hours, even on the weekends.

  I settled into my desk and immediately starte
d doing things completely not associated with Parfum Aix, administrivia, or anything else related to my job. Rather, I went straight to the mommy-prep websites recommended by Christine. I spent a solid hour comparing the offerings between them. It seemed that conducting a nanny search was the main focus of these organizations. Some offered a simple matching between an online questionnaire and the nannies they had on staff. Most agencies provided a full background check and health inquiry for each potential employee. Then there was NYC Baby Prep.

  NYC Baby Prep took the nanny search to new horizons of simplicity and convenience. They offered a version of interviewing in a speed dating format. They had an in-house decorating staff. They had lactation consultants, life coaches, therapists, yoga instructors, dieticians. While I doubted that I’d need all of these services, it was nice to know there was a one-stop shop for all of my needs, should they ever arise.

  Fully convinced that NYC Baby Prep was the right choice, I clicked on the tab marked “Pricing.” They offered package pricing and à la carte services. Unfortunately, no prices were available online. Rather, an application had to be completed so the agency could customize a program just for me. Once the application was completed, I would qualify for a free consultation, and then learn about the cost.

  NYC Baby Prep’s approach seemed somewhat obnoxious since other agencies had posted their rates online. I could only imagine that NYC Baby Prep’s rates had to be astronomical. But there was only one way to find out. I clicked on the “Start Application” button.

  A workflow graphic topped the page. Apparently, the application was lengthy enough to necessitate a picture to help potential customers know where they were in the process of completing it. Bubble #1 on the workflow, Family Information, only required about 10 minutes to complete. It was basic contact information, employers, etc. Bubble #2, Parental Profile, necessitated more time. It required a description of my job and Dale’s, and a summary of any challenges these positions placed on rearing a child. Bubble #3 covered Parenting Philosophy and #4 was Financial Information.

  There was no way I would have the time to complete the application at this point, as #3 required some thought and #4 required Dale. I printed out the remaining questions as a physical reminder that I was close to qualifying for my free consultation with NYC Baby Prep. I figured they’d hound me electronically, too, now that I had set up an email password.

  On the way out of the office, I stopped in the break room for a bottle of water and some pretzels. I heard a dragging, scratching noise along the hallway near the elevator. The sounds of a mother scolding her child became increasingly loud, as the two approached my location. I knew before she rounded the corner that Nancy Lallyberry and offspring were about to make an entrance.

  “Oh, Maxine! What are you doing here on a Saturday?” Nancy and her little charge stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me.

  “Hey, Nancy. I’m here probably doing the same thing you are—cleaning up odds and ends.” I looked down at her son. “And how are you doing . . . uh . . .” I couldn’t remember the boy’s name. Nancy was so busy fluttering around the office that she almost never talked about her son.

  “Troy. And he’s three.”

  I straightened up and said more authoritatively, “So what’s up, Troy?” He ignored me, preferring to roll the train in his hand squarely across the cabinets in the break room. Nancy’s arm lurched out, grabbing the toy before any damage was done. Not to be out-maneuvered, Troy took the train in his other hand and dragged it across the stainless steel refrigerator door. I winced.

  “Troy is going to watch a show while I attempt to catch up on some work,” said Nancy. She dropped her satchels and muscled the train out of Troy’s hand. “You want to watch Handy Manny?”

  “Handy Manny! Yeah!” Troy jumped around exuberantly.

  I knew practically nothing about children’s programming. Here was a chance to get a leg up on it from a true fan. I bent over and asked, “So who is this Handy Manny person? Is he as cool as Dora the Explorer?”

  Troy dropped his shoulders in disgust. Even Nancy rolled her eyes. “Dora’s lame! Handy Manny is awesome!”

  It may not have been the most descriptive explanation, but Troy made his point. If I were pregnant with a girl, I’d be wise to avoid purchasing a Dora the Explorer bumper set.

  Troy started rifling through Nancy’s satchel and pulled out her tablet. “C’mon Mom!”

  “Just a minute, Troy! Wait until we get to my office!” The sternness of her voice upset the boy, and he immediately broke down in tears. Nancy stood there unemotionally, like this had happened a hundred times before. After about 10 seconds of wailing, which seemed like 15 minutes to me, Nancy got to her knees and gave Troy a hug. That reduced the wailing to whimpering.

  She stood up and put her back to Troy. Frustrated by what I had to assume was a lack of attention, he ran his arm along the top of the break room table, knocking everything to the floor. My papers were strewn everywhere, and Nancy and I scurried to pick them up. It was then that I realized that Troy had papered the room with my partially completed NYC Baby Prep application.

  Nancy was gleefully scanning the pages. I was so grateful that I hadn’t filled out any of the financial information. It was bad enough that she now knew my secret. But she would have been intolerable if she had seen Dale’s salary. It had to eclipse her husband’s electrician’s paycheck by at least five-fold. She collected what she had and handed the pile to me. “You’re pregnant?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” I admitted.

  “Are you serious? You’re pregnant?!”

  “Yup,” I reiterated patiently. “I’m in the second trimester right now.”

  Nancy went over to the counter and gave Troy a bag of pretzels. “You know, I thought something was up when you started wearing sweaters and jackets more often with your suits. And you looked so tired over the last few weeks. I knew it! I knew you were pregnant!”

  I casually tried to look down at my belly to see if any evidence of a bump was present from under my loose-fitting top. There was, sort of. I had to stand up straight to get rid of it. None of this was lost on Nancy, who could not stop talking.

  “So, what are you going to do? Are you going to work? I mean, you’re so successful. I can’t imagine you’d ever quit. What would we do without you? What would I do without you? I need another working mom around here.”

  I picked up my bag, hoping to demonstrate my desire to end the conversation. “Well, yes, I’m going to continue working. We’ve got the nanny search going . . . .”

  “Oh, nannies!” exclaimed Nancy. “We had such a problem with that. So hard to find someone reliable. And it’s expensive! But you guys can afford it. Dale’s a banker, right? You’re so lucky.”

  If I were so lucky, then why did I have to stand there and feign interest in her gossipy drivel? I reminded myself to remain professional. If I was going to be a partner at McCale someday, I needed to cultivate my counseling capabilities. “Well, Nancy, I could probably get some advice from you. You’ll have to tell me sometime how you manage it all.”

  “Yes! I’d love that! We should do lunch!”

  “Sure,” I committed as evasively as possible.

  “What about next week? Maybe Monday?”

  The last way I wanted to start a work week was a lunch with Nancy Lallyberry. “I’m kind of buried in Parfum Aix right now, but maybe when the dust clears, we can do something fun. I’ll get back to you.”

  As I gathered my things to leave, I caught a bitter scowl on Nancy’s face. I reminded myself to follow up with her on Monday, just to make sure I hadn’t burned any bridges. Hell hath no fury like a Nancy scorned.

  9

  Dale and I were running close to half an hour late for cocktails with Paola and her husband. Despite my newly augmented wardrobe, I just could not find anything to wear. I finally threw on the simplest thing I could find, a black, Empire-waist dress. It made my boobs look gigantic. Dale assured me that they, I mea
n I, looked fantastic.

  When we arrived at Osetra, Paola waved us over to her table. Dale and I weaved through the maze of lacquered white bar stools and lacquered black table tops. Maneuvering over the marble floor in heels was treacherous, even when I wasn’t pregnant. That, coupled with the red walls and excessive gold decorative accents, begat an environment far from calming. But with less than five months of child-free days left in my life, I wanted to seize every opportunity I could to enjoy the Manhattan nightlife. So what if it was only eight o’clock and I was ready for a nap? I couldn’t drink the cocktails at Osetra, but I could soak up the atmosphere.

  “Sorry we’re late!” I apologized and blamed it on the traffic.

  Rather than hug me, Paola grabbed my arms and raised them out to either side of my body. That constricted my dress, revealing a slight bulge in my tummy. “Oh, my God! You’re showing already!”

  Nelson, Paola’s husband, made her put my arms down. “You look beautiful,” he said and gave me a hug. Then he gave Dale a heartfelt and very manly handshake. “You ready for this?”

  “I was born ready,” replied Dale in mock seriousness. “This is going to be a breeze.”

  Nelson, about the same height as Dale but without the muscle tone, puffed out his chest. “You’ll be singing a different tune at three o’clock in the morning when you have to get out of bed to change a diaper.”

  Dale shrugged. “Are you kidding me? Maxine’s gonna do that.”

  “Dale, are you in for an awakening!”

  “In more ways than one, right?!” Dale forced out a laugh, but no one was laughing with him. His expression morphed to conciliatory. He draped his arm around Nelson’s shoulder. “C’mon, professor. You know I’m just busting on you.”