by Janis Powers
Nonetheless, each day I would body-block the door until she gave me a status report. Inevitably, it started with the comment, “Henry was good baby.” That was followed up with an account of how much milk Henry had consumed and how long he had napped. Boring. I didn’t want facts. I wanted charming tales about my amazingly gifted child.
Knowing that her timely exit required a more robust summary of the day’s events, Olga and I instituted a change. We agreed that she would fill out a chart that included information about Henry’s nap and eating schedule so she wouldn’t have to review it orally with me. That way, she could use the time to describe some anecdote from the day. Sometimes it would be a mundane report about whom they saw at the park or a summary of comments people had made about how cute Henry was in his stroller.
Other times, I would hear about Henry’s developmental progress. These updates were both exciting and bittersweet. I was thrilled when Olga told me that Henry had sat up on his own, but also saddened to have missed it. The same was true when Henry rolled over for the first time. Dale consoled me, however, by reminding me that we had made a heavy investment in a two-pronged surveillance system. With all probability, the nanny cams had captured some of these landmark moments. That possibility was enough to motivate me to spend some time scanning through the recordings after I came home from work each day.
More often than not, I never found anything. Wasting 15 to 30 minutes of time on the footage was becoming increasingly tedious, and I had to admit that I quickly lost interest in looking at the data with any regularity. A spare half an hour could be used for more important things, like billing clients or sleeping.
I kissed Henry on his head as I handed him off to Olga. “I will see you later today. All right, little guy?” I patted him one more time, eyeballing the nagging, flaky cradle cap on his head. I was supposed to have scrubbed it off with a brush. Every time I had tried to do it, Henry had wailed and wailed. Dale, in helpful daddy-o mode, would remind me that Henry’s cranium hadn’t fused yet, so I should probably lighten up on the scrubbing. This was something I had to remember to get the pediatrician to handle. I reminded Olga of the appointment with the doctor, which was scheduled for later in the morning.
“There is appointment today?” asked Olga.
“Yeah. We talked about it yesterday.” I strapped on my tote and slid on my walking shoes. “11:00—remember? Just bring Henry to the doctor’s.”
Olga bounced Henry on her hip. “You no need me for that. If you come back here and get Henry, I run errands for you while you’re at doctor.”
“What?”
“Uh. . .” she stammered. “I get more diapers.”
“I just bought diapers this weekend.” I pointed to the huge Costco box of Huggies in Henry’s room. “Olga, I have to get to work and I don’t have time to get back up here before the appointment.”
She grabbed my arm as I made a run for the door. “You know, I just remember. I made play date for Henry at 11. The nanny’s cell phone no work so I no can call her.”
Exasperated, I said, “So? Don’t go. You’ll see her tomorrow.”
“Well, she very popular. I no want to make her mad.”
“Really? Well, I don’t care about some random nanny. I gotta go. We talked about this. I’ll see you at 11. Have a good day.”
I bustled out before she could find another excuse not to go to the pediatrician’s office. It was for Henry’s four-month check-up. His appointments had all been sources of pride and delight, so I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to attend this one. As I took the elevator down to the lobby, I wondered how many times she had taken her son to a pediatrician. Maybe once, after birth? Did she have health insurance? Or go to a clinic? I had no idea. I just knew that since she had been watching Henry for the majority of the time over the last month, she needed to be at the appointment, not running around Manhattan looking for teething toys.
When I arrived at the doctor’s office, Olga and Henry were there, but Henry was hysterical. Olga was sitting on the waiting room couch, barely pushing the stroller back and forth. “Is he O.K.? What’s wrong?” I scooped Henry out of infant captivity and tried to console him. He looked exhausted, bags under his eyes. He was fitfully scratching his skin. “Is he hungry? Did you bring a bottle?”
“I no bring bottle,” she said, skittishly. “I feed Henry before I come here.” As evidence to her claim, Henry spit up on the shoulder of my suit jacket.
We were escorted into an examination room. Henry was still crying. The nurse encouraged me to try to nurse him, claiming that even if he wasn’t hungry, he might find it comforting. Feeding Henry was only going to extend the duration of the appointment, so I was agitated. Plus, I wasn’t used to nursing Henry without a pillow, so the entire experience was awkward. And then Olga was staring at me, probably hoping that I would tell her to leave, which I really wanted to do but was too stubborn to admit. All Henry did was wriggle, punch and cry.
Finally, the doctor came breezing into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Pedersen!” She took one look at Henry, and her cheerful demeanor vanished. In a low voice she said to the nurse, “Let’s get him on the scale.” The pediatrician smiled at Olga and asked me if she was the nanny.
“Yes, this is Olga Ramirez. She’s been watching Henry since I got off maternity leave.”
“So about 5 weeks?” asked the doc.
“Yup.”
The doctor unemotionally acknowledged the nurse’s recording of Henry’s vitals. “Have you noticed any problems?”
“You mean, besides the hysterics?” I tried to make light of the situation, but I, too, was out of sorts. The nurse handed Henry back to me, and he seemed to calm down a bit.
The doc looked at her chart. “Henry has only gained a few ounces since your last appointment. He should have gained a few pounds, by this point.” She looked squarely at Olga. “Has he been eating?”
Olga was staring at a poster of the alphabet that was pasted to the wall of the office. “Olga!” I snapped. “Are you paying attention?” I felt like I was talking to Jeffry Hsu. I never spoke to Olga in such a harsh tone, which I was sure the doctor wouldn’t believe, even if I tried to explain myself. But then again, Olga had never been so disconnected and insubordinate.
“I sorry,” she said. “Did you have question?”
The pediatrician asked slowly. “Have you had any trouble getting Henry to eat? He is not gaining weight like he should.”
“He eat fine. I write everything down on chart for Meezuz Peedairsen. No problem,” replied Olga.
“That’s right,” I said, relieved. I explained that Olga documented Henry’s eating and napping schedule every day. I was pumping milk at work, and Olga was using the supply in the freezer. All seemed fine.
“Well, typically, without singularity in the caregiver role, the child can become confused,” said the doctor. “The emotions of dealing with two individuals can affect appetite. And of course, switching between the bottle and the breast can reduce his overall consumption of
calories.”
It sounded like she was saying that it would have been better for Henry if I had been at home, breast feeding all the time. Even though her tone was not judgmental, I still felt guilty. “So, should we just expect this situation to correct itself? I mean, what can we do to try to get Henry to eat more?”
She reached out for Henry so she could do her physical exam of my son. “He should get used to the schedule. But the absolute best thing is going to be the breast milk. I know it’s hard to pump at work, but for the health of your son, you have to do your best to keep up with it.”
I chewed on my fingernails as the pediatrician performed the rest of the exam. She assured me that I wouldn’t hurt Henry’s brain by cleaning his scalp, and she gave me a specialty brush for the job. Everything else seemed normal, which was a tremendous relief.
Once the exam was completed, the pediatrician handed Henry back to me. “So keep on with the nursing. And I think you shou
ld try some solid food. Rice cereal. See if he takes to that. And I want to see you back here in a month to check on his progress, O.K.?” I agreed, and set something up with the receptionist.
All in all I thought the appointment was an unmitigated disaster. The last thing I wanted to do was head back to work, especially with baby barf on my shoulder. But I didn’t have a choice. I handed Henry off to Olga, and we went our separate ways.
I decided to walk the ten blocks back to McCale. I was about to text Dale the news of the appointment when my mother called.
“Maxine? What’s all that noise?”
“I’m walking back to the office, Mom.”
“Is Henry with you? Did you have the appointment? How’s he doing?”
I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn’t want to alarm her. I wasn’t sure how concerned I needed to be. I did know that I was confused, and I was planning on using the walk to clear my head. Talking to my mother, despite her legitimate interest, was not what I needed at the moment.
I decided to tell her about an issue that had been positively resolved by the doctor, rather than any negative news about Henry’s weight. “Well, you remember that I was having trouble with the cradle cap? The rash on Henry’s head?”
She, too, seemed relieved that the issue had been addressed. I filled her in with some other details, and then she courteously wrapped up the conversation by saying, “Well, I’m sure you and Dale are very proud of Henry. You’re a wonderful mother, Maxine.”
I sure didn’t feel like it.
28
When I got back to the apartment that night, Olga and I exchanged a few words. Pleasant words, actually. She apologized for her behavior. She confessed that the reason she did not want to go to the doctor’s office was that she had suspected that something was wrong with Henry, but she didn’t know how to tell me. She had chalked his discomfort up to teething or to missing me. In any case, she was worried that she might get blamed if, in fact, there had been something seriously wrong.
I appreciated her sincerity. I told her that it was imperative that she tell me about any health concerns, even if she couldn’t explain what the source might be. And I shared responsibility since, as Henry’s mother, I should have noticed any changes in behavior, too. I think we both felt better about the situation.
By the time she left, I was exhausted. Maternal Guilt had beaten Client Billing in the battle for my attention, so I blew off everything work-related that I was supposed to do. I threw on some sweats, ready to spend some quality time with Henry.
My first order of business was going to be serving Henry his first bowl of solid food. I had picked up a box of rice cereal on the way back from the office, thinking that this could be a fun new activity that we could try together. And it was one “first” that Olga was not going to have for herself.
As I searched around for a proper, i.e. unbreakable bowl, I wondered if Daddy might be interested in participating. I texted Dale. He texted me back letting me know that he was headed out with Mike for a quick drink, but that he’d be back in about an hour and a half. He asked me to wait. I texted back describing Henry’s eating and sleeping schedule, which allowed me to wait about another half an hour, tops. So he told me to just go ahead with it and take a picture. I guess Dale was going to drink away whatever paternal guilt was building up inside of him.
I pulled over the high chair that Olga had assembled. Since Henry had sat up on his own, Olga had advised that the high chair would be a good physical training tool to help build stabilizing muscles. Plus, he could play with blocks and other toys on the tray to help strengthen his gross motor skills.
That was Olga’s plan, and I’m sure that during the day, some time in the chair was good for Henry. But every time I put him in there, the racket was unbearable. Anything that was put on the tray was immediately cast off. Inevitably, all would devolve to a mother-son game of Fetch, with me doing the grunt work and Henry laughing. The laughing part made the game somewhat tolerable, but tedium set in quickly thereafter. Sometimes, it seemed, I had a shorter attention span than my son.
I picked Henry up from the floor. He looked tired. His face was sallow, like he needed more sun. I made a mental note to ask Olga about his outdoor activities. Maybe he was being shaded too much for fear of getting him sunburned. In any case, it had been a bruiser of a day for both of us. I didn’t even want to look at myself in the mirror; I had to be twice as haggard as Henry.
“O.K., big guy,” I said, after I put Henry in the high chair. “Here’s the deal. You need to chunk up, my friend.” I put the box of rice cereal, wrapped in cellophane, on the tray in front of him. He was mesmerized by the shiny wrapping. He didn’t quite have the dexterity to pick up the box, but if he had, he would have tried to eat it. There was a bit of irony in the notion that he could choke to death from eating the packaging for his food. Mild panic set in as I mentally digested that, and I gently wrassled the box away from him.
As he slapped the high chair, he started to make some new sounds that I hadn’t heard before. A couple of low gurgly noises punctuated by sharp, squealy barks. Weird, but cool. I was glad to know the vocal chords were working. Maybe he’d be a talker, just like his mother.
I read the instructions on the back of the cereal box. I defrosted some milk and mixed it in with the flaky cereal per the first-time solid food directions. “So, check this out Henry,” I said, as I showed him the bowl. The flakes dissolved almost immediately, leaving what looked like just thicker milk. “Well, this is supposed to be solid food. What do you think of that?” He made some more alien-inspired sounds. “Exactly,” I concurred. “This doesn’t look right at all.”
I double-checked the instructions. The slop was the right consistency. I took a small amount on a spoon and put it in front of his mouth. He didn’t know what to do. He looked up at me and I made some goofy “yum-yum” expressions and comments. He made goofy sounds back.
Henry nipped at the cereal. I kept encouraging him and he finally took a mouthful in. He opened and closed his mouth just enough to slowly spit out the entire glob onto his bib. Which then dripped onto my pants. I reminded myself that this was why I was wearing sweats. So I tried again.
And again.
Henry was not consuming any of it. How was he going to gain any weight if he hated the rice cereal? Maybe I didn’t get the right brand. Maybe I was doing it wrong. Maybe he wasn’t really hungry. I needed some advice. I cleaned up Henry’s face, removed his bib and put him on the floor.
I went to my computer, thinking I would check Blythe’s “Even Moms Can Learn” blog for information. The closest subject had something to do with preparing gluten-free baby food. The comments following the blog described odious tales of how parents had discovered that their children were allergic to food staples like bread and pasta. I guess that was a fun surprise I could look forward to with Henry, if I could ever get him to eat any solid food.
If Blythe (via blog) couldn’t help me, then maybe Angela could. I sent her a text. “Feeding Henry rice cereal 1st time. Really runny. Is that right?”
In just a few moments, my phone clinked. “Add bacon.” That was her answer. She couldn’t be serious. I mean, bacon was a staple of my diet, but Henry’s? Then she came back with, “JK! Messy first few times. Use rubber spoon.”
Rubber spoon? My mind flashed back to the baby aisle at the grocery store and I realized what she was talking about. Long silver spoons with primary-colored rubber ends were hanging off the shelves adjacent to the baby cereal. It was excellent product placement. I had just never understood what the product was for.
I felt better. And I was kind of psyched that I had a new resource besides Paola and Mom to whom I could go with baby-related queries.
Meanwhile, Dale texted me and told me that he was skipping his drink with Mike so he could help with Henry’s first solid meal. I told him that his timing was great, because we needed some rubber spoons. He agreed to pick some up from the store.
The
n I chucked all evidence of my failed first attempt to feed our son. “Don’t tell Daddy!” I joked. At four months old, I knew that Henry could keep a secret.
29
Now that Dale and I had a baby, our entire social landscape had changed. Gone were the invites to private dinner parties at hot new restaurants in the Meat Packing District. In were elaborate celebrations honoring everything from a child’s first steps to a mother weaning a baby. When Dale told me that the Macalusos had invited us to their home for a bar-be-cue, I was thrilled. And since the Macalusos’ daughter was available to babysit, I, too, could converse like an adult. I couldn’t wait to get out of the city.
Dale parked our car on the curb in front of his boss’s home. We both stared out the window, mesmerized by the old oak trees and manicured lawns of the neighborhood. The gardens were bursting with well-nourished blossoms—blue hydrangeas, pink and white azaleas, red and yellow roses. A pair of kids rode by on their bikes. A hybrid Mercedes station wagon loaded with a mom and her children passed in the other direction. Within seconds, I felt transported, the trappings of upscale suburbia so different from Manhattan life.
I took Henry out of our 10-year-old Volkswagen. In Manhattan, having a car—any car—was a luxury. And having an expensive car was just an invitation for a carjacking or an act of vandalism. But on the curb of the Macaluso estate, where a Porsche sat in the driveway across the street, the Pedersen Family truckster looked like a beat-up jalopy.
Dale pulled a bottle of wine from the backseat and whispered in my ear. “Well, this doesn’t suck.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I said into the back of Henry’s head, in case Bobbie was watching from his window and could read lips. “Why do I suddenly feel poor?”