Ross was going to bring a baby to events like these? Ross was going to talk business with a squirming, drooling, ten-pound baby strapped to the front of his Armani suit?
Not likely. I knew as absolutely as I knew I was wearing Ralph Lauren that Ross would routinely be handing off the inconvenient baby to me at parties, restaurants, and concerts.
Because Ross wanted me to close down Anna’s Occasions. He wanted me to be entirely employed in a new venture. He wanted me to be a full-time professional mother.
“Aaahh! My Judy Sowa! It’s worth a fortune!”
I whirled around to see Johnston Geils smirking up at our hostess, clutching in his grimy hands a fistful of colored markers. Behind him, on the wall, hung a beautiful painting almost seven feet tall. A beautiful painting now marred by thick marker squiggles.
Your Judy Sowa was worth a fortune, I commented silently. The party was over. It was time to go home. And when I got there, I was going to dump those damn roses.
30
Woman to Woman
Kristen wanted to know if I was up to meeting for lunch.“Sure,” I told her. “I’m usually done throwing up by ten o’clock.”
We met at The Cheesecake Factory. Kristen loves their pizzas. For the first half hour she shot me questions about the state of my belly. Finally, I exploded. It was Kristen’s obsession with my insides and the fact that all my troublesome insides could handle at the moment were dry bread sticks.
“You know,” I snapped, “I’m not just a womb.”
“I know, honey, I know,” Kristen said soothingly.
“I’m still Anna,” I said. “I’ll always be Anna.”
Kristen couldn’t hide the look on her face that said, Poor, naive thing.
“I will,” I repeated stubbornly.
“Anna, having a baby changes you forever. You’re never just who you are. You’re never just you. You’re always someone’s mother. I can’t really explain it but ...”
“But everything you do changes you forever,” I argued. “Going to a particular college, moving to a particular city, marrying—or not marrying—a particular guy. Even seeing a particular movie or reading a particular book can change you forever. I swear I’ve never been the same since I read Wuthering Heights.”
“That’s all true,” Kristen admitted. “But I don’t know. Becoming a mother changes your identity so radically. At least it did for me. Maybe not every woman has that same experience.”
Something deep inside told me they probably did. I looked at my friend and suddenly saw her as she was when I first knew her, still in her teens, her cheeks plump with health, her hair in a long fat ponytail, a pair of nerdy glasses hiding her wide eyes.
“Are you sad you aren’t you anymore?” I said.
“I’m not sad,” Kristen said readily. “Exactly. Sometimes I feel a bit wistful about the young girl I once was. The truth is I can hardly remember her. But Anna, believe me when I say I don’t want to be who I was before I became a mother.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“There’s just no point in dwelling on the past.” Kristen paused before going on. “Still, sometimes I feel kind of burdened. Kind of encumbered. Maybe I’m just tired. I’d love a nice long nap! But I don’t think I’m going to get one until B.J. leaves for college. Only sixteen more years to go.”
Suddenly, I felt terrified. “Oh, Kristen, how do you do it? Please, tell me how to be a parent!”
“Anna,” she said, “I have no idea how to be a parent. No one does. When you’re a parent, there’s no time for ideas or theories. You just act. You just do what comes naturally and hope it works.”
“Sleeping comes naturally,” I said, desperate. “How can I handle not sleeping?”
“You just will.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I am. Look, Anna, I know I complain about being tired and overworked, but honestly? I’m really happy. Being a mother is great. It’s the best. You’re going to love it, and you’re going to be wonderful. Really.”
What was the point of arguing? “Okay,” I said, resigned to my friend’s unfailing optimism. If Kristen didn’t want to entertain the notion of my failure, why should I?
And then the conversation took the inevitable turn.
“Oh, by the way,” Kristen said, leaning in as if about to impart a juicy secret, “I know I shouldn’t butt in, but I heard the cutest name the other day and I thought you might want to consider it.”
Et tu, Kristen?
“Oh?” I said brightly.
“It’s Alchemy. You know, as in the ancient science of trying to produce gold. Or something like that. Isn’t that adorable!”
Adorable? What, I wondered, was up with this rage for idiotic baby names? It had affected even my sensible, suburban, attorney friend.
“Uh, is it a boy’s name or a girl’s name?” I asked.
Kristen shrugged. “Either. That’s one of the great things about it, it’s so versatile.”
I fought to turn an involuntary grimace into a smile. “Thanks, really. I’ll, um, mention it to Ross but he’s kind of conservative when it comes to names ...”
Was there no end to my lies?
We parted soon after that. Kristen headed back to her husband and children, the people who largely defined her. I went back to my office, to the business I’d so carefully created and built. And on the way I wondered:
Was there any way to be in a loving, committed relationship and still remain in your own possession? Or did intimacy—true love—render that impossible?
I asked myself this question: Do I feel as if I’m in Ross’s possession? The answer was: No.
I asked myself another question: Do I want to be in Ross’s possession? Again the answer was: No.
And I had no idea if those answers mattered.
31
Babies 101
As far as future mothers-in-law went, Theresa Davis was promising. She called her son at home only once a week (although later I learned she called him at his office every day), treated me with respect (although later I learned she had hoped Ross would choose a younger bride), and to that point had largely kept her opinions about the wedding plans to herself (although later I learned she had tried to convince Ross to have the reception at the Davis’s country club).
Mrs. Davis was very good at being almost invisible.
That is, until she found out I was carrying her grandchild. Then, suddenly, my future mother-in-law came roaring into plain sight. Suddenly, I was common property, someone to call every other day, someone to cuddle like a puppy. She touched me every time she saw me, my arms, my face, even my belly.
I’m not a touchy-feely sort of person. I’m not comfortable being grabbed and hugged and kissed and squeezed. But what could I say to my future mother-in-law? She was just so happy. She just wanted to be involved.
Mrs. Davis called me one evening at my apartment. She wanted us to have lunch sometime that week. She’d been to my office a few times so I suggested we meet there. Having lived in well-tended, well-policed suburbs all of her adult life, Mrs. Davis wasn’t entirely comfortable traveling around the city on her own.
I’d just ended a call from a whiny client when Mrs. Davis appeared at the door. She was carrying a large monogrammed bag more appropriate for a weekend at the beach than a two-hour lunch at an upscale restaurant in the city. I wondered if there was a prettily wrapped wedding present inside.
After the requisite mauling, I retreated back behind my desk. Mrs. Davis dove into the depths of the bag and produced a sheaf of glossy pages obviously ripped from a magazine.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the pages.
“Information about the latest models of car seats. You know, it’s never too early to be thinking about a car seat.”
“A car seat?” I repeated idiotically.
“A starter car seat. For an infant. You know they won’t discharge you from the hospital unless you have a car seat. Then, of course, as the baby gets
older, you’ll need a bigger seat, and you don’t want to accept a hand-me-down because of the safety issue.”
“What safety issue?” I asked, feeling for the first time in my life seriously stupid and uninformed. Ignorance is not bliss, I thought. It’s embarrassing.
“The standards improve all the time, Anna,” Mrs. Davis explained. “One year a car seat meets code and the next year, poof! A child has shot through a windshield and the seat’s no good.”
I felt slightly nauseous. The baby was still months from making his or her appearance and already I was forced to consider its safety accoutrements. And in the meantime, there was something else monumental I had to think about. My wedding.
“I was thinking,” I said, “that maybe we could talk for a moment about my bridal registry?”
“Oh.” Mrs. Davis looked truly surprised. “What about it?”
“Well, um, I noticed that not many items have been bought yet. I was wondering—”
Mrs. Davis laughed a fond, motherly laugh. “Oh, silly Anna! Of course no one’s been buying from your bridal registry! Everyone’s waiting to see your baby shower registry. I mean, what’s more important now, right? The baby, of course! A baby is much more exciting than a wedding!”
What she meant to say was that a baby is much more exciting than a bride.
“Oh,” I said.
I thought, I want my wedding. Am I a bad person to want the wedding I planned even if I am pregnant? I want to be a bride. I have a right to be a bride!
Don’t I?
Mrs. Davis dug in the massive bag once more. But any thoughts of a wedding present—perhaps something from Tiffany?—had already been crushed.
“And by the way, Anna,” she said, “I want to give you this.”
Finally, Mrs. Davis extracted a carefully folded piece of yellow, lined paper and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I said, unfolding the paper with trepidation. What other piece of basic safety information was I lacking?
It was a handwritten list of names.
“Well,” Mrs. Davis explained, “I knew you’d want to consider some of the Davis family names for Ross’s child so I thought I’d save you some time by making a list of the most important ones.”
Ross’s child? Ah, I was simply the vessel, the receptacle, the human tote bag.
“Important?”
“Yes. Like, for example, Temperance. See? At the top of the list.”
“Temperance?” I repeated senselessly.
“Temperance was Ross’s great-great grandfather’s wife’s third cousin.” Mrs. Davis lowered her voice conspiratorially. “She died in childbirth. The poor thing was only eighteen. I always thought it would be nice to honor her memory, but as you know, I just had the two boys.”
No, you certainly couldn’t name a boy Temperance, I thought stupidly. But what was I giving birth to, a pilgrim?
I smiled weakly, and when Mrs. Davis once more stuck her hand into the depths of her bag of tricks, I slipped the paper into the trash can under my desk.
“We’d better get going,” I said.
Mrs. Davis didn’t seem to have heard me. She smiled triumphantly and held up what looked exactly like a wad of dirty dreadlocks. “Don’t you love it!” she cried. “It’s a sweater. I had it made especially for the baby by one of the ladies at the nursing home where I do volunteer work. Isn’t it gorgeous!”
“I think,” I said, fighting a sudden gag response, “that if we don’t leave now we’ll lose our reservation.”
32
Anna, Supersized
It’s one of the miserable truths of life: When you absolutely can’t be late for something, like an important meeting or your best friend’s wedding, something will rise up and try its mightiest to make you late.
I had a meeting at nine o’clock with a disgruntled client; said client owed me two thousand dollars for services already rendered. I hoped to solve the dispute without the assistance of a lawyer, so it was important I be on time, cool, calm, and collected.
Of course, my alarm failed to go off. When I woke with a start, it was already five after eight. Frantically, I showered, gulped my vitamins, and sloshed down a glass of fortified juice. And then I reached for a pair of my favorite pants, stylish, reliable, confidence-inspiring navy pants. In went one leg; in went the other. And then ...
It was bound to happen sooner or later. It happened sooner. It happened overnight. The dreaded widening of the waistline. Just one more confirmation of the fact I was still struggling to accept. The fact of pregnancy. As if breast swelling and tenderness weren’t enough; as if morning sickness wasn’t enough.
One last time I tried to close the pants, but it was to no avail. With a groan of disbelief and frustration, I tore the pants off and tossed them onto the floor. I swear it was the first time I’d ever mistreated a piece of clothing.
I looked at the crumpled trousers and felt pity for them. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t fit. It was my fault. My body’s fault. The baby’s fault!
Anna, I scolded, calm down. Don’t blame your unborn child for your sudden girth spurt, even though it is her fault. No, his fault. The baby was probably a boy. This was probably his idea of a joke.
Deep breath, Anna. If your thickening middle is anyone’s fault it’s Ross’s. And he’ll look spectacular at the wedding, trim and fit in his custom-tailored tuxedo while you, the bride, the person supposed to be the most beautiful center-of-attention woman at the wedding, will look ludicrous and hairy and swollen.
I picked up my poor navy pants and hung them carefully in the closet.
It was an impossible situation. If the pregnancy progressed normally there was no way I would fit into the dress by the wedding. And no, the dress couldn’t just be let out. It would have to be completely redesigned and that would cost money and would there be enough time? I so loved the dress as I’d designed it.
Dieting, of course, was out of the question. The baby’s growth might be stunted, and I’m far too mature and responsible to do anything that might harm a child. My child.
Besides, I thought grumpily, tossing yet another pair of useless pants onto the bed, these days you could get arrested for child abuse simply by looking at your son or daughter with a scowl. Discipline was now equated with criminality.
And then it began. I was taken over by a demon of irrational discontent and random pissiness. I proceeded to stomp around my bedroom—I am not a stomper by nature—a not very coherent rant roaring through my head. It went something like this:
Here I am giving birth to a baby who will be an American citizen because I’m an American citizen—and I’m certainly not getting on a plane until said baby has safely landed!—and that’s fine except that, unbelievably, certain school districts in this great country of ours have outlawed the Honor Roll because it makes some kids feel bad about themselves.
I yanked a cotton cardigan from the closet and asked myself, Well, what kind of sense does that make? Everyone is good at something; everyone is bad at something. Better to learn that lesson early; better to find your talents, develop and hone them, and eventually learn how to make a living with them.
That’s what I would encourage my child to do, anyway. My child who was making me late for a very important meeting! Didn’t he understand I would need every cent I could make for his private education?
How, I wondered, rejecting silk knit top after silk knit top (silk knit does not work well with bulge), how does eliminating the Honor Roll gel with the notion of democracy and all it implies about personal freedom, individuality, and self-reliance? America was supposed to be a melting pot, a country that celebrated diversity. Right?
I turned to the linen blouses hanging at the far end of my closet and wondered crazily if it was too early for linen. Of course it was too early for linen! It was spring in New England. Had I already lost my sense of style and appropriateness? And how, I wondered, did eliminating the Honor Roll coincide with a parent’s favorite feel-good message: “
You are special. You are unique. There’s no one else in the entire world just like you. No one else has your face or your thoughts or your talents.”
I reached for a now defunct Ann Taylor black leather belt and wondered, Whatever happened to the notion of healthy competition? What ever happened to those inspiring slogans like Be all you can be! Just do it! Reach for the stars!
No, I thought, tossing the belt onto the floor of the closet, which I now thought of as the donation pile. Some parents and so-called child-care professionals now believe it’s better to level the playing field, pretend that everybody’s the same, no better or worse than anyone else. Of course that’s never worked and it never will, but people—entire cultures!—will never learn from their mistakes!
My shoes. My beloved shoes. I stared down at my slippered feet. Had my feet started to swell? I’d read that feet tend to grow half a size or more as a result of pregnancy and that they never return to their pre-pregnancy size. I already wear a size nine. I wondered, Would I become a regular Bozo the Clown?
I scanned the three racks of shoes crammed into my bedroom closet. The strappy pink sandals. The lime green, patent leather pumps. The faux crocodile skin slides. The gray suede pumps. Was it all over for them?
I thought about my boots. All five pairs of them. My precious boots, from ankle to thigh-high, doomed now to a dusty life at the back of my closet or tossed in a bin at some secondhand shop in Somerville.
I walked over to the blond wood dresser across from my bed and slid open a drawer of bras and panties. How long would it be before I transformed into a female version of the Hulk and all that lace and silk was ripping at the seams?
I slammed the drawer. No wonder, I thought, the American educational system lags behind that of other developed nations. No wonder there’s so much drug abuse among preteens. No wonder kids are having oral sex with multiple partners at the tender age of thirteen.
I walked back to my closet and scowled at my size 8 blouses.
Being fat really stinks, I thought. Where did the myth of the jolly fat person come from, anyway? And now the experts were saying that obesity is at epidemic proportions in the United States. Would my own child fall prey to that awful disease?
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