Exploiting My Baby

by Teresa Strasser

  Wow, I’ve stumbled into a way of exploiting my baby I hadn’t even known was possible. I’m not talking about the boon of creating an affinity with other parents, though it is nice to have a ready topic of conversation for the rest of my life. I’m talking about something more internal. At nine months pregnant, for the first time in my life I’m easy like a Sunday morning. Stage fright in its many forms has plagued me my entire career, a smorgasbord of anxiety, embarrassment and self-doubt. I used to leave auditions in tears if I stumbled over a single word. Now, suddenly, I think I have some perspective.

  Don’t get too excited; I’m not talking about the abnegation of ego, just perspective enough to give me focus and take away anxiety. I’m working on making Buster an almost fully functioning immune system and he’s making me the Master of My Own Emotional Domain.

  Leaving that meeting, tottering on my high heels and guzzling water, I think, “Jeez. That was so painless. What nice people. What nice people that will never, ever hire me for this particular job because that would be insane.” Still, I touch my cramping belly, the outside of which now feels hard, like a thin candy coating, and thank Buster for making the meeting so stress-free.

  If I usually have such terrible stage fright, you may be asking yourself why I would choose this line of work. One answer is that I have very few other skills. Besides that, while working in television and radio may be especially nerve-racking, there’s no question I’d get anxious giving a presentation on quarterly earnings, teaching first grade, arguing in front of a jury, reconciling a company’s accounts, or trying to sell you a house. So what’s the diff? At least this way I can occasionally get the applause and public approval my childhood set me up to need and generally avoid sitting in a cubicle.

  It’s not always so bad, but I’ve never found a way to totally overcome it. Of course I’ve gotten lots of advice. Deep breathing. Visualization. The most frequent prescription: “Just be yourself.”

  A side note on “Just be yourself ”:

  Well-adjusted people who unabashedly like themselves think this is all you need to hear. Just be yourself and all will be well. As if we insecure, bumbling, stage-fright-y bundles of tics were simply lacking this one critical piece of information. As if telling a smoker nicotine causes cancer will suddenly make him stump out his cigarette and make it his last. “What? This is bad for me? Thanks so much for letting me know. I’m going to quit now.” We Albert Brooks in Broadcast News types fully understand people will like us better if we could “just be ourselves,” but we can no more tackle that little bit of psychological business than a smoker can quit just because it’s a good idea. We know. Stop telling us something we know, because it only reminds us that our own minds and bodies are engaged in a mutiny, preventing us from doing the one simple thing that could change our fates.

  We understand the concept. When we’re hanging out having a drink with friends, making the table laugh, not concerned with our phrasing or how our arm looks draped over the back of the chair or whether we’re using the word “like” too often, we register that if we could just pull this off in high-pressure situations like dates and interviews, if we could just re-create this sense of flow when it really counted, we would be fine. But for whatever reason—childhood pressure to succeed, painful past failures, brain chemistry explosions, overthinking, overcaffeinating, poor expectation management, whatever—we get that first shot of adrenaline and it’s “bring on the shakes and odd, inappropriate remarks and dry mouth,” because we can no longer “just be ourselves.” To a jittery person, everything is an emergency. Our brains can’t differentiate between a tsunami and a call-back for a dog food commercial. My nervous system isn’t at all sure that pogroms aren’t coming to my village or a saber-toothed tiger isn’t approaching to eat me.

  So frankly, “be yourself” is idiotic advice that doesn’t take into account that people with performance anxiety are experiencing autonomic nervous system responses beyond our control.

  Aside from which, if you aren’t so sure you like yourself, or that others do, this little aphorism is even more inane. Why would we want to “be ourselves” if we don’t always particularly like ourselves?

  And what does it really mean to “be yourself,” anyway? If you are anything but the simplest of one-dimensional dingbats, your “self” is a multifaceted concept, malleable, up for grabs. When I think, “Teresa, just be yourself,” I honestly have no idea what that means. Sure, there’s the happy-go-lucky me that surfaces under the right conditions (and dosages), there’s the generous me that helps elderly neighbors fill out tax forms, but there are lots of other versions that are just as “real,” and not so great. Be myself. The girl who spends twenty minutes pondering whether she should order her frozen yogurt flavors side by side or twisted? That self? Or how about the one who rambles and repeats herself after tuning out during cocktail party conversations? I know, how about the self who gets a headache in her eyeballs when speaking to any authority figure? Wait, do you want me to be the girl from Monday, who listens patiently to her friend’s boy problems, or the girl from Thursday, who can’t return a call because she’s worried she’ll have nothing to say. Even if I could just “be myself,” I would have to land on a version of “myself” I and others find appealing. It’s relatability roulette, and the house always wins.

  Don’t even get me started on “Just have fun with it.”

  So, I was just being myself and just having fun with it, and the meeting must have gone pretty well, because within a few hours the producers call to say they want me to screen-test for the job. First, they will send a crew to shoot a brief “man on the street” piece in which I will ask tourists and passersby questions about marriage. The day after that, we will do a full run-through of the show in-studio for Jerry. Seinfeld.

  At this point, I could go into labor at any moment. Technically, Buster is full term. And now the producers want me to stand outside talking to strangers on camera for about four hours at Universal Studios in the Valley, where it will be hovering around one hundred degrees.

  The radio job has ended, the television show has been canceled, my trust fund is that my parents trust that I will fund them when they get old, so I figure, why not? I’m going to need a job.

  Of course, I want to be safe about it. The morning of the screen test, I go to my doctor’s office to get the medical go-ahead, but I’m confident she’ll sign off (pregnant women around the world do far more strenuous tasks than audition to cohost a television show, and despite all my complaining, there isn’t anything especially risky about this pregnancy). I’m confident that after phase two of my screen test, I will go in to have Buster removed right on schedule, just after he has helped snare me a big job, thus ensuring his own financial future and his mom’s sense of relevance. Consider Operation Exploit My Baby deployed in a major way.

  Before my doctor can give me clearance, she tells me she has to check to see if I’m dilated.

  “Guess you’ve heard all about this,” she says, pulling a glove on her hand.

  “Huh?” I ask, because I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about. Now she’s painted herself into a bedside manner corner and has no choice but to finish her thought.

  “Oh, lots of women think this test is painful, but some don’t mind at all.”

  The doctor—and I could get fancy describing this but I won’t—jams her fingers into my privates in a move so excruciating my eyes water like I’ve just rubbed wasabi into my corneas. She announces that I’m dilated about one centimeter. Just the sound of this is thrilling, especially in combination with the procedure ending. There is very little chance that natural labor will take hold in the next few days, but at least I get to dilate and get to engage in discussions about effacing and centimeters and all the stuff vaginal delivery girls get to do. My doctor consults with her partners, all working moms, and they tell me if I’m not uncomfortable, there is no reason I shouldn’t go to my audition that day. Some people stay at this early phase of l
abor for weeks, so there’s no cause for alarm. They tell me to stay hydrated and maybe to bring my husband, just in case. I go right from the doctor’s office to the screen test, toting sunscreen, six bottles of water and Daniel.

  That’s how I end up standing near the entrance of a crowded theme park, holding a mic and asking couples questions like, “Would you mind if he didn’t wear his wedding ring?” and “Should married couples always sleep in the same bed?”

  Once again, I’m exploiting my baby for an unprecedented sense of peace and ease. What do I care if Jerry Seinfeld thinks I’m funny? I’m dilating. Huge life changes are happening—there is physical proof! So when it comes to worrying if my retorts and comments and follow-up questions are what the producers want, I’m free and laid-back. In fact, I continue to “just have fun with it” and pretty much “just be myself.”

  One of the problems with this particular self, however, is that it features major boundary problems and a total lack of discretion.

  I’m standing out there, just about as pregnant as I can be, and these strangers I’m interviewing couldn’t be nicer to me, because of the baby, because I’m out working with a giant bump and without an inch of shade. It’s a relentless stream of beaming tourists asking me when I’m due and loving me, loving Buster, really. Sometimes, strangers don’t enjoy doing these stupid interviews, because they would rather spend their time buying T-shirts or drinking a beer, but when you exploit your baby just by being enormous, they have endless patience. They laugh extra heartily at your little quips, making you seem even more likeable, more approachable, and more perfect to provide that feminine touch Seinfeld needs for his show.

  The crew, the tourists, they are eating up the fact that I’m out here hosting while dilated, which I won’t shut up about. My husband is off on a nearby bench trying to conduct business from his phone, keeping an eye on me and my water intake, while I’m yapping about my vagina to anyone who will listen.

  “When are you due?” asks every mark we rope in for our interviews.

  “Right now. I’m actually dilated as we speak. Yeah, technically, I’m in labor, but it’s a very early stage of labor, so don’t worry, I won’t break my water on your shoes.”

  I’m exploiting my baby for the adoration of these interviewees and cameramen and sound guys. I’m exploiting him to make myself seem game and sturdy and fun yet vulnerable and maternal. I’m exploiting him for his ability to make me stop caring whether I’m any good. And it’s all working. It doesn’t matter. Buster matters. But it’s hard not to notice that being pregnant is really working for me today, and I will soon be working for Seinfeld.

  When we pull out of the parking lot after wrapping for the day, I say something to the Mister I’ve never said before: “They have to hire me. No one is going to be better than that.”

  Buster has not only gotten me a job, he has gotten me a job on what is sure to be a hugely high-profile and groundbreaking show.

  My agent calls. Good news and bad news, she says.

  Good news, they loved my piece, say the footage is cutting together great and they are sure Jerry will love it, too. Bad news, the crew told the producers I was one centimeter dilated and they feel it’s just too much of a liability to have me in-studio the next day. The second part of the screen test is canceled. The producer says she feels terrible, because she is also a mom, but they just can’t risk it.

  This is totally fair, and I really should have kept my mouth closed about my birth canal opening, but I was just so tickled.

  So, let’s see. First, Buster gets me in the door by making me relax and not care if I’m any good; then he (okay, and my opening my mouth about my opening cervix) buys me a one-way ticket back to my hometown of Obscurity.

  I’m disappointed, because it would have made a great story and because I do need to get a job, but I’m also relieved. There’s a time for hustling and this obviously isn’t it. No more clipping in my hair extensions and shoving my feet into presentable shoes and trying to impress. And to be totally honest, it feels like a reprieve, because it means I get to avoid performing again—especially for one of the most successful men in the history of television. Phew. I don’t have to worry about the audition tomorrow. There is no longer anything on the horizon but getting the baby out safely.

  I’ll just put this Seinfeld thing on Buster’s tab and perhaps consider that the baby is mocking the title of this book. Still, I intend to continue using him for a little “Serenity Now,” to take his existence as my cue to accept that this latest career setback isn’t a big deal in the big picture, the one in which Buster is now starring. Taking on this outlook is surprisingly effortless, not because I’ve become a better, more selfless and more grounded person, but because I’ve organically pulled some sort of George Costanza—in some ways, I’m kind of the opposite of who I used to be, going against all of my former instincts and habits. Buster Frank Breech is turned around and so am I, yada, yada, yada.

  twenty-three

  An Even Worse C-Word

  It’s the morning of my scheduled C-section, and I’m watching my dad and husband eat breakfast. I’m starving, but you aren’t supposed to eat anything before surgery, so I sneak one bite of my dad’s banana and gnaw the corner off my husband’s bagel. I also may have chewed the end off a protein bar, but other than that, I didn’t eat a thing or even drink water.

  We drive to the hospital in Glendale in silence, after having taken a few snapshots on our front stairs. On the way home, four days from now, we will be parents.

  The night before, my dad arrived from Northern California and we all went to the latest Michael Moore movie, Capitalism: A Love Story. I’m sure it was deeply stirring and educational, but it’s hard to focus on the flawed nature of derivatives and ballooning mortgage payments when you are hours away from being sliced open. Eating my tub of popcorn, I couldn’t help thinking about how vaginal birth is a much more compelling metaphor than a Cesarean, even when it comes to movie titles: A Star Is Cut Out or C-Section of a Nation or even Unnaturally Born Killers just doesn’t sound right. I don’t know how exactly Vietnam veteran Ron Kovic came out of his mother’s womb, but the movie about his life is not called Sliced Out on the Fourth of July. Bruce Springsteen doesn’t sing about being “Surgically Removed to Run,” and “Removed with a Scalpel to be Wild” doesn’t quite capture that rock-and-roll spirit.

  Still, I’m sitting pretty, or as pretty as I can be having gained fifty-five pounds during my pregnancy, because earlier in the day I had my hair blown out and false eyelashes glued on. I won’t be all glistening with sweat like the girls who get to wear the Vag of Honor, but at least I’ll look my best in the first photos with baby. I’ll look my best, or like a fat-ass drag queen, but either way, a scheduled C-section does allow one to enter motherhood with decent hair and a fresh pedicure.

  We check into the hospital, and it’s now two hours until surgery. I’m given a hospital gown, hooked up to a monitor to track the fetal heartbeat, stuck with an IV line for later and interviewed by a brusque intake nurse.

  “When did you last eat?” she asks.

  I look up at my dad, as if to ask him with my eyeballs, “Is this one of those times I’m supposed to lie?” but instead I let her know I took one bite of a banana.

  “What? You ate a banana? I have to call the anesthesiologist. No eating before surgery. You were told that,” she snaps. I decide this lady hates pregnant people, hates babies, hates life and surely has a thing against bananas.

  “No, not a banana. A bite of a banana. I was nauseous, it was nothing, let’s do this thing. Please,” I beg the nurse.

  There’s a long, idiotic, dead-end discussion about whether I had a bite or bites, but she isn’t budging and she tattles on me. They make me wait two more hours for the banana to digest, and a combination of the nerves and the hunger and the entire thirty-nine weeks of waiting for this moment only to have it pushed back by two whole hours has me on the verge of tears. Only the fear of dislodging my
false eyelashes and my dad’s measured tone keep me from tipping over the edge.

  “Some rules are there for a reason,” says my dad, softly. “It’s for your own good. She’s just doing her job. They don’t want you to asphyxiate if something goes wrong and they have to put you under general. It’s only two hours. Two hours is nothing.” He pats my hair, which is sweet and strange, and so comforting I don’t mind so much that he is mashing my do.

  My dad is terrified to fly, and once he gets on an airplane, he gets very silent, drinks two glasses of wine in short order and goes glassy-eyed with a thin film of sweat on his upper lip. He looks like that now. Because he sees the baby’s heart rate is normal, and because none of the medical professionals buzzing around seems worried about the baby, and because he is not filled with hormones and catastrophic ideas, and because he is not, as I am, insane, he isn’t the least bit worried about the baby. He is worried about me. I am his baby. I’m thirty-nine years old, I have some crow’s-feet and an IRA, but I am still his baby. I am to him what Buster is to me, a notion I’ve never fully understood until this moment.

  “Dad, until you have kids, you don’t understand anything about anything,” I say, which is the kind of vague and meaningless statement that sounds deep when your glands are shooting an eight-ball of cortisol, adrenaline and endorphins into your system and you’re high as hell on fight or flight.

  The doula, Margie, arrives, in her faded jeans and embroidered shirt. It might seem strange to have a doula for a C-section, but, well, we already paid her and I like her and it can’t hurt to have someone along who isn’t a first-timer. We make small talk for two hours, and after one last ultrasound proving Buster is still Frank, it’s time to wheel me into surgery.

  Margie and my husband are asked to wait outside and get into some scrubs while I go into the operating room alone for my nerve block, so that I won’t feel the lower half of my body when they cut into it. The anesthesiologist asks me to sit on the table sideways, with my feet dangling over the edge, and hunch over with my back out like a cat. He pokes around for a while, and says my “dura” (the membrane around my spinal cord) is tough and he can’t quite get the needle in there.