by Paula Bomer
After two more days of dropping him off, she decided to completely relax about it instead of trying to think of reasons to not be relaxed about it. It goes smoothly this time. She spent a solid month freaking out about Tom when Tom started preschool. Tom developed a case of hives due to witnessing his mother break into a sweat every time she dropped him off. Mike, lucky Mike, misses out on a lot of her neurotic energy. Three days of bewilderment, and then, freedom. Freedom for Mike that is. And for Sonia, too, a sort of freedom. But Sonia doesn’t feel totally free. Free from freaking out about preschool, yes. But, there’s her amniocentesis appointment today. There’s the fact that the last sonogram showed that everything looks fine, but her baby was “shy” and they couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy and so when she gets the amnio, she’ll know for sure. She never had to get an amnio with her other kids because she wasn’t yet thirty-five, and there were no indications otherwise via blood work. Now, she’s thirty-five. All thirty-five year olds get amnios. And so, after she meets Clara and some other mothers for a coffee, she’s going to her appointment.
September! The air is suddenly clean. Sonia is hungry, happy, feels like she may be the luckiest person in the world. She loves her tits, she loves the fall. Her skin has that glow and she knows it. She wears a long sleeve shirt for a change and her same pants, which are starting to get a little tight, and she’s a bit chilly. Soon, it’ll be time for a jacket. And some maternity clothes, really. The construction men have packed their bags and repaved the sidewalks. There is less dust. Less noise. No overbearing heat. She walks, hands free, a little blue bag over her shoulder, to the breakfast place on Court Street where she’s meeting Clara and Risa. She looks in the windowpanes of the stores as she goes, watching her figure, and she thinks, I’m not big yet, but I feel good. The women are sitting by the window—she’s the last to get there. Sonia’s told Clara that she can tell people she’s pregnant. She’s past the miscarrying stage, for the most part. Now, the amnio will tell Sonia whether or not the fetus has Down’s syndrome, as well as a whole host of other genetic abnormalities, and if the fetus has Down’s syndrome, she has the opportunity to abort. But, Sonia, oddly, is not afraid that the baby has Down’s syndrome. Or not afraid enough to not let it be known to the world that she is pregnant. In her mind, Sonia imagines that things could be wrong with the baby, but nothing so obvious as Down’s syndrome. The baby may be a crazy bitch, may have Tourette’s syndrome, may be a psycho serial killer, but Down’s syndrome is not one of Sonia’s fears. Soon she’ll know as much as they can tell her, which Sonia thinks is not a lot. And, in the meantime, she’s ready to have it be official, to have it be public. She’s pregnant. Let the world know, she’s pregnant.
“Congratulations!” says Risa, as Sonia sits down. Clara smiles, beaming proudly, almost as if she were the father.
“Do you know if it’s a girl?” asks Risa.
“No, they couldn’t tell during the first sonogram. But I have my amnio today, so I will find out soon.”
“Pray for a girl!” Risa, leaning into the table now, with a fierceness in her voice. “I didn’t feel like a real mother until I had my daughter. You know what they say, a son’s a son until he takes a wife, a daughter’s a daughter, for all your life.”
“Well, my boys are far from getting married so I feel like a mother or whatever. I’m kind of scared of having a daughter. I love my boys. Either way. I mean, I don’t care that much. Or, I don’t know. I would be very proud to have three boys. As long as the baby is healthy, isn’t that how it goes?”
“My husband and I bought the book on how to have sex so that it’s a girl. I could’ve given it to you! It worked for us. You have sex at the very end or very beginning of the cycle, and you stay on top, and when he comes, you have him pull his penis almost out of your vagina. Oh, and you can’t have an orgasm,” Risa explains.
“Wow. That sounds like a lot of fun,” Sonia deadpans.
“You see, the semen need to swim further so all the Y chromosomes die, or something like that. And, I must say, having a daughter changes your life,” says Risa. A sleeping infant swaddled in pink lays next to her in a stroller. “Everything about my daughter is amazing. She’s only six months old but already I can tell she’s intelligent and kind. It’s just so different, having a little girl.”
“This was an accident. So your book wouldn’t have been that helpful.”
“Come on, you want a girl, admit it,” says Clara.
“If I had a choice, which I don’t, I probably would choose a girl. For my husband, really. And I guess, because it’s different than what I already have. But remember, I’m from a family of girls, two daughters, an overbearing mother. Our fucking dog was a girl. Having boys has been really fun for me. I’ve always and forever loved boys. I still do.”
“Everyone needs a daughter,” says Clara. “Who’s going to take care of you when you get old? Your sons? I don’t think so.”
“Clara, I don’t want a daughter so that I’ll have a free nursemaid of sorts for my old age.” Sonia manages to make eye contact with the waitress. She orders an omelet, bacon, coffee, and a large juice. Her appetite is back. She’s ravenous, always.
“Wow, you must be feeling better,” says Clara.
“I am. Finally. I feel great. I love life again!”
“Those first few months are a bitch,” says Risa.
“I’m not vomiting all the time, I like food. Mike started preschool. I probably should be looking for a new apartment. But in general, life is good. Dick is being wonderful. I don’t hate my husband right now. Fuck, I’m so content I’m almost bored.”
“You won’t be bored soon. A new baby will end that.” Clara says.
“No doubt. Babies keep you busy,” Risa says. “What preschool does Mike attend?”
Sonia senses something she doesn’t like. Sonia hates the school talk. It makes her want to move back to the Midwest.
“Tom and Mike go to Open Arms Nursery. That little place down Atlantic.”
A look nearing alarm crosses Risa’s face. “Oh,” she says, her eyes darting across the room.
“My theory is, it’s preschool. It doesn’t matter so much. As long as they’re having fun.”
“Fun?” Clara says. “Preschool is a very important time. It’s not about fun. It’s about developing the skills that will carry your child through the rest of his or her life.”
“Well, that’s not really how I look at it.”
“Sam was just diagnosed with ADHD and we’re getting together a whole proper medical approach to it. Brooklyn Fellowship is really on top of things that way. Nothing gets by them. I would never send my kid to some place that doesn’t have the proper developmental approach to early childhood needs. If you don’t catch things early, there’s no hope for your children. I’m just thankful they caught Sam’s problem early enough,” Clara says.
“Attention Deficit Disorder? What is he supposed to be paying attention to? He’s four years old.”
“Some four-year-olds can read, you know,” adds Risa sternly.
“Well who gives shit about some four-year-olds. Some four-year-olds still crap in their pants. Some four-year-olds are ten feet tall. Whatever.”
Sonia’s food arrives. She starts shoveling it down.
“All I know is I want the best for my child. Why be a parent unless you make sure they get the best of everything available?” Risa says.
“I agree with you, Risa,” says Clara. “Sam’s doctors are giving him the most advanced treatment available in the world. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sonia’s bacon has already disappeared. “What’s that mean, the most advanced treatment?” she asks, her voice muffled by eggs.
“New forms of Ritalin. They just keep making it better, improving on the original medication.”
“Oh Clara, no! Really? I spend time with Sam”—and here Sonia pauses, because she does think he’s sort of a wreck—“he’s not that bad. He’s doing fine.”
“But drugs? Can we use the word drugs? I prefer the word drugs. Medication is so—dry. Don’t put him on drugs right away. What about behavioral therapy?”
“Come on, Sonia, you’ve seen Sam. He can’t pay attention to anything. The medication was the school’s idea, but I’m behind them a hundred percent. All the other kids at his school have started reading and he jumps from one activity to another. He can’t focus! You just got lucky with Tom. And you should watch what you say, too, because what if something happens to Mike? What if he doesn’t develop properly? What if he starts behaving oddly? What if his preschool teachers say to you, we need to talk? You’d fall on your knees. You’d do everything and see every specialist available. You would.”
“But you were just saying a couple of months ago that Sam watches too much TV and his dad is never around and you are totally overwhelmed. Couldn’t any of that have to do with his attention problems? At least try making some changes at home first, before putting him on the drugs,” says Sonia.
Clara laughs. “Blame the mother! I’m a bit shocked that this is coming from you, Sonia. You, the fierce feminist freethinker type. Autism used to be blamed on the mother being cold and unemotional. Can you imagine?”
Sonia is so pissed she wants to spit the eggs her mouth is filled with at her friend. “Feminism doesn’t eschew responsibility! Not in my mind. You stick your son in front of the TV for five hours a day, so take responsibility for that. That’s got to do something to his brain.”
Clara is unmoved. “Whatever you think of TV-watching, that preschool you send your children to sucks. I would never, ever send my kid there. Something could be terribly wrong with Tom or Mike and they wouldn’t even know. Child development is not on their agenda.”
Risa says, “Getting my son Henry properly diagnosed has been the best thing that happened to us.”
“What exactly is wrong with your son?” Sonia asks, but she doesn’t really want to know. Not for the first time, she hates the fact that she is raising her kids in New York, where people treat their children like a combination between a science and an art project.
“He has Unclear Developmental Disorder. A disorder mostly found in young boys. It’s becoming more and more common. He used to keep to himself a lot, and only play with certain types of toys.”
“What types?” Sonia asks.
“Cars.”
“Cars?”
“Henry was really missing out,” Clara says.
“Yes,” Risa says, “He was missing out on normal childhood. You should have seen him. It wasn’t like he played with cars and then went on to play with other kids. He, like, just played with cars.”
Clara says, slapping the table, “You’ve got to take your kids out of that preschool, Sonia. God knows what could be wrong with them. You’d never know. And early intervention is the most important thing.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to have a child with special needs,” Risa says. “It’s daunting. But thank goodness for all the resources available to us now. Henry gets his occupational therapy, speech therapy, play therapy. They have a whole host of specialists who can really cater to his needs.”
“He’s three! Three-year-olds aren’t supposed to have a wide range of interests!”
Risa says, very seriously now, “He’s four. You really, really need to take your boys out of that place. God knows what could be afflicting them.”
Suddenly, Sonia understood that she hated these women. How quickly they slumped themselves into sexless, materialistic gossips. How all of their ambitions became ruthlessly projected onto their defenseless children and husbands. How anything that threatened their idea of family—imperfect children, poor black people, Hispanic immigrants, tacky clothing, lack of social prowess—alarmed them into muteness. How bragging that their husbands never changed a diaper made them feel powerful. How truly so very little changed, unless, and only unless, you dreamed to live outside of their world. And then where did that leave you? Nowhere. Alone. Exactly where Sonia belonged. Perhaps what she hated most was their complete lack of doubt. Clara and Risa utterly believed in what they were; that the best private schools were what their children deserved, though children all around them went to crowded public schools and had no other choice.
Clara and Risa believed in their inheritances. They believed in staying at home and shopping. They believed that they were their husbands’ wives and their children’s mothers. And those who didn’t believe didn’t have the same God. Those who didn’t believe weren’t saved.
Sonia’s plate is clean. She thanks Clara and Risa, and tells them it’s time for the amnio.
“Good luck, Sonia” says Clara. “Call me if you need me! And call me anyway, because I want to know if it’s girl!”
Sonia tells Clara she’ll call her later.
As she walks out the door, Sonia thinks she just wants to move to the Midwest. To get away from this neurotic New York shit. But what does she know about the Midwest? She hasn’t been there in years. It could be just as bad as this place. Maybe the whole world has gone mad.
A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, a woman in a white coat sticks an abnormally large needle into her belly and pulls out a large vat of fluid. Sonia feels like a turkey. Her midwives don’t do amnios, so she’s at a clinic near her apartment. A doctor, or a technician, or someone official comes in with a chart. “You’ll hear from us soon with the results. How are things going in general?”
“Fine. I’m not throwing up anymore so I’m quite happy. Did you see if it’s a boy or a girl by any chance?”
“It’s a girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it was a vagina. On a fetus, the genitals are quite swollen so there’s no mistaking it. It’s definitely a girl.” He flips some papers around on his chart. “Is that a good thing?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess so. Wow. A girl. I have two boys.”
“Well now you’ll get your girl.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” For some reason, Sonia is stunned.
The doctor says, “Go home and drink some wine and relax. Just a glass or two, but it can help prevent miscarriage.”
“All right, I’ll do that.” Sonia rubs the gooey gel on her stomach with a dry, nervous hand and then pulls her shirt over her belly, which suddenly seems larger than ever. She’ll need to buy maternity clothes. God help her, it’s a girl. It’s a girl. After picking up her boys from school, she heads home, drinks some wine. She lets them watch television. She waits. And when Dick arrives, she walks up to him where he stands in the door and hugs him and whispers into his neck, “It’s a girl, Dick, they say it’s a girl.”
The light in the apartment changes dramatically. The occasional heat and bright sun of the summer that lingers into September is gone for good. It’s darker now. The heat and light of the day have a faded quality, and orange and yellow leaves in the backyard contain more brightness than the sky itself. Sonia’s stomach is round, low in the cavern of her abdomen, as she always carries. She looks pregnant, but barely—she’s carrying very small this time. She’s officially with child. The baby moves and now there is no mistaking this for anything else, not for gas bubbles or cramps, although those things are starting in, too, as her digestive equipment is smushed upward into her lungs and throat. Her daughter is taking up room, leaving less space for her own insides.
The boys are happy in preschool and the ease which Sonia knew was coming her way, with her two kids gone three mornings a week, feels painful to her. This isn’t really happening, she thinks. This is just for a few months. (And then there is this strange emptiness. They don’t need me anymore. And then Sonia rubs the small mound of her stomach. A new excuse on the way.) A strange feeling of freedom, followed by fear of it—what would I ever do with myself?—followed by, it’s all ending soon. Very soon. Why bother trying to set up an easel? Why bother sketching, when there’s a new crib to be fou
nd, because they gave the old one away, because they weren’t going to have any more babies? When there are prenatal checkups to schedule? And where are they going to put that crib anyway? Where are they going to live?
The first week of October Sonia goes apartment hunting. This proves horribly depressing, as it always was. She looks out in Kensington, a solid forty minutes on the F train away from Cobble Hill. There, they could afford a three or even four bedroom house. With a parking space. The community is ethnically diverse, consisting of Russian and Mexican immigrants, the schools are good, but both she and Dick would miss the sophistication of Cobble Hill. The Manhattany vibe in Cobble Hill. Most people in Kensington live and work in Brooklyn. Most people in Cobble Hill work in Manhattan. This is a big difference. Really, it’s a matter of socioeconomic class: Sonia doesn’t want to be part of a serious minority. She doesn’t want Tom and Mike to be nearly the only kids from an English speaking, middle-class family. She’s ashamed of these feelings, but has them nonetheless. And then there’s Dick’s commute. He would have to leave so early in the morning that he’d barely see his kids for all of ten minutes. And he’d get back so late that he’d barely be able to kiss them goodnight before they passed out. And Sonia relies greatly on those few hours a day Dick now has with his sons.
Despite Sonia’s fear of the commute, she decides to look out in the super-leafy, more leafy than Brooklyn, suburbs of New Jersey. She gets Carrie to pick up the boys from school while she drives around with a middle-aged, forty-pounds-overweight broker in Maplewood. Here, the schools are dubbed as “excellent, truly excellent” but Sonia gets the idea that that really means all white, all middle class. And as much as she feared being a minority in Kensington, she fears even more being literally stranded among people who are supposedly just like her. She’s never felt that anyone was just like her, regardless of skin color or money—it’s just not a dream she could ever buy into. It doesn’t ring any bell for her. Everyone looks sour and scared to Sonia, as she leans slightly out of her window, letting the autumn breeze blow her hair straight up in weird tufts. The houses are expensive. They are lifelong projects. When would she ever paint? Never. She would be too busy worrying about gutters, the lawn and shopping to furnish the many rooms.