Mom, who had finished her tea and looked as if she wanted a nap more than anything in the whole world, ran a hand through her hair and stood to leave. “You two have a nice chat. I have to get going. I have to rest my eyes for a bit, and then I have a client meeting—we are looking at fabric samples for her new sofas. Ta!”
As she swished out, she dropped a kiss on D’s head, stroked little Alex’s peach fuzz hair, and blew me a kiss.
We watched her leave. Diana looked completely serene, probably because she had had her first full night of sleep since Alex was born. I felt panicky and anxious. It occurred to me to get some Saint John’s Wort along with the earplugs, because I was as far from serenity as I could get.
▷◁
It started out fine. Alex was fresh from his bath, slick with baby lotion, sweet-smelling, and adorable. Nothing seemed to be bothering him at the moment. His little fluffs of hair felt so soft against my palms. I tried to give myself a confidence boost: Maybe he doesn’t actually have colic. Maybe the water in Chicago affected D’s breast milk. Maybe he’s fine now that he’s been here on Ohio-water breastmilk for a couple of days.
Of course, as soon as he drew up his little legs as if something was poking him, then commenced screaming on the dot of ten p.m., I remembered that Mom had said that “you could set your clock” by his colic. It apparently started up very suddenly, kept up until just past midnight, and then quit. Writhing in my arms, Alex seemed in agony. I had a hard time holding onto him, his little knees knocking against my abdomen. His cries were ear-splitting. Just looking at those little legs writhing in pain made me want to trade places with him, the poor little mite.
I set him down on Ella’s yellow blanket on the floor. On his back. He continued to pull up and shriek. His tummy. Okay, maybe being on his stomach would put some healing pressure on his guts and calm him. I turned him over. This just caused him to propel himself forward by the motion of his knees as they pumped up and down—it looked for all the world as if at six weeks old, he was crawling. Accompanied by blood curdling wails. The colic came in waves. Just as it seemed like it was all over, and he would be all right, and I started to relax, another cramp would hit him, and he would start contorting in pain once more.
My God. Will he puke? Diana didn’t say if colic makes them vomit. Beck, do something! The poor kid is in agony! Pick him UP.
He didn’t seem to like being hoisted onto my lap, where I tried to rock him back and forth calmly on the sofa. As a matter of fact, with one of the colic “contractions,” he writhed so hard that his little skull smacked into my face with such force that I thought my nose might be broken. Of course, hitting his forehead on my nose hurt Alex’s face, and so now he screamed at the pain there as well as in his tummy. Thank God my neighbors were nearly deaf.
How much longer will this go ON? He has been screaming forever!
I glanced down at my watch. Sweat cascaded from my armpits down into the waistband of my underwear. It was ten fifteen. I stood and started walking back and forth with him, trying to sing something soothing, but all I could think of was “Happy Birthday.” I went with it. We walked around, wishing the world many happy returns for about five minutes, until my arms got tired of trying to keep him from throwing himself out of them in his torment. We sat down for a break, but as soon as another pain hit him, we got up to pace around once more.
On one of the laps through the apartment, I switched on the TV. American Idol rerun. Good, maybe Alex and I could commiserate about which singer was the most talented. I turned him around and aimed him at the screen. “See, honey? That guy is trying to sing just like John Legend. What do you think? Is he any good?” I jiggled Alex in time to the music. Nada. The yowls continued.
For the next two hours, I alternated between jostling Alex, putting him on the floor to cry it out, changing my mind about that and picking him back up and jostling him some more, dancing for Alex (he seemed to hate that more than the singing), offering Alex a bottle of breast milk (he knocked that right out of my hand), rubbing Alex on the back, and finally bursting into tears myself.
At twenty after twelve, Alex laid his head down on my shoulder, heaved a jagged baby sigh, and stopped crying. It was a miracle. I carried the now placid little person into the kitchen where, as instructed, I warmed a bottle of breast milk and offered it to him. As he leaned back in my arms, sucking madly and reaching up to stroke my cheek with his sweet little fingers, my heart nearly burst out through my bra.
We strolled back into the living room, where Alex finished his bottle and farted. Oh. I set him down, changed his diaper (breastfed babies don’t have stinky poop, thank goodness), and laid him down on his blankie. I lay beside him, just to rest for a second.
The next thing we knew, it was six thirty in the morning, and D was bursting through the door, lifting her shirt, and unfastening her nursing bra. “Hand me up one of my nipple shields and that baby—my boobs are killing me!” I looked at Alex, who blinked his little sea blue eyes and smiled at the sound of his mommy’s voice.
I stretched my arms, heard my spine crack, and flexed my toes. I blinked three times as I watched my sister scoop up her son, enthrone herself on my sofa, and begin to nurse. They looked like a Madonna and child. I couldn’t help but smile. Then I realized that I had slept for six hours, uninterrupted. What the hell?
“Hey, D!” I sat up. “How exactly again is this colic situation,” here I used finger quotes, “killing you and Bryan?” Diana lifted her eyebrows. “I got six good hours in.”
Diana remained silent as Alex sucked blissfully on the nipple shield. One lock of bleached blonde hair fell over her forehead, and she flicked it away.
“D, why are you really here?”
My sister stared at me over the downy head of her infant. Her lips trembled. Mascara tears ran down her cheeks, washing little ruts into the rouge on her cheeks.
“D. Speak!”
Instead, she blurted. “Everything sucks right now. I am a shitty mother. Bryan is completely helpless with babies. Alex may not seem like a handful to you, but I am completely overwhelmed. I am still totally fat. I have no energy. We eat microwave dinners. Bryan farts and guzzles beer. We have nothing to say to one another, except for arguing about how to deal with the colic. And I am not sure if we are going to stay married.”
Hell and damnation.
I lay back down on the carpet and shut my eyes. My brain hit the “rewind” button.
It was a tough semester. I had bitten off more than I could chew and registered for twenty credit hours. One of the courses was Psycho Linguistics, and Noam Chomsky was a pain in my ass. I had gained weight eating too many brownie delights in the dining hall. My roommate Freda had blonde dreadlocks, inflamed gums, armpit hair, BO, and lesbian tendencies. Mom sent high-calorie care packages, which I tried not to eat, because my flabbiness was getting out of control. I was depressed as well, because the very few letters I got from Dad kept mentioning someone named Melanie. And just when I was about to self-combust, my little sister came to visit for the weekend. She dragged a duffel up the dorm stairs that seemed like it was full of anvils, but it turned out to be beer, diet pop, rice cakes, and enough marijuana for the entire third floor.
She knocked on my door, and when I opened it, there she stood on the threshold, her slim profile outlined by the lights in the cellblock that was our hallway, an electric smile on her face. “Mom says you are fat and depressed. So I brought low-calorie stuff and plenty of joints. Let’s get happy.”
We did. D told me with great detail about her new boyfriend, Jack, who was extremely proud of his penis, even though, as D noted, “There is absolutely NOTHING exceptional about it.” She gave Freda a deep kiss that I am fairly certain old Freda, wherever she is these days, still dreams about.
We got high, laughed ourselves silly, and ate every single rice cake, but we slathered them with peanut butter we stole out of Freda’s
stash. D cranked the music in our room up so loud that it started a dance party out in the study lounge. The smell of pot wafted through the air, Freda got so sweaty that she actually took a shower, and not only was I cheered up, but the entire third floor wanted to adopt D as their little sister. When she left Sunday, I nearly sobbed. Nearly.
“My God, D. You have to go home. Right now!”
My sister broke the suction between Alex and her left nipple with a moist pop and shifted him over to her right breast. “Huh?”
“Diana. If things are that bad between you, you have to do something! This is just a rough patch. Babies are stressful. Who knew that you wouldn’t be an earth mother? So your actual baby isn’t exactly the dream baby you imagined. So he has a little colic. So Bryan doesn’t change diapers or hover, or whatever he doesn’t do. But you can’t just give in to this. You cannot split UP.” By this time, I was sitting cross-legged, sweating profusely, my stomach clenched so hard that I felt sick.
Diana paled. “Going home won’t change anything. It sucked at home. THAT IS WHY I CAME HERE, YOU MORON.”
I slapped my knees so hard, it left red marks on my inner thighs. Then I spoke, and it was as if I had stepped outside of myself. It was as if the “soul” me was floating on the ceiling, watching the “real” me speak. “So leave Alex here with me. I can handle him. You know, pump a ton of breast milk. Get on a plane. Go home and get some emergency marriage counseling. Have a bunch of sex. Or couples massage. Or, I don’t know, call a doctor and get a double prescription for Zoloft. But for God’s sake, don’t get divorced!” The floating me was flabbergasted at what the real me was proclaiming.
Diana looked skeptical at first, then, as I could almost see the wheels turning around in her brain, she perked up a bit. “You’re right. If I leave in a couple of days, that will give me time to pump you a supply of breast milk. Plus, you can supplement with formula if you have to. It doesn’t seem to affect the colic, because we tried it to see. So that won’t change . . .” she joggled Alex as she warmed to the subject. “And I can pump and dump while I am there.”
“Enough with the breasts. Think about saving your marriage. Call for some reservations at a five-star restaurant. Make a waxing appointment for tomorrow. Get a mani-pedi. Honestly, Mom and I can handle Alex for a few days.”
D drew her eyebrows together. “Have you forgotten? Mom is leaving tomorrow for Atlanta. The design conference where all the HGTV stars are keynoting. If I go, you will be on your own. Well, you and Bob. When is Ella coming home?”
The soul me re-entered my body and slapped me upside the face. “Shit. I don’t know. It will be at least a couple of weeks. And Gail is tied up all day with work and all night with Rick.” I fell back on the carpet. “But never fear. Because I can handle this.”
My soul didn’t buy it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Diana made me a list as long as my arm of things I needed to know for Alex. Don’t use Tide to wash his clothes, use Ivory Flakes. Don’t give him tap water—only distilled. At the slightest sign of a rash, use A&D ointment. Never turn your back on him while bathing him. Support his head. Pediatrician phone number. Emergency babysitter number (Did D think I might want to go on a few dates while she was gone?), and ON AND ON. I posted it on the fridge while rolling my eyes.
I made sure she visited the waxing salon, although she balked. I did her nails myself, and urged her to make an emergency stop at Victoria’s Secret at the mall. By the time she was sobbing while hugging Alex at the airport, I was sort of relieved to see her go. I made her put her hand over her heart and promise me that she would only text me three times a day.
Alex and I got back from the airport, and I set him in his bouncy chair while I loaded the dishwasher. We had an interesting conversation, as we waited for Bob to come home from school.
“Well, guy, do you think you will miss your Mom?” Alex gurgled. “Don’t answer that. It will hurt my feelings.” I studied the spots covering my glassware and decided I needed to try another dishwasher powder. Maybe those pod things.
As Alex shook his dinosaur, I wiped down the counters. There was a knock on the door. I hoisted Alex out of the bouncy chair, and he punched me in the eye with the Tyrannosaurus. Maybe I should put that one away for when he’s older.
Bob stood on the porch, knocking on the door with her shoe. Her arms were full of bags. “Oh, thanks, Beck! I couldn’t open the door. These are things for Alex and for us, too. From Hallie’s mom.”
Not wanting to hurt her feelings by pointing out that she could have set the bags down to open the door, I smiled instead. “What on earth did she send over?”
I followed Bob into the kitchen, where she set the bags down to unload. “One tin of chocolate chip cookies, for energy. Mrs. Davis said we would need lots of energy for taking care of Alex full time.” Bob opened the tin and helped herself. She held one out to me, but I decided to hold off to see what else Marva sent.
Bob rustled around and pulled out a stuffed rabbit. He was nubbly white, with pink embroidered eyes, and a puff of a tail. “He doesn’t have any loose parts. So he’s safe for Alex. Mrs. Davis crocheted him! Can you believe it?” I was amazed, to be honest.
Next, Bob opened the second bag and extracted a book. “For you. Just in case, Mrs. Davis said to tell you.” It was called The Happiest Baby on the Block. “She says she gives this to all her friends who are expecting, and she had a spare one that you could have. It has advice in it.” Okay, then. Backup.
Finally, Bob pulled out a box containing two dozen popsicles, and two quart-sized containers of Graeter’s coffee ice cream. My favorite. I made a mental note to kiss Marva the next time I saw her. I opened the freezer door for Bob, who deposited the treats inside. Then she sniffed. Sniffed again.
“Beck. I think Alex is poopy.”
I groaned. “Now it begins, kiddo. I guess I have to take him up and change him. Want to help?”
Bob held her nose, squinted, laughed, and ran out of the room calling “NO! NO! ANYTHING BUT POOP!”
I heard the front screen door slam after her as she thundered outside. “I will be playing in the front, okay?”
I called back my assent as I carried Alex upstairs. D had provided a changing pad, which I had unfolded on my bed as a diaper station. D had included wipes and the inevitable A&D. Those were beside the pad. I stretched Alex out, and noted with alarm that the poop had oozed out of his diaper and saturated the front of his onesie. Ugh.
I peeled off the onesie, threw it on the floor to address later, and undid the tabs of his Pamper. My God. The kid had a poop extravaganza going on in there! Poop in the crotch. Poop on the buttocks. IN the buttocks. On his chest and up his back.
About fifteen wipes later, he was finally clean. The changing pad was besmirched, so I would need to do a load of laundry. I threw the changing pad on the floor with the onesie. Alex seemed to like the feel of Ella’s chenille bedspread under his skin. He smiled. I put a fresh Pamper on him, first backwards. Then I saw that thankfully, the diapers were marked FRONT AND BACK for idiots like me. I switched it around and did the tabs.
Shoot. He needed a clean outfit. I pushed him onto the center of the bed, where he would be safe, and turned to grab a clean onesie out of the drawer. I swear to you, God, and the angels in heaven that my back was turned for less than one second.
All his onesies were inside out. As I turned the fresh one right side, marveling at how small these outfits were, and how tiny humans could be, I heard a thump. I pivoted just in time to see Alex roll off the edge of the bed and face plant on Ella’s Persian rug. There was an eerie silence, and then a strangled cry.
I dropped the onesie, leapt over, and grabbed Alex, who by this time was beet red, gasping, shrieking, and heaving for air. “Baby, baby, baby, are you okay?” I ran my hand all over his head, looking for bumps. It seemed okay. I put him on the bed, and checked his legs and
back. Everything seemed to look normal.
But Alex kept crying. And doing the gaspy breathing.
I started to sob myself, and I grabbed Alex, the onesie, the diaper bag, and stumbled down the stairs, screaming. “BOB! BOB!”
I ran out onto the porch. Bob had stopped dead in the middle of a hopscotch. Both hands over her heart, she called, “OH NO! WHAT HAPPENED?”
I sat down on Ella’s front step, rocking Alex back and forth in my arms. Bob rushed over and flung herself down beside us and peered into my arms. “Oh, Bob, he fell off the bed! I swear I turned my back on him for less than a second! What if he’s really injured? Do babies get concussions?”
By this time, Alex had quieted down. He nestled against my shoulder, his tiny face streaked with tears, his whole body limp. Bob stroked his head. Now Alex was quiet, but Bob and I were crying.
“Bob. We have to take him to a doctor. What if something is broken? What if he’s really hurt?” I pointed inside. “Hurry in and grab the list off the fridge that Diana gave me. And get my car keys. They’re on the hall table. And my cell! It’s should be beside the keys. HURRY!”
Bob and I managed to stop crying, buckle Alex into his car seat, and back out of Ella’s driveway without incident. I steered with one hand and held the list with my other.
I read out the phone number of the pediatrician to Bob and told her to punch it in on the cell. “Tell them that we have an emergency, that this is Alex Dallas coming in. He is Claire Throckmorton’s grandson. They know who that is.”
Bob handled the call admirably, ad-libbing that it probably wasn’t an emergency, but that we just wanted to make sure he was okay. After she hung up, she looked at me with a pale face. “I said the part about it us wanting to make sure he was okay so they won’t think we are child abusers.”
Crossing the Street Page 19