Only one of the women partners at my firm has kids, and she has a full-time nanny. Take her kids to soccer practice? Forget it. She orders them a cab.
4:30 A.M.
The truth is, neither of us have the right kind of lives for parenthood. We don’t have the time to raise a child. What in God’s name were we thinking? Why did we get ourselves into this? Were we just frightened into it by that long, terrifying article Tom’s mother sent us about the consequences of delaying conception? Was it the fact that I was starting to get choked up every time I passed a baby store (those teeny tiny onesies…)? Or was it the general, inchoate feeling that if you’re married and nearly thirty, it must be time?
But now I’m starting to think we should have waited. Given our lives, our commitments, our ambitions, how on earth are we going to parent a child?
26
3 P.M.
It’s a bright sunny day today; the sky is clear, cloudless, endlessly blue. Lying here, staring at the world through a triply glazed window, you could almost imagine it’s summer—until you see the thin, stripped trees along the street, the pallid fawn sunshine, the pedestrians muffled up in furry coats and downy jackets. But still, there is something of spring in the sky today—the blue is deeper, more intense, than it was when I first went on bed rest, last month, in February.
A nurse called Jamala just told me that, because there have been no serious heart decelerations in the past twenty-four hours, the doctors have decided to discharge me after all. I’ll be monitored as an outpatient for the rest of the pregnancy.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or not. I’m still scared that something will go wrong and I won’t know about it. On the other hand I feel dangerously on the verge of delivery in here. As long as I’m lying in a narrow hospital bed I’m a problem they want to solve; consultants watch me, speculatively, debating by the hour whether now is the time to induce labor, to get the baby out, to intervene. When I was about six we a had cat named Mirror who vanished early one summer morning; a few days later I found her curled up in a dark place in the garage, a litter of tortoiseshell kittens mewling beneath her swollen pink stomach. I think I feel like Mirror must have felt; I want to get away from everyone, to find a quiet place, and make a nest about me for my child.
Because whether this is the right time to have a baby or not, I want him so badly. I long to hold him, to feel the weight of him, warm, in my arms.
Over lunch I reread my diary entries for last night; I was really wound up, stomach coiled tight with fear and frustration. “Things always look worse in the hour before dawn,” Mummy used to tell me when I was up late with a particularly bad bout of adolescent angst. But this wasn’t just a nighttime fantasy, a horror of the darkness; Tom and I have some serious talking to do when I get out of here. The gap between us—let’s face it—is getting bigger.
4 P.M.
The baby is kicking particularly hard at the moment, as if he’s trying to let me know he’s okay. And he had a long bout of hiccups a few moments ago which—my new best friend Jamala told me, with a comfortable smile as she plumped up my plastic-coated pillow—is an excellent sign of “fetal well-being.” The attending told me as she signed off on me that although they expect the baby will come early, they are feeling increasingly optimistic about his health. So I feel a lot more comfortable—in fact, I’ve even allowed Jamala to turn off the monitor. The silence expands to fill the room. Warmed by the sun, it is deeply peaceful.
9 P.M.
I’m writing this from my own Liberty print couch, under my own blue-and-gray blanket, in my own yellow sitting room, behind my own apartment door. I am unlikely to move from here for the next five weeks. But at least I’m home.
27
Tuesday Noon
Mrs. Gianopoulou came to visit this morning, bringing spicy sausage, red pepper spread, and homemade bread for my lunch. The fragrance of the freshly baked bread is filling the apartment as I type, mixing gloriously with the fresh sunny air streaming in from the open window opposite my sofa.
As soon as Mrs. G walked through the door I remembered the letter I’m supposed to be writing to Randalls about the apartment complex opposite. Shit. The crisis over the weekend threw the whole thing completely from my mind. Mrs. G waved her hand dismissively when I began to apologize for forgetting. Please, please, she said. No problems. Baby first. But I promised her I’d draft it this afternoon, and we agreed that she and Alexis will drop in to read it tomorrow evening. Great, I thought, at least I’m getting some eye candy out of this. I wonder if he’ll wear those tight black jeans again.
Brianna phoned and apologized for failing to visit me in the hospital (I did wonder what had happened to her, she’s normally so devoted). It turns out that her grandmother was taken ill, and she’s been visiting the old lady in Westchester County for the last three days. I think the time away from the city has done her good. She seems much calmer, much more balanced about Mark—or “the MM,” as we continue to call him (I haven’t let on yet that I know his identity), although Bri’s equanimity about Mark’s desertion may be caused by the advent of a new passion for Alexis. She asked me—casually—how often “that incredibly hot neighbor of yours” comes to visit. Actually, I said, he’ll be here tomorrow evening to look at a letter I’m drafting for him and his aunt. Oh really, she said. Yes really, I said. Uh-huh, she said, in pregnant tones.
Alison also called half an hour ago to say that she may come to visit; I’ll believe it when I see it, since she told me in the next breath that Gregory is up for promotion and is cozying up to his boss. They’re off for a golfing weekend with “Alan and Sue” in a few weeks, and Alison is hosting an intimate little dinner party for them at the flat in Pimlico (catered by Fortnums) this weekend. I can’t see her backing out of the full-court press on Alan “I’m connected to a duke by marriage” Atkins anytime soon. I met him once at one of Alison’s exhibitions and found him utterly loathsome; he’s typical of a certain sort of London banker, public-school educated, fat, florid, and he leans in too close when he talks to young women. Sue also seems pressed from a familiar mold: thin and angular, she has graying frizzy hair, a twittery way of speaking, and an unaccountable middle-class penchant for Laura Ashley that has survived the transition to serious wealth. Greg is on course to become Alan in about twenty years, but Alison—thank God—is unlikely to morph into Sue. Mind you, I wonder what that says about their prospects for marital success.
3 P.M.
Fay has been here! Quite extraordinary. She actually took time off to come and visit me for lunch, bringing—and I thought this was quite imaginative of her—a loaf of sourdough bread and three pots of “artisanal” preserves from Balducci’s (“La famille Honoré Saint-Juste has fashioned preserves of the highest quality for six generations…every berry is personally inspected by Hubert Honoré Saint-Juste, the last of the Haute Provences Saint-Justes…”). I’ve already worked my way through half the jar of cerises noirs, and I’m well on the way through the miel noisette.
The most extraordinary part of this extraordinary visit was that Fay—reserved, tight-lipped Fay—unbosomed herself of her romantic travails. Her ex-girlfriend, Julia, has just moved back to the city after several years of working as a camerawoman on a sitcom in Los Angeles, and clearly assumes that their amour will recommence. Fay admitted in a startling burst of candor that it has taken her most of the last two years to recover from the breakup, and she is in no hurry to return to the arms of a woman who, however winsome, makes no bones about the fact that she’ll hightail it back to L.A. if and when a new job presents itself.
It’s strange how people feel they can confide in a woman on bed rest. Brianna, Lara, Fay, even Mrs. G to some extent seem to enjoy heart-to-hearts with a bed-bound Q. Maybe they think I have nothing better to do; maybe a pregnant woman in dark seclusion stirs ancient memories of wise women and mystic seers.
I am, as it happens, feeling particularly wise today. Halfway through Fay’s account of Julia’s iniquities
it struck me that Paola, a school friend of Tom’s, recently broke up with her girlfriend, and would make a perfect match for Fay. They both love opera (not that I realized this about Fay before today, but she just told me that she has tickets to see La Forze del Something at the Met on Saturday). And they both have Persian cats (yuck) and they recently traveled to Peru. We have a pot thrown by some Andean artisan on our windowsill, sent by Paola, so I skillfully directed Fay’s attention to it, casually referred to Paola, and mentioned that she’d hiked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu last summer. Fay’s eyes lit up; she’s just itching to discuss the flora and fauna of the Amazon with someone, I can tell. I assumed a suitably oracular expression and hinted that Paola might be visiting us in the next week or two. It may be time to have a party. I shall preside in a queenly fashion from my couch. “Throw fabulous parties” and “unite lonely, single friends” are definitely two boxes to check on the Modern Woman’s List of Things to Do Before Hitting Thirty.
28
Wednesday 8:30 A.M.
I woke up at 3 A.M. in a vast, sweaty panic. I have just realized something. I’m going to have a baby in five weeks’ time. Not ten weeks, like most women, but five. And I don’t have a bed for the baby to sleep in. I don’t have a seat for the baby to bounce in. I don’t even have—wait, what else do babies need? What do they wear to bed, for example? I have no idea. And what about play-time—do newborns really need those hideous brightly colored mats my friends’ children sprawl on, like tiny upended beetles? Will I be starving my child of sensory experience if I don’t have Lamaze clutch cubes ready to go on the day of delivery?
I proudly refused all offers of something called a “shower” when I first found out I was pregnant. Not English, I said, cowing my American friends and colleagues into silence with an airy wave of the hand; not English at all.
This may have been a mistake.
9 A.M.
I have consulted the Web. Babyfocus.com provides a list of all the things you need as a new parent. They divide necessities up into different categories. I can barely remember all the categories, let alone the things in all the categories. But anyway, the salient point is this: we do not have any of the things in any of the categories. Nada. Nil. Zip. Zero. Time, Q, to swing into action. I can’t go out to shop, but this is the twenty-first century, a brave new world: I have everything I need at my fingertips. I can buy things over the Web and have them delivered to our door, and very soon I will be prepared, materially at least, for motherhood.
10 A.M.
At a different point in my life, I would be overwhelmed right now. I would be baffled by the differences between a bassinet, a Moses basket, a cradle, a cot, and a crib (and life isn’t made any easier by the fact that most of these things have different names in England). I would be panicked by the intricacies of mattress design and the responsibility of fending off that dreaded specter, SIDS. I would be befuddled by the range of strollers on the market, not to mention the significance of locked and unlocked front wheels and three-versus five-point harnesses. But I do not have time to be overwhelmed, baffled, or befuddled, and I am therefore responding to the bewildering array of baby “necessities” with coolness and aplomb.
I’m going to take this a step at a time. I’ll concentrate on one category a day. Today’s babyfocus category will be “diapering” (or nappies, as we like to call them in England, a much more friendly term I think. “Nappy” makes me think of soft, white, nubbly jersey. “Diaper” sounds like something more properly found in a toolbox). Whatever else you buy or don’t buy, diapers/nappies are imperative, so this seems like a good place to start.
1 P.M.
But “diapering” turns out to have hidden complexities.
I spent an hour browsing changing tables in multiple designs and from multiple vendors before I discovered that you can buy chests of drawers with a “changing station” on top. This seems like a good idea, particularly in a small Upper-East-Side apartment. So I spent the next hour searching chests of drawers with changing tabletops, only to discover that you can also buy cribs with chests of drawers and changing tables built in as well. So now I’m searching cribs in addition to chests of drawers and changing tables, and my categories are getting all mixed up, and I’m on Friday’s and Saturday’s searches already and it’s only Wednesday, and I’m all in a lather because cribs need to have all sorts of safety features, and I don’t know if the all-in-one options are as safety conscious as the stand-alone ones, and all I really wanted to buy today was a bumper box of Huggies and a tube of skin cream…
And the bumper box of Huggies isn’t the breezy decision I thought it would be either, because they come in all sorts of different sizes and quality ranges, and do I really need Huggies anyway? Am I being suckered into buying an expensive brand when generics are just as good? And as for the skin cream, do I want to purchase diaper rash lotion or a prophylactic ointment, and while I’m at it, do I want to take advantage of the special two-for-one deal at pharmacyusa.org and buy a tube of lanolin for nipple soreness? But “nursing” is next Monday’s category, and right now I have no idea what lanolin is or whether it’s something I need. I’m exhausted. Once upon a time, preparing for a baby meant sewing a few cotton nighties and fishing the family cradle out of the attic. Life is so much more complicated these days. At this speed I’ll barely be ready by the time my son is born. Good thing I’m on bed rest, I suppose.
29
Thursday 7 P.M.
Diapering contd.
1 pack newborn diapers, 1 pack Stage One diapers
1 Diaper Sprite diaper pail
4 Diaper Sprite diaper pail refills
4 packs baby wipes, unfragranced
2 tubes vitamin A&D lotion
1 tub diaper rash ointment
1 changing pad, contoured
4 changing pad covers (navy blue, stretch terry cloth)
1 changing table/storage chest combo with canvas organizer drawers
TOTAL COST: $304.98
30
Friday 8:15 P.M.
Alexis and Mrs. G have just been here to read the letter I drafted to Randalls. I am bathed in the warm glow of their gratitude. I may be barely equipped for motherhood, but at least I can write a letter to put the fear of God in Genghis Khan. Alexis smiled at me from under his dark golden floppy fringe with admiration in his eyes; Mrs. G looked maternally proud of me. Honestly, I don’t know which delighted me the most.
Brianna was a no-show, which surprised me—I wonder if she’s relapsed into thoughts of Mark? I hope not. She’s an idiot if she passes up Alexis. He may be a few inches shorter than me, but if I wasn’t a married woman with a child poking out of her abdomen, I’d be eating sun-ripened strawberries out of his belly button by now.
31
Monday 9 A.M.
I’ve just been checking the status of my packages, and according to fedex.com, by Wednesday afternoon I will be in possession of:
1 bassinet with “soothing vibrations” and a rotating musical mobile
1 crib plus 4 cotton sheets, 1 fairground-themed bumper, and 3 matching blankets
1 nursing glider
1 nursing glider footrest ($45 extra but what the hell)
1 changing table/chest
The diapering stuff may arrive as early as tomorrow morning.
I’m starting to get my life under control.
I phoned a series of friends last night and invited them to a party on Friday evening. I could tell people were surprised to hear from me.
“Really? Oh—ah—so you’re allowed to get up again, are you? I haven’t been calling because I thought you were, y’know, out of circulation, and all that.” This was from Patty, a fellow expat Brit, who used to be my gym buddy. She’s a cousin of one of my best friends from university and moved here about two years ago to work for a publishing company.
I explained, a hint of arctic chill in my voice, that no, I wasn’t allowed up yet, but that my condition didn’t stop me from seeing people in
the apartment. As it turns out, life is really very boring stuck on your left side 24/7. Some company would be welcome. This weekend. At eight o’clock. Prompt.
Oh, ah, yes, said Patty. Right. Friday night at eight it is, then.
In fact, almost everyone I phoned agreed to come after hearing my brief speech on the lonesomeness of bed rest. Guilt can be a useful thing. (My mother trained me well.)
Paola is coming up from New Jersey and will stay with a friend, and Fay has agreed to take a few hours off work to come to the party, so the pieces of that little plan are falling into place. I’ll have the two of them in the same room at the same time, and with a few choice references to the mysteries of the Inca kingdom, I’ll surely have them in the same bed by the end of the weekend. I’ve also decided that, while I’m playing Cupid, I might as well unite Brianna with the lovely Alexis. However, there’s one slight problem: Tom wants to invite Mark and Lara on Friday evening as well (“Can’t have a party and leave Mark out, Q, you know that”). Initially I balked, but then it struck me that the sight of Mark with Lara will surely make Brianna all the more likely to put the moves on Alexis. She’ll be so desperate to prove that she’s not pining away, she’ll almost certainly leap into the arms of the first willing man in her path. I haven’t looked forward to a party this much since my first-ever disco, at Little Stonham Village Hall, in 1985.
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