by B. L. Berry
“I know that I am so not ready for any of this! I know that I’m going to be a horrible mother! I don’t know how to make my own baby food, and I’ve never changed a diaper, and I don’t even know what a pee pee teepee is, and I’m terrified I’m going to be doing this all wrong! I’m scared!”
Tara sits on the arm of the chair and puts her hand on my back. “I think it is virtually impossible for you to be a bad mother, Henley. And listen to me closely. It’s okay to be scared. Every woman is scared before she has a baby. But the best things in life are waiting for you on the other side of terror,” she says slowly and deliberately to me before turning back around to all of the shower guests. “But fuck all of this advice!”
The room turns quiet, save for a few gasps at Tara’s f-bomb, no doubt from my mom’s church contingency. Jeanne The Hypocrite goes bug-eyed as she chugs the last of the champagne straight from the bottle. Thankfully, the eyes turn from me and straight to Tara.
“No offense, ladies, but some of your mothering methods are downright questionable at best. Who are we to judge each other? Who are you to judge Henley? And shit, why the hell are we incapable of simply celebrating motherhood — all kinds of mothers — regardless of our methods? This is not okay!” Tara turns her back to the shower guests and focuses her eyes on me. “And, Henley, I’m sorry that my little shower has seeded all of this doubt in you, but you are going to be the best damn mom in the history of moms. And even when you’re living and breathing those inevitable mom fail moments, you’ll still be the best because you’ll be mothering from the heart.”
Everyone watches in stupefied silence.
Then, as if on cue, Jeff’s mom starts the kind of slow clap reserved for that epic scene in all the great movies, and my heart begins to swell, ever so slightly. Except only a few co-workers and sorority sisters join in.
And Jeanne.
Jeanne The Hypocrite raises her empty glass in solidarity.
“I can’t believe you had a meltdown at your own baby shower,” Jeff says over dinner that night as I recall the tale of the baby shower that no one will soon forget.
“It wasn’t so much of a meltdown as it was nuclear hysterics,” I clarify shamefully. It will be a long time before I’m capable of bringing myself around most of those women. Even as Tara ushered everyone out, the judgments never ended.
I spear the last green bean on my plate with my fork and pop it into my mouth, fearful that if I keep talking about this afternoon, the waterworks will start again.
Jeff eyes me cautiously like he knows I could break again at any moment.
“Well, I’m glad Tara went off on a tangent. And if I’ve told you once, I’ll tell you a million more times, you’re going to be a remarkable mother, Henley.”
I swallow and take a slow, deep breath.
“I’m just scared. We’re going to be raising a human. A little human who can’t fend for itself. There is a lot of room to screw this up. I spent the day listening to other moms talk about how much they loved being pregnant and the closeness they felt to their unborn child. This child has taken up residence right on top of my bladder, and I feel like I don’t even know him.”
Jeff puts his fork down against the side of the plate and reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. “Our baby hasn’t even been born yet, but already you’re closer to him than I am.” There’s a tinge of jealousy in his voice that I never even considered.
“That’s because my stomach has turned into an Easy Bake Oven. But there are plenty of things you can do to bond with this baby before its debut.”
“Oh? Like what?”
I bite my lip for a moment and think back to what the baby books have all said. “Well, for starters, the baby can already distinguish voices, so you could read a book … or even sing to it. Your mom is making a point to baby talk straight to my vagina. Who knows, maybe she’s onto something?”
“She did not!” His mouth drops in mortification as he imagines his mom’s face all up in my unmentionables. I can’t help but laugh.
“Oh yes, she did. And the kid even fluttered in my stomach at the sound of her voice. I dunno, while highly inappropriate, it was certainly sweet and done with the best intentions,” I admit. “Maybe it’s worth a shot?” I can’t believe I’m giving him free reign to talk to my stomach.
He nods in agreement, then stands to clear the table. “Tonight! Tonight, I will do that.”
When Jeff leans down to grab my plate, I tilt my chin up and press my lips to his.
“I wonder how little Jeff Junior would feel about me singing to him?” he asks when our lips finally break apart.
I try to avoid laughing because the only time Jeff sounds good singing is when he’s alone in his car and the radio is cranked all the way up. Before I say anything, he’s practicing under his breath. Except he’s not singing. He’s rapping his favorite Jay-Z tune. “I got ninety-nine problems, but your mom ain’t one…”
I smile, thankful he’s singing his favorite Jay-Z song and not mine …
Big Pimpin’.
THE MILKMAN
“What does this thing do?”
“Um, that’s my breast pump, honey.” Awkward!
Jeff looks at the machine and all the boxes of funnels and tubing that are piled on top of our bed. The edges of his lips curl up, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in thought. I can tell he’s about to say something he may regret.
“Nope, don’t even think about saying it. I know that wicked little mind of yours is conjuring up some joke about why would I need a breast pump when I have you to take care of that for me and blah, blah, blah …” I trail off and walk into the bathroom just off our bedroom.
“That’s not what I was going to say, Henley. Give me more credit than that,” he calls out from the other room.
Suuure.
I pee for the hundredth—no thousandth—time today, then begin splashing water on my face to start removing my makeup. Before I brush my teeth, Jeff is calling me from the other side of the wall.
“Let’s give it a whirl.”
I pop my head through the bathroom door and glare at him. He’s joking, right? “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m pretty sure nothing will come out at this point. Plus I read in one of those pregnancy books that too much nipple stimulation can cause contractions. And frankly, I’m not that eager to jump start that process. We don’t even have the nursery finished yet.”
“I didn’t mean for you to try it.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no!
When I walk back into the room, Jeff already has the breast pump bag laid out on the bed and is opening the boxes of funnels and bottles. He’s trying to figure out which parts connect to what pieces without even bothering to look at the directions.
“Jeff, don’t you dare. This is not a penis pump. This isn’t a toy. This is an expensive piece of machinery. You do realize I need this so I can help store milk for our child, right?”
“First of all, my son will drink right off the tap just like his daddy.” He gives me a lazy, smug grin. And I realize that this moment, right here, is the first time in a while where we’ve actually felt like us.
We’re the normal Henley and Jeff.
And damn does that feel good.
I sigh. As much as I love this man, he drives me crazy. “No. No, first of all. Yes, I am going to nurse our baby — which could very well end up a she. But I can’t exactly bring him or her into the classroom with me every day. I’m going to have to pump milk. But let me be clear, even though you may sometimes act like a big ole baby, I am nursing our newborn, not you.”
Jeff throws his arms in the air. “I didn’t mean it like that, babe.” He turns quiet.
“Oh? What did you mean it like, then?”
He stands and meets me in the middle of the room, wrapping his arms around my waist. He looks down at me, almost with embarrassment. “I … I just want to see what it feels like, that’s all,” he says softly with a subtle shrug of his shoulder
s. He nuzzles his nose down into my shoulder, and the scruff from his five o’clock shadow tickles the bare skin of my neck before he kisses me tenderly.
“You want to see what it feels like?” I repeat slowly, unsure I heard him correctly.
He nods. I’m still not sure if he’s joking, so I suppress the laughter bubbling inside of me. “Well, yeah,” he says matter of factly. “We’re in this together. If I could experience what a contraction feels like right along with you, I would. I love you, and I love this baby. But honestly? I’m just genuinely curious what it feels like to be a woman.”
I’m not sure if I should be mortified or sincerely touched by this moment. Or maybe he’s just trying too hard? But either way, I’ll go with it.
“Okay. If you want to try the breast pump, I’ll let you. But only under two conditions.” I put my fist on my side and jut my hip out.
“Hmmm … and what are they?” He eyes me suspiciously, and I give him an innocent, coquettish smile.
“One,” I hold my pointer finger in the air between us. “You let me take a photo to commemorate the moment.”
“No! No way. That is not gonna happen.”
“Pics or it doesn’t happen,” I singsong back to him.
He folds his arms in protest, and I take this moment to inform him of the other condition with a second finger in the air. “And two, you aren’t allowed to stop until I say when.”
He presses his lips into a hard line and looks at me, seriously weighing how badly he wants to test the waters. I can practically see the cogs in his brain turning round and round as he looks at the machine intently. And just when I’m convinced he’s about to bail, he surprises me.
“All right,” he clips with a slight nod. “I’ll do it. I’m man enough to try your breast pump and even let you take a photo. Actually, I’ll one up you.”
“Oh?” I fold my arms, challenging him. I’m not sure how this night could get any better.
But it does.
“Yeah. I’ll let you video me, and then share it with Chris and Kyle.”
I laugh so hard I nearly pee myself. And it feels good. This feels normal. Like us. The way we’re meant to be. “Really? You’ll let me show your family? What’s the catch?” I smirk. Surely it can’t be this easy.
“No catch.” He stretches his arms wide. “Like I said, I’m man enough.”
Wow. He must really want to take this thing for a test drive. “Okay then.” I sit down on the bed and pull the breast pump instructions from the discarded box, quickly scanning over the “how to” illustrations and piecing everything together.
I plug the machine into the wall and turn the power dial, watching as my brand new breast pump comes to life, wheezing and humming in an even cadence. Now that I can hear it, I can’t lie … I’m a bit curious how this works, too. I turn the machine off and then look back to Jeff.
“Okay, my hunky piece of man candy. Nipples out!”
Jeff strips his shirt off a little too eagerly if you ask me, and I giggle in anticipation. He sits down next to me on the bed. “So I just put this here over my breasticle?” He takes one of the funnels and presses it against his left pec. “And the other one here?” He takes the other on his right.
I nod and grab my iPhone. “You ready?” I ask.
“Let’s do this.”
I hit record on my phone and slowly turn the dial to the lowest setting. Again, the breast pump hums to life, and I watch Jeff intently. “Okay. That’s weird. Maybe even a little nice,” he admits, “but mostly weird.”
“What’s it like?”
“I dunno … just a gentle little tug, I guess. No big deal. If nursing is anything like this, I think you’re golden.” He watches his pecs subtly get suctioned in and out of the funnel.
“Getting any milk in there, big boy?”
Jeff rolls his eyes at me. “Hah. Hah. Aren’t you the comedienne?”
“I’m not the one experimenting with a breast pump.” I smile conspiratorially at him. “Want me to turn it up a pinch?”
He looks right at the camera with an unsuspecting grin that makes me melt. “Sure.”
Slowly I turn the dial to medium, and the machine instantly wheezes faster, harder.
“Whoa!” Jeff looks down at his chest and smiles at his pecs as they pulsate in unison. Then the uncontrollable laughter begins and he can barely talk. “Oh my gosh, it’s … it’s vibrating … against my skin. It tickles so much! Wait! No … it’s starting to hurt a little!”
The sound coming from his mouth is akin to a little girl being tickled, and I completely lose it. Tears prick my eyes, and I struggle to keep my iPhone camera steady. And suddenly I have to pee. Jeff falls back into a cloud of pillows and goes to pull the funnels away.
“Don’t you dare! You haven’t even hit the highest setting.” I move closer to the bed to get a better shot of Jeff flailing around in hysterics. “Or are you not man enough?” I know I’m just goading him now, but how can I not?
“Oh? I’ll show you how man enough I am. Do it. Turn it up. All the way to eleven.”
I shake my head at his ridiculousness, then reach out and turn it about three-quarters of the way to high for a moment.
“Holy shit, woman!” Jeff winces in both discomfort and laughter, and just when he starts to get used to the sensation, I crank it to the maximum setting.
“Shit! Fuck! Lunch truck!” he cries out in agony. Or pleasure. I’m not sure which because the look on his face is a cross of elation and amazement and horror and what the hell is this torture device. “Henley! Ow! Make it stop!”
“What? I can’t hear you over the sound of your manliness.”
“Holy shit! Henley! I can’t! This hurts!” But he’s still roaring with laughter. “Turn it off!”
“You want me to turn the camera off? If I do, your brothers won’t see how manly you are.”
“No! The pump! Turn the damn breast pump off! Please!” he pleads as tears start to prick the corners of his eyes.
With a smug smile on my face, I oblige, though I did enjoy this temporary moment of ridiculous suffering. I think all dads-to-be should be open-minded and try to find ways to experience the joys of motherhood like Jeff has.
When Jeff finally rips the funnels from his chest, he has bright red circles over both of his pecs from the extreme suction. It looks like a pair of bloodshot eyes looking at me with tiny erect man nips as the pupils sticking out at me.
Jeff lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. As I give him a moment to collect himself, I quickly email the file to my account as backup for safe keeping.
“You okay?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
He turns his head toward me, his eyes wild and confused. “If this kid is anything like your breast pump, you’re going to have a little vampire trying to eat you alive every feeding.” He pants some more. “If I wasn’t over the moon about you having my baby, I might even feel bad for knocking you up.”
I smile at him and reach for his hand. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“You have no idea.”
Later that night when we lay down for bed, Jeff grabs a book from the stack of baby shower presents. He places his hand upon my belly, clears his throat, and in a grand bravado gives a dramatic reading of Goodnight Moon.
Before he even says goodnight to the kittens and mittens, I’ve practically forgotten about our recent troubles and fallen in love with him that much more.
POOH BEAR LOGIC
“Get dressed, hoe. We’re going shopping.” Tara chucks a throw pillow at my face as she leaps off of the couch.
I roll my eyes so far back I can practically see my brain. The skin on my legs has permanently fused to the couch, and frankly, I don't wanna.
“When you said you wanted to hang out today, you made no mention of actually going out in public, so I’m not going anywhere.”
“We’ve been sitting here watching reruns of The Golden Girls,
and I want to scoop my eyeballs out with a spork. So, yes, you are going shopping. With me. Right now. Because I need some new shoes. So get up and get some clothes on.”
I look down at my wardrobe. “I’m in clothes.”
“You’re in a bathrobe. That hardly constitutes as clothing.”
I pull the sides of my robe closed a little tighter and sit up straight. “This is not a bathrobe. I’m wearing my most comfortable terry cloth wrap dress.” Which isn’t far from the truth. I’ve spent many nights wrapped up in nothing but this robe after stepping out of the shower. Besides, it’s one of the few things that actually fit my changing body these days.
Tara folds her arms and glares at me. “And do you have a bra on underneath your most comfortable terry cloth wrap dress?” she says with dramatic air quotes. She gives me that scolding motherly look that she’s perfected over the past few years and she knows she has me trapped. “Absolutely not. And I know this because a few moments ago you were oblivious to your own wardrobe malfunction and you flashed me some nip.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Fine. I’ll put clothes on. But don’t expect me to put makeup on and look cute. I’m a hopeless case right now. Besides, I haven’t done laundry in weeks, and nothing fits.”
“Nonsense. I’ll find you something.” She tugs at my hand, trying to pull me off the couch, but I’m sunk so far into the cushions it would take a crane to lift me. When I don’t budge, she turns on her heels and whistles as she strolls down the hallway.
It takes a great effort and a few animalistic grunts, but I’m finally able to push myself up and onto my feet. By the time I get to the bedroom, she’s got half of my clothes tossed onto the bed. I lean against the wall and watch her try to work her magic with my limited wardrobe in amusement. Her eyes light up as she pulls out one of my favorite shirts from the bottom drawer.