Wiped!

by Rebecca Eckler

  This whole teething experience is good for one and only one reason. Whenever she acts up in public, I just tell people that she’s teething. Everyone feels sympathy for parents going through the teething process. People just nod and say, “Oh, it must be so painful.” They have no idea.

  June 1

  I’m back in my hometown visiting my parents, who were yearning to see their granddaughter. It’s been a couple of months since they saw her last. It’s also a great excuse to see some of my friends with whom I’ve lost close contact. My parents are waiting for us at my condo when we arrive from the airport. One of my two younger brothers is also there. The baby loves this brother, her uncle. It’s amazing, because this brother is super-shy and not exactly a superstar when it comes to making conversation. But he loves the Dictator. I never would have pictured him as someone who likes babies, but he does. One of the amazing things you realize once you have a baby is that the people you think would be most comfortable with babies sometimes aren’t and are so awkward and nervous if you ask them to hold your baby. But the people you’d least expect to like babies, or feel at ease holding a baby, actually do like babies and enjoy holding them.

  My brother hands the Dictator a five-dollar bill. It’s a nice gesture. I know he’s only trying to be a good uncle and make his mark as the uncle who gives my baby cash. But eight-month-old babies don’t need money. I take the bill from him and tell him I’ll make sure to put it into her piggy bank. Of course, what I’m really planning is to pocket the money myself and buy coffee with it tomorrow. It will save me a trip to the ATM. Hey, she’s my baby. What’s mine is hers and what’s hers is mine.

  One strange thing about babies is that sometimes they just don’t like certain people. My baby hates my other brother, who is possibly the nicest guy in the world. But every time she sees this uncle, the nicest guy in the world, she starts screaming. I don’t understand it. My parents don’t understand it. My brother certainly doesn’t understand it.

  I wonder if the baby knows something that I don’t. Then again, she gets excited at stop signs. I don’t think we can take too seriously what she thinks about anything or anybody just yet.

  June 6

  I’m in the worst mood ever. I just got into a fight with my friend Jenna. Last time I was in town, she took a photo of my baby with her nephew. And now she brought the photo over for me to see.

  “Your baby looks so weird in this photo,” she said when handing it over to me. “She looks like an alien. But look how cute Jack is!”

  I don’t believe I have ever been so offended by anyone in my life. Yes, it was kind of true, I’ll admit. My baby wasn’t looking her cutest in the photo. Yes, it was kind of true, I’ll admit, she did kind of look like a creature from outer space. But how dare this friend think her nephew is cuter than my baby! Even if she thought it was true, even if it was true, she should know better than to ever say something like that aloud, especially to the baby’s mother. And I told her so. She apologized, but I don’t think she really understood why I had gotten so upset. She’s not a mother after all. She doesn’t understand that all mothers think their child is the cutest, most beautiful child in the world and that you are never supposed to say that their baby looks “weird.” When she has her own baby, she’ll understand that there are certain things one should never say to a mother, like “My baby is cuter,” “Why can’t she talk yet?” and “My baby is a genius.” It’s common sense.

  June 7

  I go to Sara’s house to visit her and her baby. I’m making the baby rounds. Sara puts on a baby-music CD, and her baby starts to wobble back and forth, like an uncoordinated dancer.

  “Oh, she just loves to boogey to music,” Sara says.

  Hey! I thought my baby was the only one who did that when she hears music! It was just like when I was pregnant, and kind of thought I was the only one in the world who had ever been knocked up. I also thought all the cute things my baby does—like clap her hands, or play peekaboo, or boogey to music—were things only she did. Apparently not. Apparently all babies do most things every other baby on the planet does. Sara’s daughter has hair that reaches her shoulders. My daughter, who is older, is still very bald. Sara can put her baby’s hair in ponytails, while my baby girl is wearing a T-shirt I found that says I AM NOT A BOY!

  Trust me, it’s my favorite shirt she owns. I just hope my baby gets some hair before she grows out of her I AM NOT A BOY! shirt. Because I still hear, at least once a day, that I have such an adorable son.

  June 15

  Oh my God! I just experienced my first baby-off!

  I have started using the phrase “baby-off” when it comes to competitive parents who think their child is way more advanced than everyone else’s. Baby-offs are the equivalent of playoffs in hockey. Like hockey, parenting can be very competitive. There are mothers all over the place who check out who has a better stroller, or whose children are wearing cuter shoes or designer clothes. There are mothers all over the place who tell you their five-month-old baby can sign the word “milk,” and mothers who tell you that their child started sleeping through the night starting at a month of age, and mothers who tell you their eight-month-old baby can read Tolstoy. (Liars! All of them!)

  I run into an acquaintance while out for a walk. She, too, is pushing her baby in a stroller. (My stroller is better! Ha ha!)

  “Hi! How’s it going?” she asks, her eyes taking in my daughter’s outfit as well as what I’m wearing.

  “Fine,” I say. “Your baby is so cute.”

  “Thanks. Isn’t he? Did you know that he already speaks in full sentences?”

  “No, I did not know that.” How the hell would I know that?

  “It’s because we’ve been taking him to five classes a week. He just loves them all. What classes do you take your baby to?”

  “Um, none?” I say. This acquaintance looks at me like I am a freak of nature. “Well, I got to get running,” I say, because I know this conversation isn’t going to get any better. I know that whatever comes out of her mouth will only make me feel worse. She is probably going to tell me next that her child has already been accepted to Harvard Law School.

  “Give me a call,” she says. “We can get our babies together and swim in my pool. He just loves swimming. He’s like a fish in water. He’s so good at it.”

  “Sure,” I say, thinking, “It’s so never going to happen.”

  “Do you have my number?”

  “I think I do,” I say. I’m pretty sure I don’t.

  I’ve clearly lost that baby-off. I must start bragging about my baby more. I just don’t think, when it comes to baby-offs, that I could ever win by saying, “My child says ‘Dada’ when she sees a tree. But I still have a better stroller, nananana-boo-boo.” Of course, her son has more hair. But my daughter has nicer eyes. And on and on the baby-offs go.

  June 20

  I’m back with the Fiancé and we’re out for dinner, just the two of us. It’s like we’re on a date. The in-laws are babysitting. We are having sushi. It was a long day with the baby, who is still teething. (What is it now, only four more months of hell to go through?)

  We are seated next to a table with a baby. I realize now that the world is more of a baby/family place than a single woman’s place. There are babies everywhere. I want to ask if we can move tables but don’t. That would be rude. But would it? I can’t help but think that the Fiancé and I are finally away from our baby for a night, and now we’re stuck sitting beside someone else’s baby. It’s like God is punishing us. Can’t we ever get a break?

  It’s true that since I’ve become a mother I am way more patient with other people’s babies. I no longer judge mothers when I see their children having temper tantrums. But, I admit, this baby who won’t stop banging his sippy cup, over and over again, on the table annoys the crap out of me. If I wanted to go out for dinner and be annoyed by a baby, I would have brought my own, thank you very much.

  June 21

  Great news! My
friend Grace is pregnant! Now when I hear news of my friends getting pregnant, I am super-excited. I want more and more of my friends to move over to my side—the mommy side. The more of us on the mommy side, the better. Strength in numbers is what I always say.

  “If there’s one piece of advice…” I hear myself saying to Grace. Argh! I hated when people said that to me when I was pregnant. People were constantly offering up their advice, even when I never asked. “Oh, forget it,” I said to her. “Don’t listen to me. Congratulations. You’re going to love being a mother. It’s so rewarding.”

  She is overjoyed at being pregnant. And, yes, the reason, at least partly, is because she hates her job and will have a maternity leave.

  June 22

  7:20 P.M.

  I’m pissed off, and getting pissier by the minute, waiting for my friend Faith to show up. We said we’d meet at 7 P.M. for dinner, and she’s late. I used to be the one who was always late.

  “I can’t believe you’re on time!” she says when she finally arrives. “I’m sorry I was late. I couldn’t get out of work.”

  “On time? I was right on time! In fact, I think I was early,” I say. I want her to feel bad for being late.

  “Okay, who are you?” she asks.

  “I know. Pathetic, right? It’s just that having a baby really changes you.” She gives me a bored look, as if she knew baby talk was coming. “No, don’t worry. I’m not going to bore you with baby talk. I just mean that you end up planning every minute of your day.”

  How can I explain to a nonmother that ten minutes makes all the difference in the world? Post-baby, ten minutes is the difference between having a shower and not having a shower. These twenty minutes waiting for Faith I could have spent hanging out with my baby, instead of sitting alone at a table, feeling like a loser whose friend may have stood her up.

  Faith and I have a nice-enough meal. We gossip. She tells me about the people she’s been dating. But, for some reason, the gossip doesn’t interest me as much as it once did. And this upsets me, because I usually love gossiping. Now that I’m a mother, I suppose, I’m just not as interested anymore, unless it’s gossip about someone getting pregnant.

  June 28

  We just never learn. We’ve decided to go out for dinner to a Chinese restaurant. Again. With the baby. After we finish eating, I feel like the worst mother in the world. But what could I have done? The baby took a shit while we were eating. Like we do 80 percent of the time, we had forgotten the diaper bag, but at least we had supplies in the car, and the Fiancé ran out to fetch them. There was no way we were going to put her in the car with her dirty diaper. We would suffocate from the smell.

  I took the baby to the washroom only to find that there was no changing table there. I didn’t even have a blanket or anything to lay on the floor, which was so dirty and grimy that I didn’t even feel all that comfortable walking on it in shoes. But I had to change her. What the fuck could I place her on? There weren’t even paper towels—the washroom had automatic hand dryers. I had no choice but to lay the baby right on the disgusting tiles. This restaurant, although it has wonderful spring rolls, was definitely not the cleanest place in the world.

  She screamed when she felt her head against the cool tile, and I knew I was going to have to give her a bath when we got home. I changed her disgusting diaper and picked her up. The garbage bin had no lid, and the baby’s diaper managed to smell up the entire restroom. I was glad no one had come in while we were in there.

  Not only had I lain my baby directly on the dirty floor, but I threw the dirty diaper and wipes into the trash bin and raced out.

  “We have to get out of here right now,” I tell the Fiancé, explaining the situation.

  “Oh God,” he moans.

  “There was nothing I could do!”

  He throws down some cash, including a 40 percent tip, and we race out.

  “We can’t go back there, can we?” I say.

  “Beck, there are now about a dozen restaurants in this city who would love it if they never saw us again.”

  When we get home, I immediately give the baby a bath. I make a mental note to start keeping a blanket in the trunk.

  July 4

  The in-laws are over and the Fiancé is furious.

  “No more big toys!” he yells at his parents. “You want her to have big toys, you keep them at your place! Stop bringing them over here!”

  His parents had bought Baby Rowan a tent. Yes, a tent. Sure, it’s a tent with Disney princess characters on it, but it’s still a damn tent. And it’s not a small tent either. It’s a big tent. Four people could sleep comfortably in this tent. We live in a two-bedroom condo. I’m less angry than the Fiancé is about this tent. I understand where he’s coming from. We can’t walk anywhere in our condo now without tripping over a toy. But I like the Disney princess tent. It’s pink and it’s cute and the baby thinks it’s fantastic.

  The tent is set up in the middle of our living room. There was no other place to put it.

  Well, according to the Fiancé, there was. He would have loved it if we had put it in the garbage bins in the parking garage.

  July 7

  I force the Fiancé to go out with one of his guy friends. I’m too tired to go anywhere at night. I can’t even remember having fun out at a bar anymore. But the Fiancé was always very social and, pre-baby, went out with friends a lot.

  He’s tired too, after working a long day and then coming home to deal with the often cranky baby, who is forever teething. I know he misses going out with his drinking buddies. I practically force him to make plans with a friend, a barfly, who has also recently become a father. His friend is having a hard time adjusting to fatherhood. You know, having responsibilities aside from making sure you can grab a waiter to get you that final drink before last call.

  The Fiancé gets home at midnight, which is early for him. At least it would have been pre-baby. I’m still awake, flipping through a magazine in bed.

  “So, what did you guys talk about?” I ask. I always ask the Fiancé when he goes out with friends what they talked about.

  “Oh, we talked a lot about work and golf,” he says.

  “Did he say anything about his child or girlfriend?” It has always pissed me off that the Fiancé doesn’t remember conversations with friends in great detail. Like most men, he never asks the right questions.

  “Um, I think he said something like ‘Having a baby is turning out to be the worst decision we ever made.’”

  “Oh my God. That’s bad,” I say.

  The couple doesn’t have a nanny. I’m not sure if the girlfriend would want a nanny anyway. Unlike me, she’s one of those mothers who thinks the more time you spend with your baby, the better, the more classes you join, the better.

  “You don’t feel having a baby was the worst thing we’ve ever done, do you?” I ask the Fiancé. How can I not ask him?

  “Do you?” he asks me.

  “I asked you first,” I say.

  “Well…it’s definitely hard,” he says. “It’s changed everything….”

  One of my male friends, who is the father of two kids, once told me that he could easily imagine not having kids. On bad days with the Dictator, I can understand this. But she’s become such a part of my everyday life that I really don’t think I can imagine life without her. Having her may have been a big decision, but I don’t feel it was a bad decision. I don’t feel it was “the worst decision I’ve ever made.” Trying on a pair of skinny jeans only two months after giving birth, still thirty pounds overweight, was the worst decision I’ve ever made.

  Maybe it’s different for girls than it is for guys. After all, the baby did grow inside of me. She was a part of me.

  It’s funny when you talk to some parents about their babies and hear what they say about them. One colleague had a two-year-old. I had asked her, way before I got knocked up, what it was like to have a baby. Her answer was “I love my baby, but sometimes I feel like throwing her out the wi
ndow.” At the time, I couldn’t believe those words came out of her mouth. But now I understand what she meant. Babies are hard work.

  The Fiancé never answers my question.

  Ten Mommy Moments People “Forget” to Mention

  1. You will be guilted into joining a Mommy & Me class.

  2. You will drop out.

  3. You must learn to cook, if not for you, then for your child.

  4. You will miss the days of bottle-only feedings.

  5. You will realize you never have enough friends with children in your social circle.

  6. You will throw a birthday party, even though you know your baby doesn’t understand the concept of a birthday party.

  7. You will realize your child becomes like a mini-adult.

  8. You will dread big toys, like a disease.

  9. You may have to move into a bigger place.

  10. This does not mean you are allowed to get a dog.

  July 15

  I can’t fight it anymore. Every mother I know, which, granted, isn’t that many, has signed her kid up for some sort of baby course. My mother told me about her friend’s daughter who signed her baby up for a class every day of the week. I’m not sure if my mother was trying to tell me something like “Don’t you think you should be a good mother and sign the baby up for something?” or if she’s just telling me about that to make conversation. In any case, I have become a bit worried that my baby spends most of her time with Nanny Mimi, the Fiancé, the in-laws, or me and not enough time socializing with other pint-size humans.

  I have picked up brochures featuring kids’ programs from various places around the city. I call and sign her up for a music course at a school that’s a five-minute walk from my house. It couldn’t be more convenient. Like when you have a gym close to where you live, there would be no excuse not to take her.

  After I sign her up, I feel like the mother of the year. At least I took the first step. Now we just have to go.

  July 20

  We head to our first music class, which, even though it takes place so close to our condo, is a pain in the ass. It is the first time I can remember that we actually have to be somewhere on time. But we make it. Sure, I have to wake her up, feed her, dress her, and then dress myself, all in thirty minutes, but come hell or high water I am going to this Mommy & Me music class, even if I have to go in my pajamas.