Wiped!

by Rebecca Eckler

  We walk into the school-like building and I’m amazed at all the noise. And I thought Ronnie’s house was loud. This place is ten times worse. “This is nothing. There are six daycare classes in this building,” Sara says as she expertly navigates the maze of hallways until we reach the room where her daughter’s daycare is.

  The staff, while friendly, seems a little scared of Sara. I’m not sure why. They tell Sara that her daughter was good today, that there were no problems, and they hand her a piece of paper. Sara picks up her daughter and thanks the staff, and we all head to the car.

  “What is that?” I ask, pointing to the piece of paper.

  “Oh, they give a report card each day for all the children,” she explains.

  “Cool! Let me see,” I say, grabbing the piece of paper. “Wow, this is fascinating. She had her diaper changed at 10 A.M., 1 P.M., and 3 P.M., a snack at 10:30 P.M. and 2:30 P.M., and was very good at art today. Aren’t you happy?”

  “Oh, I’m so happy!” she says sarcastically.

  I wonder if I could get Nanny Mimi to make me a daily report card about the Dictator and put sticker stars on it, like Sara’s daughter has on her report card. It would be kind of nice.

  “I had to yell at her teachers the other day,” Sara tells me as she expertly puts her daughter into the car seat. She does it so flawlessly, I’m amazed. I still get nervous every time I put the Dictator into her car seat, fearing that she’ll have a fit, or I’ll not do up the seat belt right—and I’ve been doing it for more than a year now.

  “I noticed there was something odd. They seemed kind of scared of you,” I say. “What happened? Was it juicy?”

  “They should be scared of me! She came home with bite marks the other day,” she says.

  “Bite marks?”

  “Yes. It was the third time. There’s this other kid in her daycare who bites everyone. In fact, he’s known as ‘the Biter.’ After I yelled at them, they now have one teacher solely dedicated to following him.”

  “I would have done the same thing. Hey,” I say, looking in the backseat at her daughter, “she can eat Cheerios all by herself, holding the container, without spilling anything?”

  “God, yes. She’s been doing that for months!”

  “Oh, we still have to hand-feed. It sucks. Feeding her can take over an hour!”

  “Oh, I just throw down food on her tray and she gobbles it up. I figure she either eats it or not, but I’m not going to feed her myself.”

  Hmmm. Maybe I should do that with the Dictator. I mean, the Dictator should learn that I’m not always going to be the one picking up her food and putting it into her mouth, right? We drive in silence. Hearing about the Biter kind of makes me glad I have a nanny. Sara also tells me her daughter has already had pinkeye, and the chicken pox, and three colds in the past two months, because of other kids in the daycare.

  “That’s so annoying,” I say.

  “I know. Some parents send their kid to daycare if they have a fever, or if they have pinkeye, because they don’t want them to stay at home. It’s so rude.”

  “It is rude,” I agree.

  “Well, the good news is that it builds up their immune system,” she says.

  “That’s true. Can you imagine being the parent of the Biter and not knowing that every other parent calls your kid that?” I ask, and we laugh.

  We drive to my place and walk into my apartment, where Nanny Mimi is reading one of my trashy celebrity magazines. I love that Nanny Mimi enjoys the same magazines as me. Sara plops her daughter onto the floor, where there are toys strewn everywhere. In fact, my two-bedroom apartment, which I refuse to give up just yet, looks very much like a mini-daycare, like our old condo had before we moved out.

  I’ve bought those soft alphabet flooring tiles, and a Dora the Explorer bath mat, and the fridge is covered in stickers. If the Dictator wasn’t just over a year old, you’d think that she was the only one who lived here, that’s how much she has taken over my apartment. The Dictator and Sara’s daughter each play with their own toys, while Sara and I catch up. We mostly talk about mothering things.

  I wonder why people call gatherings with babies “playdates.” They so do not play with each other. In fact, our babies barely notice each other at all. I’m not going to get into how much I hate the term “playdate.” I’ve realized I can’t fight using the word because every mother in the world now uses it. It’s so ubiquitous that if I ever said, “Let’s get our kids together,” I’m not sure any mother would know what I’m talking about.

  February 8

  6:30 P.M.

  The Dictator and I head to my parents’ condominium for dinner.

  I cannot believe what I see—or rather don’t see—on my parents’ fridge when we arrive. There are four shots of my nephew, my brother’s son, and only three of my daughter. I’m pissed. There should be more photos of the Dictator on this fridge because she’s older, or at the very least there should be the same number of photos of her as there are of her cousin, right?

  I stick another photo of Rowan up on the fridge to make things even and lecture my mother for playing favorites with her grandchildren. I say this in a joking way, but I am so not joking. Is it possible for grandparents to love one grandchild more than another? I realize, for maybe the very first time, how protective I am about the Dictator and just how far I’ll go to fight for her—even if it’s over how many pictures there are of her on a fridge door.

  I also realize that even when you become a mother, your own mother still sees you as a baby.

  “Do you have to go to the washroom before you go home?” my mother asks me.

  “No,” I say. “But thanks for asking!”

  “Are you sure that coat is warm enough?” she asks.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You didn’t bring a hat?”

  “Mom!”

  Please, dear God, don’t let me turn into my mother.

  February 9

  The baby and I go to Ronnie’s house for dinner. My baby is tired and cranky. Ronnie’s three-year-old daughter throws a temper tantrum and is sent to her room. Her eldest son throws a piece of spaghetti against the wall and is sent to his room. Her middle child refuses to eat. Let’s just say it isn’t the most fun evening out I’ve ever had. And Ronnie sits there, rubbing her growing bump of a stomach, saying over and over, “I don’t know how I’m going to handle another one.”

  I have a wicked headache, swallow three Advils, and go to bed at 10 P.M. I don’t know how Ronnie does it. I really don’t. And she’s having another?

  I will not get pregnant again. I will not get pregnant again. I will not get pregnant again. Going to Ronnie’s house for dinner is possibly the best birth control anyone could ever hope for. She should open her home for sex-education classes.

  February 10

  We’re on the plane home. I didn’t see Heather on my visit. Lena dropped by to see the baby one afternoon. And one morning the baby and I hung out at Vivian’s house, with her baby, and Vivian and I had coffee.

  Though I am very happy I saw my three mother friends and my parents, I can’t believe I didn’t go to one bar during my visit. It’s amazing, but I realized during this trip that I would rather stay home with the Dictator, and be able to kiss her good night, than hang out at any bar with anyone. “I’ve come a long way, baby,” I think to myself. I’m not sure this is something to boast about. It’s just that I feel incredibly guilty if I’m not home to kiss the Dictator good night.

  February 11

  1 P.M.

  Occasionally, I will read parenting advice. I usually do this when I’m supposed to be working. The Internet just makes information so accessible. After twenty minutes of reading online parenting sites, I remember why I don’t like reading parenting advice. In only twenty minutes, I’ve learned that I should probably take my kid to the dentist. That we’re late on her vaccinations, that I should be protecting her against carbon monoxide poisoning, and that I should know what to d
o if she ingests a poison. I’ve learned that I should make sure my house does not contain unsafe levels of asbestos too. Reading online parenting advice is more depressing than reading the newspaper. There are just so many “shoulds.” I even read that I should take my child bird-watching. Bird-watching! As if.

  I remember being pregnant, and being freaked out by all the stuff that could go wrong when you’re pregnant. It’s déjà vu, only a year later.

  I also learn that at around this time, children “crave boundaries,” so that I should start to be strict with the Dictator, because she now understands the concept of right and wrong, good and bad. I’m not good at setting boundaries. I’m just not. I can barely set boundaries for myself. I can’t stop at one chocolate, I stay up much too late watching television, and I spend way too much time talking on the phone. The Fiancé and I sometimes talk about discipline and boundaries. It’s something he’s worried about and rightly so.

  “She’s going to hate me, because I’ll be the one setting all the rules and getting angry at her when she does something wrong,” he’ll say.

  I don’t disagree with him. I don’t have it in me to battle. I find myself saying “I’m going to choose my battles” when the Dictator throws her food on the floor, or splashes too much when she takes a bath, or refuses to wear a hat outside.

  I mean, if she asks if she can have a guy sleep over on the weekend when she’s fourteen, I will say no. But is it really worth the effort to get mad at her for splashing too hard in the bath when she’s one? Is it?

  February 15

  5 P.M.

  I am picking the Fiancé up outside his office. His car is in the shop, and he had a partner at his law firm drive him to work this morning. I pull over to the curb where I see him standing. He opens the car door, looks in, but just stands there. He just stares at the inside of my car, like he’s staring at a growth that has suddenly appeared on his skin.

  “Well, are you getting in or what?” I ask.

  “Beck?”

  “What? Get in! We’re holding up traffic here.”

  “Your car is disgusting,” he says, reaching in and shoving all the papers and magazines and other crap, which is lying on the passenger seat, onto the floor. This annoys me. Yes, it is crap, but it is my crap, and he’s shoving it onto the floor like it doesn’t matter. “Oh my God,” he says, looking at the backseat and the floor in the back.

  “Well, she’s very messy!” I say. “I can’t help it.”

  “Don’t blame her,” he says.

  “It’s true. It is mostly all her mess!” I protest. When all else fails, blame the child.

  The truth is, about 60 percent of the mess is the Dictator’s, which is still more than half. There are spare diapers lying on the car floor, along with pacifiers, old Cheerios, empty boxes of crackers, crumbs, and more than a few pieces of baby clothing.

  The Fiancé does not have a car seat in his car. It’s a sports car—damn him for having an early midlife crisis—and we’ve only recently found out they do make Porsche baby seats. Can you believe it? If we take the baby anywhere, it’s always in my car, which means the baby’s mess is in my car. We also purchased a car seat for Nanny Mimi’s car, so she can take the Dictator places.

  Yesterday, the Dictator insisted on taking one of those individual pouches of oatmeal into my car. I should have said no, but we were in a rush and I didn’t have the time or energy to convince her that it wasn’t the best idea. Now, along with stale crackers and baby cookies, there is dry oatmeal everywhere.

  We drive home mostly in silence. The Fiancé has a puss on his face.

  “You should get your car cleaned,” he says as we’re pulling up into our driveway.

  “I know, I know.”

  “And you shouldn’t let her eat in here,” he tells me.

  “It’s because of my whole ‘pick your battles’ way of parenting,” I explain. “I just think it’s not the worst thing in the world for her to eat in the car. So I let her. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “And how’s that whole ‘pick your battles’ way of parenting working out for you?” he asks, pointing at an empty juice box on the floor.

  “Just fine, thanks for asking,” I say, getting out of the car.

  Because he complained, made fun of me, and criticized my car, I’m not going to tell him there’s half a baby YumYum cookie stuck to the back of his coat, which obviously was on the passenger seat when he got in.

  February 18

  6:30 P.M.

  Nanny Mimi took the baby to her arts-and-crafts class today. Since I was so lax about baby classes during her first year, I’ve decided to go all out and sign her up for swimming, arts and crafts, and gymnastics “classes.” (I use quotes because they’re not so much classes as something for parents to do to keep busy with their children. Not that this is a bad thing, I’m just saying.)

  Nanny Mimi shows me the piece of artwork the baby made at class today. It’s a piece of light-blue construction paper, with lines of orange marker scribbled all over, a piece of white string glued to it, two eyeball stickers, and one red pompom. I think it’s the most precious piece of art I’ve ever seen. I think it’s priceless. “I love it! I love it!” I say, hugging the Dictator and telling her how talented she is. I can’t wait to show the Fiancé the first piece of art that the baby has made and brought home for us. I really want to hang it on our fridge, but unfortunately we don’t have any magnets. I’m thinking of taping it or using a piece of chewed-up bubble gum to stick it on the fridge, when the Fiancé walks in.

  Before he even takes his coat off, I run to him and proudly show him the baby’s work of art.

  “That’s nice,” he says, looking at what the Dictator made for a nanosecond before taking off his coat and turning his attention back to his BlackBerry. This annoys me. But how can I get mad? What could I say? “How could you not love this piece of art? Your daughter made this. Don’t you think this is the best piece of art you’ve ever seen?”

  I know it’s a silly thing to get angry at. I also know that one could say the “art” that my one-year-old made is hideous and looks exactly like a one-year-old made it, but I still think it’s brilliant.

  Maybe men just don’t get how important a baby’s piece of art is, like mothers do. Though I know it’s a one-year-old who made this piece of construction-paper art, I can’t help but think the baby’s a genius and may be the next Picasso. But that’s just me. I’m her mother. No one expects me to be objective about these matters, do they?

  February 20

  5:30 P.M.

  Like me, Tammy finds the hours after work, before bedtime, with her baby challenging, to say the least. Thankfully, there are a number of indoor play areas for kids that also serve coffee for adults. Thank God I have Tammy, who also has to kill time.

  We meet at one of these indoor playrooms.

  Tammy’s child takes off crawling across the colorful floor. My child, however, is super-clingy. Every time I try to let go of her hand, she tugs it back. If I even step out of her sight for more than two seconds, she starts crying. I have to follow her wherever she goes. She didn’t used to be this way. This clinging-to-Mommy thing is a new development, and not one that I’m exactly excited about.

  “How long have we been here?” I ask Tammy.

  “Seven minutes,” she says, looking at her watch.

  “Oh. That’s it?”

  “Yup. That’s it.”

  5:40 P.M.

  “How long have we been here?” I ask Tammy again.

  “Um,” Tammy says, laughing. “Twelve minutes.”

  “Oh. It seems longer, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” answers Tammy. Thank God I’m not the only one who thinks paint dries faster than it takes time to pass at an indoor play area.

  5:45 P.M.

  “So, how old is your son?” a woman asks me. “He looks about the same age as mine.”

  “She’s a girl,” I say, not adding, “She’s dressed in all pink, for goodnes
s’ sake!!!!!!!!”

  How long will this last? When will my baby girl grow some hair?

  5:48 P.M.

  “What time is it now?” I ask, helping the baby down a plastic slide.

  “5:48,” says Tammy. Her child has crawled off and is playing with some toy trains.

  “You want to go for dinner now?” I ask, praying—dear God—she wants to leave this place as much as I do. The place depresses me. I can tell that all the mothers here are just killing time, like we are.

  “Yes! Let’s go,” Tammy says.

  I’m sure that prisoners being released from behind locked bars experience the same feeling I do when they feel the air on their faces for the very first time.

  February 28

  Just as you start getting used to the term “playdate,” which you’d never thought you’d say and which you hate, you start to understand why couples with children have “date nights.”

  I always laughed at Ronnie because Thursday evenings were her night to go out with her husband. I always believed that planning and scheduling a “date night” wasn’t spontaneous enough (or at all) and that “date nights” were for some other type of couple, not the type of couple the Fiancé and I were.

  But I get it now. After you have a baby, you kind of have to force yourself out with your partner, or you become the type of couple who stays in every night watching Supernanny and American Idol (both of which I love) or hanging out with other couples with children.

  In fact, not only is it becoming clearer that the Fiancé and I might need to have a scheduled date night each week, it has gotten to the point where the Fiancé and I are making appointments to have sex.

  “I’m too tired tonight,” I’ll say, then add, “But I’d like to have sex tomorrow night. Okay?”

  I can’t help notice that the Fiancé and I aren’t having sex nearly enough. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’m always “too tired.” It’s no longer just an excuse to not have sex, it’s actually the truth. And I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but so is the Fiancé. He too, on occasion, has said he’s too tired.