“Don’t splash me!” I tell her, when she takes a plastic toy cup, fills it up with water, and pours it onto my lap.
Splash!
Evil grin.
I hate myself because I am so bad at disciplining her. She’s just so damn cute when she flashes that evil grin. No, I shouldn’t laugh. But she’s too cute. I laugh. God, this child is smart. All she has to do is flash me that evil grin, and I turn into mush.
May 4
7:30 P.M.
I’m really not too smart.
“How do you open this thing?” I ask the Fiancé.
“Beck, come on!”
“No, seriously. I can’t do it. How do you open this thing?”
When the oh-so-hot male babyproofer came to babyproof our house, he did something to the cupboard doors under the sink in the kitchen. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to unlock it.
The Fiancé reaches down and, in a split second, opens the door.
“How did you do that?” I ask. I feel like I’m in some bad sitcom, playing a dumb woman who is clueless. Except I really didn’t know how to open it.
“Shouldn’t the question be,” asks the Fiancé, “how you have gone months without opening this cupboard? That means you have not once turned on the dishwasher or gotten a garbage bag, because all the supplies are in here.”
I should have never mentioned it. Stupid me.
May 5
8 P.M.
I get together with April, one of my old university friends. We’re each sipping a glass of wine at a bar. I’ve learned, though I’m not sure it’s necessary, to not talk a lot about the Dictator when I’m out like this. It’s like some unwritten rule that as a mother, you just know not to talk a lot about your child.
It’s not that they’ve explicitly told you, “You’re talking too much about your child! I do not find it interesting that you have to bite her fingernails off when she has hangnails!” It’s just something you believe to be true, even if it’s not.
You learn, too, that when you hit around age thirty, it’s no longer surprising when someone you know gets knocked up (it’s only surprising that it’s someone you thought would never settle down, not that they’re too young to have a baby). It also becomes not so surprising that you learn you have a friend who actually desperately wants to have a baby, who is trying to have a baby but, for some reason, can’t get pregnant, or, just as bad, can get pregnant but can’t keep the pregnancy.
I knew April was trying to conceive. I had heard through mutual friends. And now she is telling me that she and her husband have been trying for a long time and getting bad news over and over again. I don’t know what to say at first, and it makes me uncomfortable to be me, a mother. I, of course, give her suggestions, like names of acupuncturists I have heard good things about when it comes to treating infertility. I ask if she’s considered adoption.
“We have,” she says. “But I’m just not ready to give up yet.” I can’t imagine how awful this must be—feeling like you’re failing at something you want so much, and you just can’t understand why your body isn’t doing it. When you already have a child—especially when you practically conceived by immaculate conception—it’s distressing, at best, to discuss pregnancy with a friend who has miscarried or is trying to conceive and not succeeding. You wonder if your friend hates the fact that you have a baby, and you are overly sensitive about what you say. You feel awful that you had a baby and it’s not working out for her, and you’re not sure how much you should talk about your own child, how much or how little she wants to hear.
Unfortunately, there’s not much else going on in your life but your child. So there isn’t much else to talk about. Luckily, April is very open and doesn’t mind discussing her fertility issues. She does ask about the Dictator, but I keep my responses minimal, like, “Oh, she’s fine,” and “She’s hard work.”
Why is it that some people get pregnant basically just looking at someone, and others, who really, really want it, have trouble? Mother Nature is a big question mark. All I know is that I desperately want my friend to get pregnant. I don’t get why life is so unfair.
May 6
Sara, my mother friend who has a baby with a lot of hair, calls.
“So, does she have any hair yet?” she asks. It’s become sort of a game now.
“Nope. No hair,” I answer, and it’s the truth.
“You can’t even put it into a ponytail yet?”
“Not even close.”
“Well, it will grow one day.”
“Whatever.”
I’m not holding my breath. I’ve almost come to terms with the fact that my baby girl will forever look like a little boy. Everywhere I look I see babies, way younger than the Dictator, with hair, hair, and more hair.
But talking to April has made me grateful for what I do have.
May 9
My birthday is in two days.
Of course, I’ve warned the Fiancé that I’ll be expecting a big gift, like a Louis Vuitton purse, from him and the baby, or two smaller gifts, one from him and one from the baby.
“I also want something that the Dictator makes me,” I tell him. Cards made by the Dictator have become really important to me. I know, from experience, that the Fiancé doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the artwork the Dictator makes, so I know I have to warn him that I expect a scribble on a piece of paper by her.
The Fiancé picks up his cell phone. “Who is he calling?” I wonder. It’s so odd for him to just pick up the phone and dial a number while we’re in midconversation.
“Hi, Mimi,” he says into the receiver. I look at him, stunned. He’s never called Nanny Mimi before, though I know her number is on his speed-dial list. And why didn’t he tell me why he’s calling Nanny Mimi?
“It’s Rebecca’s birthday in two days. Can you please make something for her from the baby tomorrow?” he says to Nanny Mimi.
Okay, this isn’t what I had planned. I should have mentioned that I also wanted the artwork from the Dictator to be somewhat of a surprise. But beggars can’t be choosers.
May 11
It’s my birthday. I get a designer purse from the Fiancé and the matching wallet from the baby. I also get a scribble on a piece of paper from the Dictator. See? It’s good to speak out about exactly what you want for your birthday. That way you won’t be disappointed. “You know, in three days it’s Mother’s Day,” I tell the Fiancé, after I unwrap my gifts. He gives me a look. What can I do? It’s not my fault that Mother’s Day always falls the same week as my birthday. And every mother knows that Mother’s Day is more important than birthdays.
“Your present for Mother’s Day is a trip to Paris,” he says.
Fuck. Right. The Paris trip.
I don’t want to go anymore. How can I leave my baby? We’re flying through my hometown to drop off the baby with my parents, who are watching her while we are on our stupid romantic vacation, before we catch another plane to Paris. Why did I ever agree to this trip?
May 17
We’re at the airport. Heading to Paris. I’m so completely nervous. I’ve barely talked about going to Paris with any of my friends. It’s just that to talk about it would have made it real. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to last away from the Dictator. Everything, so far, has gone according to plan. We’ve dropped the baby off with my parents. I should feel fine. I mean, my parents have raised four kids, so she should be fine. Right? She should be just fine. My parents are really looking forward to having the Dictator stay with them.
But what if the plane crashes? What if I never see my baby again?
May 19
We’re in Paris and the stupid time difference means it’s 4 A.M. back home and I can’t call and check in on the Dictator. I feel so far away from her. I miss her so much. I can’t stop talking about her. I keep asking the Fiancé if he thinks she’s okay, what he thinks she’s doing right now, and if he thinks she misses me.
Stupid Paris. Of course, this hotel room is
quite beautiful. And the dinner we had tonight was fantastic. Maybe I’ll be just fine without her, once I get through the withdrawal symptoms.
May 20
Okay, I definitely love Paris. I could live in Paris. The only problem with Paris is that there are babies everywhere. Everywhere I look there are babies that are not mine. No, mine is an eight-hour plane ride away. I miss the baby so much I can barely stand—oooh, cute clothing store. I must go in.
Sometime Paris time, midafternoon
I want to speak to my baby.
“We had a great day today,” my mother is saying. “We went to the pet store and she loved it.”
Okay, I’m in Paris. I shouldn’t wish I were in some stinky pet store in some stinky mall back at home. But I do. I should be the one taking my baby to some stinky pet store in some stinky mall. I feel like the worst mother in the world. I tell my mother to put the phone to her ear.
“Hi, baby! Mommy loves you so so so so so much. I love you, baby, I love you!” I hear a bit of rattling around before my mother’s voice comes on again.
“She’s busy watching a DVD right now with your father.”
I won’t lie. I’m hurt. But how can I expect my eighteen-month-old to understand how much I need to hear her voice right now?
I also have to pretend I’m having the best time ever with the Fiancé. It is a fantastically beautiful city. But why do there have to be so many babies everywhere reminding me that I’m not with mine?
May 23
Only five more days until I get to see my baby. I do not remember ever wanting to see anyone so badly in my life. Though we had a great time at his cousin’s wedding and the sights are spectacular, I hate the questions that keep popping into my head. Rather, I hate the one big question that keeps popping into my head. What if she doesn’t remember me?
May 24
My plan today is to shop until I drop. Not for me, but for the baby. If I can’t be with her, at least I can shop for her. It’s amazing what they have for babies in Paris. All the baby clothes are so beautifully crafted, with so much detail. We’re not in Gap land anymore.
“Look at this jean skirt,” I tell the Fiancé, who, by now, is well aware that I will not pass any children’s clothing store without going in.
“That’s cute,” he says.
“Look at the detailing. Isn’t it amazing?” I ask, fingering the skirt.
“Yeah, it’s cute.”
“Should I get it?”
“Sure. It’s cute,” he says.
We walk up to the counter to pay for our one item. The clerk tells us how much the jean skirt is, and I plop down the credit card. The Fiancé is looking at me funny. Maybe he’s shopped-out? I have bought a lot for the Dictator. Maybe he thinks it’s time to stop?
We walk outside. “Do you know how much that was?” he asks.
I’ve given up doing the whole conversion thing. I can barely convert Canadian money into American money, and vice versa. I completely will not get euros. “It was 150 euros,” I say, looking at the receipt.
“Do you know how much 150 euros works out to be?” he asks.
“No. How much?”
“Like, four hundred Canadian.”
What? What the fuck? I did not just spend four hundred dollars on a skirt for my child, did I? “What? Are you telling me I just bought our baby a four-hundred-dollar jean skirt?!” I yell.
“Yes. We did.”
“That’s too much.”
“You think?”
“Okay, no more shopping for her!”
“Thank God,” he says.
If anyone should be getting a four-hundred-dollar skirt, it’s me. I know better than to say this aloud.
May 25
Midnight
“You know, it’s kind of nice being able to sleep and not having to worry that we’re going to be woken up five times a night by a screaming baby,” I say to the Fiancé as we’re getting ready for bed.
“I know,” he answers.
“In fact, I haven’t slept this well in a long time,” I tell him.
“Me neither.”
It’s true what they say. Once you have a baby, you always sleep with one eye open. You just never know. She could wake up. She could not. Either way, at home, I feel like I’m always ready to bolt out of bed to go to her. Even here, for the first couple of nights, I kept expecting to be woken up by screams for “BA BA!” Translation: bottle.
May 27
I miss Paris already. I love Paris. What had I been thinking about not really wanting to come here? The Fiancé and I had a fantastic time. The food, the shopping, the art, the museums. Sigh. We’re on the plane back now.
An hour later
Four more hours until we land.
Only four more hours until I get to see my baby.
An hour later
Three more hours until we land.
An hour later
This plane better not crash. Oh my God. What if the plane crashes?
I can’t wait to see my baby. What if she’s forgotten about me? What if she doesn’t know who I am? This plane better not crash.
An hour later
We’ve landed. My legs are literally shaking, like I’m an addict coming off heroin. That’s how excited I am to see the Dictator. Why is it taking so long to get to the gate?
Twenty minutes later
Why are these people taking forever to get off the plane? Don’t they know I haven’t seen my baby in forever? I can’t wait any longer. I might have to be one of those rude, impatient passengers who push their way through the aisles.
Finally, we get off the plane. The Fiancé has to jog after me, I walk so quickly to get through customs and then to the baggage claim, where my parents and the Dictator will be waiting for us. And then I see them.
“Mommee!!!!” The baby screams as I race up to her, and she laughs and laughs and laughs. I’ve never seen her smile so big in her life. I hug her and tackle her and roll around on the floor by the luggage carousel. I kiss her face a thousand times and smell her hair. God, I’ve never missed anyone so much in my entire life. And I’ve never had a better homecoming either. No one has ever been so happy to see me.
Maybe I should go away more often.
We get our luggage and I can’t stop staring at my baby. She looks different. More mature. And, dare I say it? She may have grown a little bit more hair while I was gone. She is actually starting to look like a little GIRL!
Five Mommy Moments People “Forget” to Mention
1. You finally accept, and get used to the fact, that you’re a mother.
2. You finally accept, and get used to the fact, that you have a baby.
3. You finally accept, and get used to the fact, that your life is different.
4. You finally accept, and get used to the fact, that your life will never be the same as before you had a baby.
5. You finally accept, and get used to the fact, that you like your life this way.
June 14
It’s Father’s Day. While Mother’s Day meant the world to me, Father’s Day doesn’t mean shit for the Fiancé. He just doesn’t care about these things. Still, I had taken Baby Rowan’s hand and scribbled, “Happy Father’s Day. I love you, Daddy. Love, Rowan” on a piece of paper. I traced her hand too.
“That’s nice,” the Fiancé says, looking at the handmade card for three seconds.
I’m a bit hurt. I know the Dictator and I spent about twelve seconds making that card, but still…. It’s from our child! And it is pretty cute. What’s wrong with him?
June 17
I’m sweating, I’m so mortified.
We’re at the counter of McDonald’s, and the Dictator is having a major hissy fit.
“BALLOON! I WANT BALLOON!” she screams.
We had first walked to a toy store, where they also sold, unfortunately for me, helium balloons. I had thought I was being kind by buying the Dictator one. She loves helium balloons. And, somehow, my child now knows that the big M ou
tside all McDonald’s stands for french fries. As we were walking home, she saw the big M and started chanting, “French fries, french fries, french fries.”
I had no idea she knew that. (As a fan of McDonald’s french fries, I don’t really mind.)
However, the Dictator, I also find out, doesn’t really understand the concept of helium balloons. I should have explained to her that if she let go of the helium balloon, it would go up, and it would go bye-bye. I really should have. Because now here we are, with the balloon having sailed up to the roof of the very high ceiling in McDonald’s. (It’s a two-story McDonald’s, if you catch my drift.)
She screams like I’ve just hurt her. Tears are streaming down her face like a waterfall. I look around to see how many people are staring at us. More than a few. How could they not stare? My child is acting like the worst child in the history of children, much worse than any child on any episode of Supernanny.
“It’s just a balloon, baby,” I try to explain. “I’ll get you another one tomorrow. Okay?”
“BALLOON! BALLOON!”
“I’ll get you another one tomorrow, I promise,” I try to soothe her.
“BALLOON! BALLOON!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The only way to get the balloon back would be to ask a McDonald’s employee to get out a ladder, climb up, and try to reach it.
“Hi, I’m sorry. Do you happen to have a ladder to go reach my child’s balloon?” I ask the seventeen-year-old who took our order. I can’t believe I’m asking the poor employee to climb up a ladder, all because of one stupid helium balloon.
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