Since this baby was now officially our mutual concern, we could bring up the topic of names. For boys, I loved all the Old Testament names. I made up a list with names like Caleb and Levi. I even threw in some more odd ones, one of my favorite odd ones being Zebediah, because I thought Zeb sounded cool. John liked the traditional name of Jack. He also liked Hayden. When he said that name, I burst out laughing in spite of myself. “What’s so funny?” he said. I couldn’t stop laughing, mainly because Hayden is exactly the name I would think he would pick—so him and so un-me. We were still tossing around the same few names we had managed to agree on a few months later. One day, I texted him simply “Zebediah? Just keeping it in the mix!”
He texted back: “In the mix? Try putting it in the blender.”
Just a few months into the pregnancy, I had a dream about a little boy named Hercules. When I woke up, I called John and told him. We chuckled about it, and I began referring to the creature within as Hercules. It soon lost its comic-book, jokey image as a name and actually started to sound really cool to me. “How’s Herc doing?” John would call up and ask. I started to really like the name Hercules. Like for real. There were a few problems with the name, though. One: If I told my mom I was naming the baby Hercules, her head would fall off. Two: Every time I would tell someone his name, I don’t think I could face the derision and “WHAT?! HERCULES?” that would come my way. I don’t have the strength to weather that every day. Also, in my dream, Hercules was saying that his father wouldn’t hug him or kiss him—he seemed sad: my not-so-subconscious concerns about raising a child whose father might not live in the same town and—at the time I had the dream—whose future level of involvement was a complete unknown. Oh, and finally, if I had any job other than actor, Hercules might actually fly. But people would think I was just picking a weird name because I’m a crazy actor instead of that I had the dream. (Add Hercules to Banjo, Pilot Inspektor, Kal-El—we all see US magazine.) In spite of these strikes against the name Hercules, we still called the baby Herc right up ’til the end. One day we were walking in the West Village and saw a business plaque on the side of the building: HERCULES KOSTAS, CPA. “Look!” we exclaimed. “Someone actually named Hercules!” See? It can be a real name! Yes, this man was probably Greek, but so what? we chuckled. The next day, we were watching the World Cup. We noticed a player on the US team was named Herculez (with a z) Gomez. “What!? Another Hercules? It’s a sign!” we thought. “OK,” we said, “if we see one more sign of Hercules in the next twenty-four hours, that’s the Universe telling us we are supposed to name the baby Hercules.” That night, we went to Shakespeare in the Park and saw The Merchant of Venice. Out of nowhere, one of the characters looks skyward and cries out to the heavens and ye gods on high, “Go, Hercules!” John and I whipped our heads toward each other, wide-eyed, and chuckled to ourselves in disbelief as the play continued. Even when the baby was a few days old, I still thought of him as Herc, but I ended up letting go of the name. I have a hard enough time fending off the negative input that can come your way when you put yourself out there to be an actor. I didn’t need the added unwanted input every time I told someone my baby’s name.
“Oh, what a cute baby! What’s his name?”
“Um, it’s … Hercules.”
“WHAT!? Hercules?! What kind of name is that? Hercules?”
No. I didn’t have the strength. Plus, I must reemphasize, my mother’s head would fall off.
How to Care for Your F’in’ Baby
I hadn’t been around many babies at all. Neither had John. In fact, we had no idea what the hell we were doing, but we were hoping instinct and helpful friends and family would get us through. For some peace of mind, we signed up for a class on infant care, a private session with a teacher who came to my apartment. I had to do something to feel like I was preparing to have this baby. I didn’t even glance at a birthing book until I was about seven months pregnant. I had previously thought I was escaping this one excruciating hallmark of womanhood, and now that I was having a baby, I just stuck my head in the ground and sang, “La la la la!” I took the approach of “Well, it’s gotta get out somehow!” Since I was doing no preparation about the birth, I felt I should do something to make me feel prepared in some capacity. Hence the class. Meredith, the teacher, showed up, a cool-looking slightly crunchy lady—she fit the image I had of someone who would teach such a class—and she started to teach us about infant care.
First lesson: “There’s no sense in trying to build a schedule for an infant. For the first three months, there is no sleep scheduling to be done. You just let them sleep when they want.” This was the best advice that she gave us, actually. I didn’t know about that. “You don’t let them ‘cry it out’ when they are so young. They are crying because they need something. Now, later, when they’re a little older and crying, you might be like, ‘Fuck it,’ and let them cry it out.”
Was that …? Did I just hear …? The F-word? Oh jeez. I think I did. I could feel John withdraw his faith in this woman the instant she dropped it. It didn’t bother me, but John isn’t a big fan of swearing, especially in a professional situation.
“When you’re swaddling, you want to wrap it from one side, then the bottom, and tuck that in over here, and then wrap the other side like this. Sometimes people think they have to be delicate with babies, but they are soothed by being held really tightly, so you can get a really snug fit and just really fuckin’ wrap them tight.”
No. OK. Definitely heard that one. Lady, please. You have a Midwesterner here, from the real world, not the New York artsy world, and I want him to pay attention and have his first words after you leave the room be “I feel much better prepared to be a father!” not “Did you hear how many F-Bombs she dropped?”
“When the baby first starts pooping, it will have what’s called meconium. It’s a dark, tarry stool. The first time you see it, you may be like, ‘What the fuck is that?’”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John’s jaw twitch ever so slightly. OK, I’m not going to take responsibility for this woman. I’m going to let it go … just let it go….
She proceeded to drop five more before the session was through, clocking in at a grand total of eight. Lest you think I exaggerate, I assure you, John was counting. As soon as she left, sure enough, John said, “She dropped eight F-Bombs.”
I think if I’d been alone, I certainly would have registered that it’s an odd profession to be tossing around the F-word. It wouldn’t bother me, though. I just would have reported it to friends later as a funny story. It would be hard to be in comedy and take offense at the F-word. That’s tame talk in comedy circles. I couldn’t say John didn’t have a point, though. I could see using the F-word a lot if you were teaching lessons on “How to Do Heroin” or “Graffiti 101” or even how to play the electric guitar—something badass. But it was a bit of a mismatch for infant care.
Once I had the baby, I realized that the class was pretty unnecessary, since everything she taught us the nurses teach you in the hospital. Except that thing about when they are less than three months old, you don’t have to schedule them at all, which was a helpful fact. In hindsight, the whole thing was a bit of a waste, except that it made me feel I was putting in the prep time so junior wouldn’t know he was born to a complete novice.
Yet still, I suppose in a sense that Meredith’s advice stayed with me. Once our baby was born, every time I fed him or put him down for a nap, every time I changed a diaper or swaddled him, I remembered that caring for a baby is the most sacred fuckin’ event of your entire fuckin’ life.
A Letter from the Prophet Doug
John would visit from Mill Valley about once a month during the pregnancy. He was always sweet and attentive, going to Whole Foods to get mangoes and watermelon—my two cravings. Whenever I would wonder what the hell was going to happen to us as a couple, I didn’t focus on it all that much, like I would have as a single lady trying to figure out her relationship, because the pregnancy an
d the planning were where all my energy was going. The crazy thing was, I hadn’t even met John’s family and wasn’t going to meet his parents until after the birth. One day, I got an e-mail forwarded to me from John. It was from John’s younger brother, Doug.
Rachel,
This note is long overdue. I should have written it a few months ago after getting the good news from John, but you know it’s hard (or at least a little bit awkward) to reach out to a stranger. The big problem is figuring out what to say or really just how to get started.
Turns out it is really not that complicated. It is a simple matter of starting off with a “congratulations!” and a sincere: “Welcome to the family.”
I am truly very excited about the arrival of this little boy.
You know for a long time, I guess my entire life, I’ve looked up to my brother, as younger brothers always do. As a child I was jealous of his athletic talent and his dancing ability (there was a time when he thought he was Prince). As an adult I envied his jet-set lifestyle and a passport that took him around the world. But nearly six years ago, when my own son was born, I thought I had reached a point when things had leveled off. At that time, it just appeared that fatherhood was something that may not be in the cards for my older brother.
That would have been a shame. I know there are deadbeat dads, baby’s daddies, and those who see fatherhood as only sending a check once a month. And there are guys like John. I am sure he is nervous right now, wondering what kind of father he’ll be—but that is the exact thing a good dad does at this stage. Truth is he’s a lock. He was meant to play this role. I know that from the devotion he has always had for his family, and I know that especially firsthand from the help he showed me this year in waging a fight for my own son.
Fatherhood will change John. It will probably slow him down a step or two, soften him up a bit and bring out a goofy side that causes him to make strange faces or sing nursery rhymes or do anything he can to bring out a smile and giggle from a little boy who’s captured his heart.
Rachel, I am sure your friends have told you to get ready, that there is nothing like the unconditional love a mother has for her child. They’re right. That bond is instant. But what you and John will discover is, the truly amazing part is not the love you will give but the vast amount that flows from a child to his parents. There is no way to prepare for it. It will happen within the first day or so. The baby will cry and you’ll wonder if he’s hungry or needs a diaper change, and then you’ll pick him up and he’ll instantly stop. Everything was okay, he just wanted to be held. In that moment nothing else, including the old ways we use to define ourselves, any longer matters: What you weigh, where’s your hairline (that one’s more of a guy issue), how much is in the bank account, where you went to college or what you achieved in your career is all irrelevant to this little child. All that matters to him is that you’re his parent, that you’re his mommy and daddy, and that is more than enough for him.
I guess that is why this is a letter of congratulations. Not because you’re about to have a baby, but because you are about to feel an unconditional love like you’ve never been exposed to before. I am truly excited for both you and John. I look forward to meeting you some day soon, and especially look forward to meeting this little guy.
So welcome to the family! You’ve given us reason to celebrate two additions.
Doug
I read this letter on an Amtrak train, and I don’t think of myself as an Ol’ Softy, but I had tears streaming down my face when I finished it. It could have been the hormones, I guess. I called up John and said, “Oh my God, I’m crying from this letter!” He revealed that it had made him cry as well. Then I sent it to my mom and a friend from home, not mentioning my tears, just saying how nice it was. They both called me back crying. Uncle Doug had created a trail of tears up the Eastern Seaboard.
Because of all his wisdom, we dubbed him the Prophet Doug. Later, when our baby would be crying and we didn’t know why, and we would just pick him up to hold him, that became known as the Prophet Doug move. Then it became just a casual verb on its own. The baby would be crying, and one of us would say, “Does his diaper need changing? Did he eat? Did you try Prophet Douging him?”
Besides the fact that Doug became a verb, I’m including his letter because, though this is my story, I’m telling John’s story as well, and I thought you should know that beneath all of my quips or observations, some of which John may feel more comfortable keeping private, and whether or not we are together as a couple or as co-parents, the fact is, this guy did uproot his life from a quiet hamlet across the whole country to a busy loud avenue in New York City so that he could be a daily part of his son’s life. I thought he deserved some credit for that. Not everyone would do that. And I thought Prophet Doug said it better than I ever could.
With All Due Respect to Edgar Allan Poe
In spite of the fact that I’m not a megastar, occasional perks come along for me because I was at one time on Saturday Night Live. Nothing major. Stuff like an open table at a busy restaurant. I lucked out big-time, though, when I was five months pregnant. I was walking down the street and a guy said, “Hi! I produced your segment on Tony Danza’s show a few years ago.” Not to say I may have blocked out my guest stint on the esteemed yet short-lived Tony Danza talk show, but I didn’t remember this guy. To be friendly, however, I talked to him for a bit and asked what he was doing now, to which he responded that he was working for the Nate Berkus show. Nate Berkus was Oprah’s design guy; he did all of her home makeovers for the show, and all of Oprah’s audience was completely in love with him because he is so attractive and sweet and talented that they all just blocked out the tiny fact that he is gay. It’s kind of a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy that the fans made with themselves so they could still fantasize that someday he will do over their home and have romantic and caring sex with them.
This guy Paul asked if I needed a room done for my apartment. At first I was about to say no and then I realized, “Wait a minute! Yes! I have to somehow create a nursery in my bedroom since I live in a one-bedroom apartment and I’m having a baby.” Paul said he’d run it by the producers, and to my delight, I got a call a few weeks later that they were into the idea of doing my room! I get to have a room designed by Nate Berkus?! I felt like I had won some Oprah sweepstakes.
They came over and filmed the whole “before” segment, and Nate was just as charming in person as he is on TV, and incidentally, the room he came up with is great. He split my bedroom between my area and the baby’s area with a partition, and somehow it really feels like two separate rooms. Everything went off without a hitch. Well, that is, except for the Telltale Dildo.
Please. Please. Let me explain. I need to give you some background information. This may come as a shock to you, but if I may use Sex and the City terms, I am not a Samantha. I’m probably more of a Charlotte. At this point in life, I’m not interested in random sex with some stranger or a one-night stand. I’m not exactly looking for Mr. Goodbar. In my spare time, I’m not buying garter belts or Chinese sex swings, and I’ve never set foot in a sex-toy shop and I think I would die of mortification to do so. You know who wouldn’t die of mortification to do so, though? A sex addict—Addict Three. I need to specify here that when dating Addict Three, I had no idea of his addiction, because dating a sex addict is not all it’s cracked up to be. The thing about a sex addict is, they are usually not addicted to sex with you. At least, as my luck would have it, that was my particular situation. Since I didn’t find out about his addiction until we had broken up, it’s not something we were dealing with, having long talks about, or trying to solve together as a couple. He revealed it to me afterward, so I really am not sure what manifestation it took—Porn? Hos? Watching someone in high heels eat fried chicken? I have no idea. It was no longer my concern. This is all background to tell you that he did buy me a sex toy … a bright red vibrator. No pun intended, but as it turned out, it really wasn’t my thing.
There it sat in my top dresser drawer, unused for years. I forgot all about it. Occasionally, I’d think, “I really should throw away that bright red dildo,” usually when I was boarding a plane and imagining it going down and my parents coming to deal with my apartment. “Oh, look, Paul, here are all the old photos. And here are her reviews from over the years. And here … Oh! My word!”
So I would think, I really should throw that away. Living in an apartment in New York City, the thought of disposing of a bright red dildo really just makes you go “meh” and leave it for another day. You can’t just drop it down the garbage chute. Well, you could, I guess. For my peace of mind, I’d have to properly dispose of it, making sure there were no identifying pieces of mail in the bag. That’s just me. So there it sat, alone in the top drawer of my dresser, hidden behind some belts and some bathing suits.
When the Nate Berkus staff came to redo my room, at some point during the day, I thought of that bright red dildo. “Aw, I really should have moved that, I guess. To a place they definitely wouldn’t be stumbling across it.” But then I thought, “That’s silly. Why would they ever be going through my drawers to redo my room?” They were going to be painting, putting up a partition, moving some stuff around. Everything would be fine. I smiled—for what had I to fear?
Still, as the day went on, that vibrator transformed into the Telltale Dildo. I could almost hear it buzzing from time to time.
“I should have moved it.” “Bzzzz BZZZZ! Bzzzz BZZZZ,” it sounded in my imagination. “Why didn’t I deal with that years ago?” “Bzzzz BZZZZ! Bzzzz BZZZZ!” It grew louder and louder with each passing hour.
Girl Walks Into a Bar . . .: Comedy Calamities, Dating Disasters, and a Midlife Miracle Page 15