Also by Maureen Lipinski
A Bump in the Road: From Happy Hour to Baby Shower
NOT READY FOR
MOM JEANS
MAUREEN LIPINSKI
Thomas Dunne Books
St. Martin’s Griffin New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS. Copyright © 2010 by Maureen Lipinski. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Furnished upon Request.
ISBN 978-0-312-53728-9
First Edition: June 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother
Acknowledgments
Where to begin?
To my agent, Holly Root: Thank you for always using exclamation points in your e-mails and for making me laugh, no matter what news you deliver. Your editorial eye and chill demeanor are the perfect combination. You are a slave driver, in the best possible way.
To everyone at Thomas Dunne Books and St. Martin’s: Katie Gilligan, thank you for being so real and down-to-earth, your suggestions and edits for this book were spot-on and invaluable; Katy Hershberger, you are sent from the heavens above by the PR gods; and copyeditor Barbara Wild, thank you for your keen hawk-eye.
I did this for the first book, so one more time: Thank you to all of my friends, especially my college roommates Barrie, Carrie, Sheryl, and Pam. Yes, a fair amount of our hilarious nights made it into this book, too. Seriously, drinks on me, if only because I need some new material.
Thank you to everyone who supported my first book and helped make my “debut” year the best of my life, especially Lisa Ackeret, Jillian Cantor (whose daily e-mails keep me sane), Kristin Celing, Stephanie Elliot, Jill Williams Krause of Baby Rabies, Jen Lancaster, Lesley Livingston, Tracy Madison, Lisa Patton, and Amy Sprenger. You guys rule.
To the whole extended Leurck family: Thank you for your unending support. Each of you enriches my life in a different way. My life is better with all of you in it. Once again, I’m so lucky to have in-laws that are nothing like Clare’s!
A huge amount of gratitude for my family: Mom, Dad, Patrick, Mary Claire, and Chris. Thank you for always believing in me and for never rolling your eyes when I ask you to babysit. I love you guys!
Kevin, thank you for being my rock through the crazy roller-coaster that is publishing and for always reminding me of the cost of not pursuing my dreams. You are my everything.
And to my big baby boy, Ryan. Thank you for giving all of this meaning. You always make me laugh and keep me grounded, especially when you throw a tantrum in a public place, such as a bookstore during a signing. I pray that you always stay hilarious, independent, and free-spirited.
Hush, little Sara, don’t you scream,
Aren’t we supposed to be on the same team?
It’s after midnight and Mama’s gotta sleep,
Would you like a new pretty Jeep?
Your cries give Mama a hunch
That she’ll get into the office sometime around lunch.
Please let’s not make this a fight,
You’re just going to have to sleep through the night.
Because Mama’s gotta go back to her job
And your screams are making her head throb.
Mama would really love it if you could learn
To only cry when it’s your dad’s turn.
Monday, March 10
4:00 A.M.
I am so incredibly screwed.
In four hours I’m supposed to shower, apply makeup, and put on pants that have an actual zipper on the front and aren’t a cotton-Lycra blend. I’m supposed to leap out of bed, get ready, and appear at work as though I’m the same woman who left a mere ten weeks ago.
Sara was also supposed to start sleeping through the night at eight weeks, or so said all of those worthless infant books.
Yet here I am, awake. Feeding my two-month-old daughter while blankly staring at an infomercial of Erik Estrada peddling vacation property in Arkansas. And wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to do this working mom stuff.
It finally happened. The sand ran out of the hourglass.
My maternity leave is over.
The panic began three weeks ago, when I realized I was due back at work soon and Sara still only slept in two-hour stretches. My panic took me to the bookstore, where I bought every book remotely referencing “sleeping through the night.” Jake and I devoured them in one sitting. We excitedly read the “real stories” about infants who slept for six hours after being swaddled and rocked to sleep. Or the infants who slept through the night after being allowed to fuss for a mere fifteen minutes. We were sure Sara would be another success story. We’d give her a tiny crown and a sash that read, “Miss Grand Supreme Super Sleeping Through the Night Champion.”
But, as most parents know, everything we tried had the opposite effect.
Swaddling: So difficult and frustrating that Jake and I argued over the optimal snugness. Not to mention the second we’d tuck her in, her limbs would shoot out like water cannons and we’d have to start all over again.
Rocking: Helped her to fall asleep, but only if the motion continued. So I’d be stuck in that damn chair for hours, contemplating the theory of quantum physics, the meaning of the show Lost, and other topics that seem really intriguing around 3:00 a.m.
And the minutes of fussing followed by hours of sleeping? Sure, worked like a charm. She’d scream her head off for forty-five minutes and then sleep for twenty before waking up and repeating the cycle.
Thanks, Sleeping like a Baby: Healthy Strategies for a Good Night’s Sleep, the $22.95 I spent on you was so worth it.
I would’ve been better off spending $22.95 on a nice big bottle of Jim Beam. Washed down with a couple of the narcotic painkillers left over from her delivery.
In Dante’s Inferno, the sinners were given horrible punishments based on their earthly sins. I’m starting to believe that this is my punishment for sleeping until noon pre-baby as a snake pit sounds pretty good about now. Maybe I could take a quick nap before being bitten to death.
Since none of the “miracle sleep cures” worked, Jake and I gave up and resigned ourselves to getting up every two hours to feed her. Then, a week ago, something magical happened: Sara slept for five hours.
In a row. Consecutively.
Jake and I nearly died.
Her sleep continued to improve slowly until yesterday, when Sara pulled out her picket sign and chanted, “Hey hey, ho ho! This sleeping stuff has got to go.”
Good-bye, sleep.
Hello, Erik Estrada. And hello to my first day back at work.
9:00 A.M.
Sara finally went to sleep sometime around dawn. Of course she only fell asleep after I woke Jake up and he took over. I roused him by violently shaking him and hissing, “She won’t sleep. Get up. Get up now. Get up before I throw myself out the window.”
“I’m so sorry … didn’t even wake up … totally unfair to you … your first day … so sorry … I suck,” he mumbled as he stumbled out of bed.
“Just take her,” I said as I handed Sara to him.
“I’m the worst husband ever,” he muttered before he nearly head-butted the door and spilled out into the hallway. I collapsed into bed and slept dreamlessly for an hour and a half until my alarm went off.<
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“Are you going to be OK?” Jake asked me as I stood in front of my closet. He held Sara against his chest as she made little gurgling noises. He was dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a blue polo shirt—perfect for his job in IT sales: professional but not too stuffy. I joke that he always forgets his pocket protector until he reminds me that nerds will rule the world someday. I want to be one of the Chosen Saved Ones, so I don’t jest anymore.
I gave him a pitiful look and sighed. “I think so.” I plucked a seemingly huge pair of black pants off my shelf. The waistband seemed sized for Miss Piggy after a Twinkie binge.
Jake stepped forward and put his right arm around me and pulled me close. “Everything will be fine. You’ll have a great day. It’s just hard now.”
I nodded into his T-shirt as I tried to remember all of the reasons why I love my job. Yet with my infant daughter cooing in my ear, I only wanted to remain by her side. The cocoon of my husband and daughter thinly surrounded me, and I wanted its delicate strands to never break apart.
Sara started squirming and we released each other. “Time’s up,” Jake said, and smiled. “C’mon, Miss Chunk, let’s get you ready for your big day,” he whispered into her ear. He leaned over and kissed the top of my head before leaving the bedroom.
Thank god for Jake. He’s the only way I’ll be able to get through this. I’ll just lean against him and hopefully he can support both of us, like the stake that holds up a tomato plant. Firmly planted in the dirt next to me, he will remind me of all the reasons why this decision was made so long ago.
During my maternity leave, I didn’t really allow myself to wrestle with the psychological ramifications of going back to work. It was simply something I planned on doing because I loved my job and we needed the money. No sense in getting emotional about it.
I swallowed hard as I put on my Miss Piggy pants and held my breath as I zipped them up. I cast a rueful glance at my pre-pregnancy pants, tucked high into a corner of my closet. They taunted me with their low waistbands and slim stitching: Don’tcha wish your Miss Piggy pants were hot like us? Don’tcha?
I burst into tears as I pulled the Lycra up around my hips.
“What’s wrong?” Jake said with alarm as he ran into the bathroom.
“Still fat. I’m still fat,” I said as I grabbed more than a handful of butt chunk. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder at the Sara weight still lounging around my midsection.
Jake’s eyes softened and he walked over to me. He gently removed my hand from my ass and put it around his waist. “You look great. You’re the only person who thinks you look fat.”
“Whatever. I am,” I grumbled as I gave him a quick squeeze. I gulped hard and thinly smiled. “I’ll just stand next to Mule Face at the office and feel like Miss America.”
“There you go. Just do that.” Jake nodded, proud of himself as though he’d specially placed Mule Face / Annie in my office for this reason.
After two hours of prep, Sara and I were physically ready for the first day of day care.
“I love you. Things will be great,” Jake said as we stood in the parking lot of our apartment building. I nodded and he leaned in and kissed one of Sara’s tiny hands. “And you, I don’t want any reports of sneaking out or games of spin the bottle at day care, OK?”
I managed a rueful smile at his joke.
“You’re going to be great. I know it; you’ll fall right back into the routine,” Jake said. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a brown paper bag. “Now this,” he said with a laugh, “is for your first day back to work. Big day, you know.”
“What?” I said as I pulled the bag from his hands. I peeked inside and saw an apple, some Wheat Thins freely floating around the bag, and a crudely made sandwich. “You made me lunch? I’m not starting kindergarten.” I laughed.
“An apple, some crackers, and a jelly sandwich. We’re out of peanut butter. Need some quarters for the vending machine so you can get a drink?” His eyes twinkled as his eyebrows rose. He pretended to search his pockets for change.
“You’re a nerd,” I said as I gave him a tap on the arm. I started to move away when he pulled me toward him, which made it awkward since my arm was nearly ripping out of its socket thanks to the World’s Heaviest Car Seat and Child Ever in my left hand.
“It’ll be great,” he said as he kissed me on the forehead.
I smiled and looked down at Sara. “Your dad is weird.”
I loaded Sara into the car and the clouds soon returned as I drove away. Each second of the drive increased my anxiety by a thousandfold, so by the time I was a block away I nearly pulled a U-turn into oncoming traffic and headed home. Every rotation of my tires echoed thoughts in my head like: I can’t do this. She’s too little. I’m not only a horrible person, I’m a horrible mother. Who leaves a two-month-old with strangers? Oh, wait, I know—an abusive mother who values her material goods and her job over her child. Do I even like my job enough to leave my fragile, defenseless infant with people I’ve never met and who probably are secret baby snatchers who will sell her on the underground adoption market?
I pulled into the parking lot of the day-care center and wept. Many times during my leave, I would shoot invisible daggers at Jake while he blissfully slept in bed next to me, oblivious to the Clare versus Infant battle raging outside. Yet, in that moment, I just wanted to drive home with Sara, put her back in her cradle swing, throw on my sweatpants, and turn on Oprah.
I mean, how will they know that 11:00 a.m.–12:00 p.m. is Afternoon Dance Party, when we twirl around and listen to Sara’s favorite song, “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred? How will they know that stories about Champagne Wayne, our alky neighbor, are what make her laugh the most? Who will be there to pretend to be a monster and gnaw on her chubby toes?
Who will whisper that they’re in this together, that they’re on the same team, that napping is the greatest thing ever when she won’t go to sleep?
I started the car back up and then remembered one teeny-tiny detail: money.
It helps to have money for things like electricity, food, clothing, and diapers. And no job equals Clare and Jake living on the bench outside our apartment building. Which I’m sure would be fabulous accommodations in the summer, but seeing as how it’s March, I don’t think that’s an option for us.
So, I lugged the car seat out of the car, dried my tears on a burp cloth, and brought my two-month-old daughter to day-care.
I cried as I drove to work.
10:00 A.M.
My eyes are burning out of their sockets. Not because of tears over Sara, although I’ve spent the past hour obsessively watching the webcam on our day-care center’s Web site, making sure she’s not being handed over for a stack of hundreds to some random couple, but because of Mule Face’s outfit today. She’s donned a fabulously tacky eggplant polyester pantsuit, no doubt purchased from her favorite store, Dressbarn. The material hugs every roll and contour of her enormous butt and the jacket button looks like a person dangling off the edge of a cliff, hanging on for dear life.
Side note: What genius came up with the idea to name a women’s clothing store Dressbarn? Besides Mule Face, most women I know would rather not shop at a place that has any connation to obese farm animals. They should just go ahead and call it Fat Girl Fashions 4 U. Although I guess I should be slightly more introspective and forgiving, since I’ll probably have to shop in the Big Girl section now, thanks to the extra twenty pounds still lounging around my midsection. Thankfully, Jake is either an Academy Award–winning caliber actor or he really hasn’t noticed my new muffin top.
When my muffin top and I walked through the door of Signature Events, Mule Face, as expected, acted like I had been gone for several millennia. I had left my job as an event planner at Chicago’s most prestigious firm only three months ago, yet my coworker Mule Face / Annie couldn’t resist an opportunity to capitalize on my discomfort.
“OH. MY. GOD. Everyone, look who’s here!” She smil
ed wide, giving me a great shot of the raspberry doughnut she’d just shoved into her mouth. Raspberry seeds were stuck in between the abnormally large veneers that had inspired her moniker. She quickly surveyed me up and down. “You look great! You probably only have what, twenty-five pounds or so to lose?”
I sighed wearily at her. “More like twenty, but thanks, Annie.”
“We-ell. Don’t be surprised if you don’t take it off. I read somewhere that women keep on an average of ten pounds per child. Just be prepared!” She wagged her finger at me, her corkscrew-curled hair bouncing around her hot pink lips.
“Thanks. Will do. I’m not worried.” I started to walk toward my office, praying she’d stop eye-raping me with her too-tight pantsuit.
“So, aren’t you going to ask me how the Parkview Hospital fundraiser went?” Mule Face asked me as she followed me down the hallway. The Parkview Hospital fundraiser was my client’s event, and it nearly killed me to turn the reins over to Mule Face when I went on leave.
“OK. How did it go?” I stopped walking and faced her.
“Fantastic! They said they were so impressed with how it was handled this year and it was much more organized than in previous years.” She smiled sweetly at me.
I bristled. “I’m glad it went well. I was sorry I had to miss the event this year.”
“Get in here, MOM!” Christina’s voice bellowed from her office.
I turned around the corner and appeared at my boss’s office.
“You look fabulous. Can’t even tell you’re probably getting five hours of sleep a night.” Christina stood up from behind her desk and I noticed she had on a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps I would prostitute Jake to buy.
“Thanks. Last night it was more like three hours, but who’s counting other than the exhausted girl inside of me who is still wondering what ‘sleeping through the night’ means.” I exhaled loudly and smiled slightly.
“Well, I know you have a mile-high pile on your desk, so I’ll let you get to it,” Christina said as her phone rang. She walked back to her desk, her high heels sinking into the carpet. “Just try not to fall asleep during the day,” she said as she reached for her trilling phone.
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