Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (10 page)

“May your poos always be lucky poos.”

 

Dear Fern,

Thank you for the eighteen boxes of diapers. Instead of putting them on Sam's tush, I was thinking we could use them as extra insulation in our attic. It does get pretty cold around here in the winter.

Love,

Annie

FACEBOOK STATUS

There sure are a lot of people running this morning on Facebook. Am I the only one sitting on the couch eating cereal? I mixed two kinds, if that helps.

46 Days Old

Did everyone I go to high school with suddenly become marathon runners? How did this happen? Some of them are even doing Ironman races! Are they trying to make all of us who haven't exercised in months feel like shit? Are they trying to motivate us? I have mixed feelings about the motivation. For some reason, looking at really fit women makes me feel like I'll never look good enough. But looking at really fit men, like, say, Channing Tatum, makes me work harder. Is it the muscles that motivate me or the distraction? Whatever it is, it is time. Today I get back on the treadmill. Now where did I put that Blu-ray of
Magic Mike
?

Later

I swear my uterus started falling out when I tried to run. Everything down below felt draggy and heavy and wide open. My uterus, my lady lips, my … well, let's just say I took an involuntary bathroom break less than a minute after trying to squeeze my Kegels as tightly as I could while simultaneously plodding along pathetically.

Next time I'll start with a nice, slow trot. Or perhaps a canter. I don't know which is which. I've never ridden a horse. The way they look at me with those sad eyes, like, “Bitch, have you seen how skinny my legs are, and you want to sit on my back?”

I wonder if horses ever pee themselves when they run. This one girl on Facebook posted about her Ironman race and how she had to pee on herself while riding her bike. If I didn't have a baby, would I try an Ironman? Doubtful, but what about a marathon? Half marathon? Who am I kidding? If Sam weren't here right now, I'd be spending eight hours playing
The Sims
on my computer and planning our next summer vacation overseas. We always said we'd go to Australia, but fuck if I'm ever going to be able to sit on a twenty-hour flight with a child. We're stuck taking road trips to the world's largest chicken for the next eighteen years.

Peeing myself during an Ironman looks more appealing by the second.

47 Days Old

The in-laws arrive tomorrow. I don't have the time or energy to do any real cleaning, so I took out a tub of Clorox wipes and cleaned every surface imaginable with them. The house smells like a school bathroom, and there are remnants of lint clumps everywhere. But at least it looks semipresentable in that college-student-cleaning-up-for-their-parents'-visit-so-they-don't-worry-them-and-visit-more-often kind of way.

And, yes, I did strap Clorox wipes onto my slippers with rubber bands and skate over the kitchen floor. Duh.

Middle of the Night

Why the frak will this kid not sleep more than two hours without having me feed him? Not even QVC can make this better. How many fucking minutes can they talk about self-tanning towelettes?

I hope they work. I ordered three boxes.

48 Days Old

The in-laws have arrived. Thankfully, they offered to stay in a hotel. Dawn, Zach's mom, claimed it was to give our family space, since our nights are so tough. I'm guessing it has more to do with the gross-out factor of our house. I don't think Mimi could handle the random patches of spit-up that we never bothered to clean off the carpet. (I figure we'll get to them all at once when Sam's done with his spit-up phase. Or we'll get new carpet.)

It's hilarious watching the battle of the grandmas. There is a constant neediness emanating from their Chico's jackets. I can tell Zach's mom is trying to be diplomatic, but I also see a fire in her eyes when Mimi wants a turn that burns, “It's my grandbaby by
blood
.” Slightly scary. I can't wait until we have dinner with my mom tonight. Three grandmas in one place. I hope Sam still has all of his limbs when it's over.

Dinner

Sam slept through most of the parental dinner at Indian Palace, until I had to nurse him. I'm getting better at feeding him in public, although it didn't help when Mimi felt the need to act as my guard dog and barked, “That's what breasts are made for!” at anyone who dared glance my way. Since I was wearing my nursing cover and most of my torso was concealed by the table, I think it mainly made Mimi look like a raving lunatic instead of a protective mother-in-law.

The conversation between bites of palak paneer and aloo gobi went something like this:

*   *   *

My mom: So I'm Grandma [finger quotes]. What would you like to be called? [Ballsy move on my mom's part to stake her claim on the classic Grandma, but she always thought Bubbe made her sound too old. Plus, her mom was Grandma, so she wanted to continue the tradition.]

Dawn (Zach's mom):
I always thought I'd be called Mimi because that's what Zachy called his grandma.

Mimi:
But my name's Mimi.

Dawn:
But the baby doesn't know that.

Mimi:
The baby doesn't know anything yet, and even if he doesn't know it now, he will know it someday. I thought he could call me Mimi.

Dawn:
I understand that Mimi is your name, but it's not your grandma name. My mom was a Mimi, and it is important to me that my grandbaby know his family connection.”

Mimi:
Are you saying I have no family connection?

Dawn:
You know I'm not saying that, nor have I ever said that. You know what I mean. It was my mother, for God's sake.

[Huffy silence.]

Mimi:
Your point is valid. I propose a compromise.

Dawn:
I'm listening.

Mimi:
How about you're Mimi, and I'm Mimi Two?

Dawn:
Like we're both called Mimi? That will confuse the poor boy.

Mimi:
No. Like Mimi Part Two. The number. The sequel. Kids love sequels.

Dawn:
I suppose that could work.

Thus, Zach's mom became Mimi, and Mimi became Mimi 2, the Sequel. And my mom retained her reigning title of Grandma.

49 Days Old

Zach's moms are insisting Zach and I go out for a dinner date. I argue that I have to nurse Sam, but Dawn says we could leave right after I nurse him and get back in time for his next feeding.

“He might be fussy. Dinnertime is his fussy time of day. Well, one of them,” I warn them.

“We can handle it,” Mimi 2 says as she strokes Doogan on her lap. She has taken to holding Doogan when her turn with Sam is up. I watch Doo try to struggle out of her arms, but Mimi 2 refuses to relinquish her grip. I telepathically send him a message that I'll give him an apple, his favorite fruit, later.

“Sam will be fine. We'll only be gone for an hour.” Zach tries to convince me that all will be okay, but I don't know how he can just leave our baby in the hands of people we see only once or twice a year. I can barely get myself to leave Sam alone with Zach, even on those days when I feel like I could leave Sam screaming alone in his crib while I escape through an underground tunnel I'm kicking myself for not having installed. If something goes wrong with Sam when I'm with him, at least I can blame myself. If he's with other people and something goes wrong, what happens then? Would I leave Zach if he accidentally dropped Sam down a flight of stairs? Sue Dawn for letting Sam roll off the changing table? Attack Mimi 2 for feeding Sam organic whole-grain gingersnaps before he's ready for solids?

“I don't think we should go,” I say, running through all of the incidents of negative possibility in my head.

“We're going. I already have my shoes on.” Zach points to his feet.

“Oh, well, if you already have your shoes on,” I say sarcastically.

After taking my sweet time nursing Sam, changing his diaper, and tucking him into a new outfit, I reluctantly put on my own shoes.

“Our cell phone numbers are listed next to the phone,” I tell the Mimis.

“Thank you, dear. We also have them programmed into our cell phones,” Dawn reminds me. “Because you're not leaving him with a babysitter in 1985.”

Zach finally manages to usher me out the door and into the car. Five minutes after we leave the house, I shout, “Wait! We have the car seat base in our car. What if there is an emergency and they need to drive somewhere with Sam? Turn around.”

Zach opens his mouth to attempt a calming sentiment but quickly realizes that this is an argument he does not want to have with me. When we pull into the garage, I unlatch my seat belt and bolt inside, informing Zach, “I'm just going to check in.”

My sneak attack proves fruitless, as the Mimis and Sam appear to be in exactly the same position they were in before we left the first time.

“Back so soon?” Mimi 2 asks.

“We took the car seat with us, but brought it home just in case you need it. Not that you will. Just if there's an emergency. Please don't drive anywhere with Sam,” I mumble, backing my way into the garage.

On the road again, I remind Zach, “We have approximately 1.2 hours door-to-door.”

“I don't understand why we didn't leave them a bottle of breastmilk. We have a bunch stored in the freezer.”

“That is only for absolute emergencies, like Kesha concerts and murder mysteries. I'm not wasting it so you and I can go out to dinner. That's liquid gold we're talking about.”

“Right. So where are we going?”

“I'm dying for some meat. How about you?”

Zach and I are not technically vegetarians, although we both were when we first met. When I got pregnant with Sam, my cravings steered toward the fleshy variety. Zach had been holding back his own meat cravings for a while, so together we began sporadic indulgences in chicken or turkey. Once Zach ordered a steak, but it was too officially dead animal–like, and he stuck with poultry from then on. For me, if the meat seems at all meaty, I'm out. But there is a barbecue place that serves the most incredible, falling-apart chicken sandwiches that has been clouding my hungry brain. And that is why Zach and I have our first official postbaby dinner date at a place called Porky's Meat Hut.

50 Days Old

Middle-of-the-night feeding. I ordered a floor steam cleaner from QVC because it kills 99.9 percent of germs and doesn't use harsh chemicals. I hate to think of Doogan licking poison from his paws. Maybe someday I'll feel the same way about Sam, too.

51 Days Old

It is becoming a common occurrence for me to sit on the shitter while breastfeeding Sam. Every time I nurse him on the right boob, I have the urge to take a poo. According to my boob guru, Joanne, something about the hormonal rush can trigger nausea in some women. She told me a story of a woman who threw up every time she breastfed. And yet she kept doing it. Are we mad?

52 Days Old

I took a trip to Target today, wore Sam in his wrap, and all went well until he started screaming during checkout like I was ripping out individual toenails from his plump little feet (my favorite part of his body, if someone made me select one at gunpoint). I already had most of my items on the conveyor belt, and the cashier in red and khaki was beeping away and placing the items into my reusable Target bags (you get five cents back every time you use one!). I panicked and began rapidly unspooling the Moby Wrap, whipping the yards and yards of fabric hither and yon until it landed in a floppy purple puddle around my feet. Sam's screaming made me feel harried to the extreme, so instinctually I did the one thing I knew would make him shut up: I lifted my shirt, dropped my bra, and shoved his head at my boob. Instantly he was calm, eating happily as I reached for a box of tissues I was about to purchase. Cradling Sam in my left arm, I ripped the cardboard cover off the tissues and began wiping down the sweat oozing from my forehead and upper lip. I crumpled the used tissue blob and tossed it into one of my red bags. When it was time to pay, I fumbled one-handedly through my purse and eventually managed to extract my credit card from my wallet. The woman behind me in line, a close stander (which meant she was getting an eyeful of boob), commented, “Nice multitasking.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “You should have seen me in the bathroom this morning.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Really, lady?

53 Days Old

I awoke this morning with the most disturbing firmness in my right breast. It was too large and developed to scare me into breast cancer territory, but the size wasn't the disturbing part. It was square. I had a square protrusion on part of my breast, and it hurt. Inside and out. I called Joanne, who answered right away (seriously, is this lady the angel of boobs?). She said it sounded like a plugged duct and gave me orders to ice it before I feed Sam, massage it gently while he's eating or if I pump to release the milk, and take ibuprofen to bring down the swelling. She said if it seemed to be taking too long, I could even hold a vibrator up to my breast to help loosen it! I don't know where she gets all of this information, but it's brilliant. When the plug clears, I plan on baking her a bunch of cookies. Or buying some. Maybe a cookie bouquet? What would my boobs be without her?

Later

The square is still there. It's royally grossing me out. I have the inclination to get a piece of tracing paper and do a rubbing of it just to prove the squareness of the situation to Zach, who sounded skeptical over the phone. He also said someone brought Lou Malnati's pizza and cheesecakes to the bank for lunch. I told him he better bring me a cornucopia of theater-sized candy boxes on his way home from work for all the shit I have to go through while he indulges in endless lunch delights and pain-free boobs. I thought about asking how he'd like it if he had to put ice on his testicles every couple of hours but thought better of it if I wanted that candy.