Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (9 page)

With the amount of shit we bring into the restaurant, you'd think we're moving into one of their extra-large booths for the next three months.

Sam stays in his car seat carrier, and I almost manage to devour my entire Belgian waffle before his face turns from peachy sweet to roaring red.

“What's wrong? What happened?” Zach is still not completely awake, even though he is on his third cup of bottomless coffee.

“He's hungry,” I say, sounding a lot like Eeyore. “As always.”

“Do you want to try feeding him?” Zach has watched me struggle for nearly five weeks and knows not to say anything that might imply inadequacy in the slightest. But he also really wants to finish his omelet.

“I could. I guess.” I'm waffling more than, well, my waffle, because the thought of other people witnessing my complete failure at momness is debilitating. But one of the many reasons I chose to breastfeed was to make Sam more portable and spontaneous. I have to try it sometime, and the restaurant isn't crowded enough for all eyes to be on me. Hell, at this time in the morning the only eyes on me are from senior citizens who woke up earlier than we did. “Can you hand me the nursing cover?” I ask as I gingerly unlatch Sam's seat belt. Zach digs through the diaper bag and pulls something out.

“This?”

“That's a blanket.”

He dives in again and holds up another item. “This?”

“That's another blanket.”

Three blankets later: “How many blankets do we need in here?” he laments. Zach manages to find the nursing cover my mom made for me out of old Strawberry Shortcake sheets from my childhood bedroom. Attached is an adjustable strap I throw around my neck to hold the cover on, and she even thought to fill the lip of the cover with a bendable wire to give it a tentlike stiffness.

I hold Sam with one arm and throw the nursing cover over my head. I slide myself back into the booth, Sam rooting around my fully dressed chest, the smell of my milk driving him mad. His behavior is so primal and animalistic, I'm a tad creeped out by him. His neediness only adds to the pressure of feeding in public. I flick at the hook on my nursing bra until I feel it release, and I whip the nursing cover over Sam's head so he is now hidden from others' views. I, however, can see him as I look down into the bowed opening. My mom really did a great job. I fumble underneath and pull down the bra cup so my breast is available, then I grit my teeth and hold my breath while I hold Sam to latch.

And he does.

I wait for him to pull off or cry, but he's just sucking away like this is what he is meant to do. After a minute like this, I relax and even manage a few bites of my waffle. When it comes time to switch breasts, Sam cries only the tiniest bit while I flip him around and unhook the other side of my bra. Then he latches again, and we finish our meals at the same time.

An older woman hobbles by with a walker, looks down at me, and says, “You're doing a good job.” She smiles and trundles on.

Is she some sort of angel who's been watching me the last month and knows my thoughts on self-loathing? Or is she just a nice woman who says kind things to people? Or is she a crazy lady who thinks I'm smuggling saltine crackers and rolls underneath my cover, and she's commending me on my thieving skills?

Whatever it is, it makes me feel damn good. Better than I have in a long time. As we leave the restaurant, Sam back in his car seat and me blissed out by the elderly compliment, Zach points out, “You're looking a little lumpy. I think you forgot to hook your bra things back on.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Don't ruin it.”

To: Annie

From: Annika

Hey Baby Mama! How's your little guy? How are you? I have to come visit sometime. Or you could always bring him into the city for lunch.

So Kesha is coming in concert, and I know you love her. Why don't we go? Maybe it will inspire us to get the Pee Sharps back together.
☺
You can wear Sam on your back and the guitar on the front!

XXXOOO Annika

35 Days Old

Hmmm. I do love Kesha. I think she reminds me of my college self, which would then make a lot of sense for me to see her with Annika. But this show is in Milwaukee, about an hour from my house, and I'll need to bottle some breastmilk for Sam and pump somehow at the show if I don't want to explode or get a breast infection. We'd probably be the oldest hags at the show, but it could work. I'll ask Zach how he feels about having to put Sam down for bed without me.

This is too weird, right? I'm a mom. Moms don't go to Kesha concerts. Moms drop their kids off at Kesha concerts.

My mom reminds me how just last month she went to a Neil Diamond concert, and her hands were raw from clapping so much.

Fuck it. I'll go.

To: Annika

From: Annie

I'm in for Kesha. Brunch and Pee Sharps reunion will have to wait.

36 Days Old

Zach thinks it's hilarious that I want to see Kesha in the first place, because, as he puts it, “You could be her mom,” which is so not true. I mean, I guess I technically could, since I got my period when I was eleven, but whatever. The concert is in five weeks, and hopefully I'll be walking 100 percent normally by then. I have my six-week appointment next week, and that's when I get the go-ahead for all kinds of things: lifting, running, sex. Oy. I can't even think about anyone going in or out of my vagina right now. I'm still completely addicted to my squeeze bottle. I hope my midwife encourages me to keep using it. Forever.

I'm also going to ask her when my massive quantity of hair will start falling out. I know some people love that their hair gets extra thick and lustrous during pregnancy, but I already have a shit ton of hair and having more just makes me look like the Cowardly Lion after he had his Emerald City makeover.

I definitely need to ask about all of this black shit in my belly button. It's like a caked-on layer of crud that I can't pick out, not that I would try. Sticking my finger in my belly button makes me want to heave. But I don't want it to look like I have filthy hygiene habits. Does everyone have crudded-up belly buttons after giving birth? Why don't any of my pregnancy books talk about this? Or the fact that I have so many new veins on my leg that Google Earth might mistake them as a route to the local 7-Eleven. And is this stripe down my stomach going to go away? It magically appeared during the pregnancy, so can't it just magically disappear now that the pregnancy's over?

One last thing: the bright, shiny, Rudolph-intensity pimple that blossomed a week after the birth smack-dab in the middle of my chest. How long is this douchebag going to hang around?

I better write all of this down and bring it to the appointment with me. Wouldn't want to forget anything important.

37 Days Old

Devin emailed me from work and asked if I wanted to bring Sam to an English Department meeting. At first I was totally game. Why not? I've seen other people do it, and I've taken part in the mass adoration of new staff babies. But the more I think about it, the more I recognize the potential for a clusterfuck. I'd have to see my sub. Everyone would witness my still jiggly belly. Sam would most certainly cry and need to nurse, and then there is the possibility of one of my students or—gasp!—colleagues seeing my breasts. And what if it's a bad latch day? Or Sam poos all over himself? Or all over me? What if he catches some nasty middle school disease? What if he gets lice, and there are itty-bitty bugs crawling around his downy hair?

I better turn down the offer. It sure would have been nice to get out of the house, though.

T
HE
S
EXIEST
T
HING
T
HAT
H
APPENED TO
M
E
T
HIS
W
EEK:

I found a new tributary of veins on my leg the shape of Billy Dee Williams (head only).

38 Days Old

Damn. Sam's smile is really cute. He smiles whenever Doogan walks by and brushes his tail over his face. And he smiles at my mom. Way more than at me, of course. He does kind of look like Zach. But I'm not going to tell anyone I think that quite yet.

FACEBOOK STATUS

I love when I fill out a health form for Sam and it asks for his marital status.

39 Days Old

Devin skipped out of work for lunch today because they were setting up for the retirement party in the library.

“I told them I'm allergic to deviled eggs, and the smell was giving me a headache.” She offered to pick me and Sam up and take us out to lunch, but with the car seat and all of Sam's crap, I thought it would be easier to meet her.

The way things went, she would have been better off with the deviled eggs. Sam, when not screaming so loudly that I couldn't hear a single word uttered by Devin, was rolling around in my arms so aggressively while I was trying to feed him that I needed twelve more hands just to hold my nursing cover in place lest I flash the entirety of Panera.

I wanted to hear Devin's gossipy goodness from work, since everyone tells the librarian everything (they are the keepers of information, after all), but Sam was not going to let that happen. After a hurried and hellish half hour, I admitted defeat and we parted ways. I suppose I'm going to become her new fodder for a juicy tale:
Annie is a terrible mom
. It will pass around the faculty until even the annoying part-time teacher's assistant looks down on me. I'll have to find a new line of work, dye my hair, change my name …

Maybe the circus is hiring.

40 Days Old

Zach's moms are coming to visit in a week. I'm going to pretend I forgot and see if he remembers any of the things we need to do to get the house ready. Sometimes I wonder if that's why he married me: so I could remind him of things he needs to do. Did he ever wish his family Happy Birthday before we met?

41 Days Old

Sam had another crappy night last night, which means I had a crappy night. For a while there we had three-hour/three-hour/three-hour stretches of sleep, so I was averaging about six hours of total sleep, divided up into two-hour chunks (taking into account the length of time it took to feed Sam and then get myself to fall back asleep). Last night I woke after three hours, but Sam slept until four. So I lay awake, waiting. Then, after I put him down, he woke up after one hour. So I fed him and put him down again. Then he woke up an hour later. So I fed him and put him down again. Was I supposed to feed him every time? Was I supposed to let him cry? Who holds the correct answers to all of my fucking questions?

I am painfully tired. Doogan looks so cuddly curled up on Sam's floor that I may have once fallen asleep there next to him. At least I didn't have to walk as far the next time Sam woke.

42 Days Old

Who needs therapy when you've got QVC? I might start buying one of everything just so someone can say nice things to me on the testimonial line.

Today a woman purchased a pair of white, bedazzled capri jeggings, and when she called in to tell the host that she made the purchase, the host actually exclaimed, “I'm so excited for you!” I want someone to be so excited for me and my ludicrous-looking pants. When I told my mom what I bought, she one-upped me and told me she already has three pairs. Is QVC hereditary?

43 Days Old

Sam is six weeks old today. Things I know about Sam so far:

  1. He likes to eat from my boobs.

  2. He doesn't like to go to sleep.

  3. He doesn't like to stay asleep.

  4. He thinks Daddy is funny.

  5. He likes when Grandma holds him.

  6. He giggles when he touches Doogan's fur.

  7. He hates me.

44 Days Old

My favorite part of my six-week midwife appointment: I only weigh twelve pounds more than I did before I got pregnant.

My least favorite parts:

When the midwife went near my vagina.

When the midwife said I could start exercising again.

When the midwife said I could start having sex again.

Why did she have to go near my vagina? Hasn't it done its time as whipping girl for this baby? It did not want to open its doors for anyone, particularly one wearing latex gloves and shining an unflattering light in its face. I get the icky shivers every time I remember the speculum greeting.

So now I'm allowed to exercise. I don't get how celebrities start exercising earlier than normal humans. My midwife explicitly told me that I could not do anything strenuous before six weeks because my body needed time to heal. She made this gross analogy of a towel getting stuck in a washing machine and if I tried to pull it out, my insides would never rebound. Or maybe it was that my insides would get messed up like the towel? It sounded grotesque either way, and it was a great excuse not to exercise. Do celebs have different doctors whom they pay off to allow them to exercise earlier than real people? I don't envy them and their obscenely unrealistic need for perfection. Part of me really wants to hop back on the treadmill because I never hated exercise, but the other part of me much prefers refreshing my Facebook page sixteen thousand times and watching
Say Yes to the Dress
from the vantage point of my couch. I'm trying to remind myself how much I loved running and how good it made me feel. Even better than … So I'm allowed to have sex now. Do I have to let Zach know?

*   *   *

Side note: Of course I forgot my list of questions and couldn't remember a single one.

Later

Awaiting me on the porch when I arrived home from my six-week appointment were four enormous boxes, like the type you pack your clothes in when you're moving. Inside: Fern sent me eighteen boxes of diapers of various sizes, because eighteen represents good luck to Jewish people. Attached was this note: