Tales From the Crib (10 page)

“I refuse to feel guilty about this. I was very young and naively listened to my doctor, who said formula was best,” Anjoli said. “I refuse to apologize for it. I did the best I could with the resources I had at the time, and merely -”

“Okay, okay! I was just a little surprised, that’s all. It’s hard to imagine Miss Health Food buying Carnation instant formula.”

“Darling, my mother told me to put whiskey on my fingertip and let you suck it off to get you to sleep longer. I broke the cycle of alcoholism. Formula’s certainly better than what I got.”

My grandmother was a trip. As flamboyant as my mother; but an alcoholic instead of a New Age workshop addict. Years ago, my cousin’s three-year-old daughter returned from a month stay with Grammy, and went back to preschool asking for chardonnay during snack time. We think Emma simply heard the word a lot, instead of having actually acquired a taste for wine, but with Grammy you could never be certain.

“Mom, I’m having a tough time managing,” I said softly.

“Motherhood is exhausting, darling,” she sighed in solidarity. “I remember when you were learning to walk, I thought I was going to lose my mind with the way you pulled every record out of its case, every cereal box from the cupboards, and every -”

I couldn’t help interrupting. “Mom, that was nearly forty years ago. I’m having trouble today. Can you come out and help me?” If she said no, I’d simply collapse in tears. We couldn’t afford to hire a nurse. Jack was in the city most of the day, and I hadn’t made a single friend in Caldwell since we moved. “Please come out and help me.”

I waited for what seemed an eternity as she contemplated the logistics. “Alfie could open the shop and we could always hire a kid from one of the stage crews. God knows they always need a little extra day work. Hmmm, this could work, this could work. Are you sure you don’t want to come into the city and stay with me? You could bring all of your baby stuff here. It won’t get in my way, darling.”

“Mom, please. I want to be in my home. Can’t you just come to me this once?”

When Jack came home that night, I informed him that Anjoli would arrive on Saturday to help with Adam. He laughed. “Is she going to
help
or create more work for you?”

“Jack.” I didn’t have the energy to scold with more than one word.

“Why so blue, kiddo?”

“I miss my dad,” I said. “I wish he was here to share this. I wish he could see Adam and be a part of his life.”

Jack put his arms around me as though we were in a Life Savers commercial. “Don’t be sad, Luce. Think of all the good times you had with Sammy and be grateful for that.”

I hated this trite platitude people shot out when they were uncomfortable with another person’s mourning. It was really a manipulative ultimatum. I
was
grateful for the time we had together. I was also grief-stricken by the loss of it. It would be better if people would simply say, “Know what? I can’t deal with seeing you in pain, so can you just take it out of my sight, please, and come out of your room when you’re ready to slap a pretty little smile on and tell me that everything is just peachy?”

Chapter 12

As Jack predicted, Anjoli wasn’t much help around the house. She and I stared at Adam’s scab of a belly button in a state of mutual puzzlement. “How did you remove mine?” I asked.

“I can’t remember. I don’t think you had one of those, darling,” she said, looking disgusted with it. I had to admit, it was a pretty awful sight. But I didn’t want to yank it off prematurely simply because I was uncomfortable looking at it. Then I remembered that Adam had a pediatric appointment that afternoon.

“We’ll ask the doctor,” I suggested. Anjoli rolled her eyes as if to say,
Ah yes, let us all bow to the altar of the medical establishment, for they know all.
Yet she was as clueless as I was about what to do with this grotesque belly scab.

Changing gears, Anjoli told me that in a few days some of her friends would be coming to see the baby. “Oh, um, okay. That’s fine.” I liked all of Anjoli’s friends, but I knew my mother prided herself on entertaining properly—a task I wasn’t up to in the best of circumstances. Plus, I knew she wouldn’t be any help while she was fluttering around pouring herbal tea and regaling her drama posse with tales from the crib. She would characterize herself as the over-worked grandmother, when the truth was she had yet to even hold Adam. She certainly hadn’t changed a diaper, nor had she volunteered to watch him so I could take a nap or go to a movie. And Jack was right—she was creating more housework.
All
of her clothing needed to be washed separately in the gentle cycle (by me). And every time she was finished preparing a meal (for herself), she left vegetable scraps all over the kitchen floor. She had her moments where she tried to help, but on these rare occasions, the assistance was utterly worthless. Once, while she toiled away at the kitchen sink, I overheard Jack ask Anjoli why she didn’t wash the backs of the plates. “The backs don’t get dirty, darling,” she lilted.

“They do, Anjoli,” Jack returned. “When I cleared the table, I stacked the dishes on top of each other, so you see, there’s a pat of butter stuck to the back of this plate and a bit of corn on this one.”

“Hmmm,” Anjoli said, noticing Jack had a point. “So they do.” And yet, she changed nothing. The next morning, there was a drying rack filled with butter-backed plates perched on a counter sprinkled with stray seeds.

As we drove to Dr. Comstock’s office, Anjoli asked what types of pie people eat.

“What?” I asked.

“Pie.
What types of pie do people eat?” She repeated the question, giving me no more information.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Thursday, Kiki, Felix, Alfie, and Fiona are coming out to see me. I need to put a little coffee and pie out to serve.”
Oh God, here we go.

“I don’t know, Anjoli. What kind of pie do you normally serve people?” She already knew exactly what kind of pie she planned to serve. We were going through this ritual so she could remind me that she was from this non pie-eating species, and had no idea what
people
ate.

“Remind me that we need to pick up pie on Thursday morning. They’re coming all the way out to New Jersey, the least we can do is serve a decent pie. Where can we purchase a pie, darling?” Mother always seemed to think that the trip from the city to Caldwell was somehow longer and more burdensome than the other way around.

“A bakery, I guess,” I rolled my eyes. “Mom, Jack is going to be home on Thursday. How long are your friends visiting for?”

She put her hand to her chest, hurt by the question. “Do you have issues with my friends visiting?”

“No, it’s just that Jack is taking the day off to be with Adam, and I want to figure out when he can get some father-son time.”

“Oh good, Jack can drive me to the pie shop that morning!” Anjoli said. The poster child for adult attention deficit disorder, my mother looked out the car window and offered, “Look at those kids waiting for the bus, Lucy. Where are they going?” This wasn’t some sort of creative improvisation game where we’d make up stories about where we thought the kids were headed. She actually expected me to know. “Chicken Joe’s,” she read the sign from a fast-food restaurant. “Do they make good chicken?”

“I really don’t know, Mother,” I said flatly. “I haven’t eaten there.”

“International House of Pancakes,” she lilted. “How very cosmopolitan. Tell me, darling, do they only serve pancakes or is there more on the menu?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The International House -”

“I heard you. Why are you acting as if you’ve never heard of IHOP? I’m your daughter, you don’t have to impress me with how disconnected you are from mainstream culture.  I happen to know that you know exactly what an IHOP is.”

“Darling, I have no idea! You certainly are moody these days.”

“Mother, Daddy told me that on your honeymoon you two ate every breakfast at IHOP and that he’d never seen anyone shovel in quite as many waffles as you could.”

“I was a dancer,” she humphed. “I had to eat large meals.”

“At IHOP! My point is
not
that you ate large meals, it’s that you ate at IHOP, you know good and well what the International House of Pancakes is—and that they serve waffles, eggs, bacon, and even grits in the South—not just pancakes.”

“Oh yes, now I remember. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re so huffy about, darling. I came out here to help and you’re downright abusive. I’m simply trying to make conversation.”

“Well let’s see. So far, we’ve talked about pie, where kids are going on the bus, Chicken Joe’s, and IHOP. Riveting. How ‘bout asking me how I’m adjusting to motherhood? How ‘bout asking if I’m dying inside watching Jack go off to his separate bedroom and call me ‘kiddo’ every morning? Were you at all curious why we’re going to the pediatrician this afternoon? Might you want to know why I’m sweating and gritting my teeth every time I nurse, which just FYI is every two hours?”

After a few minutes of silence, Anjoli returned from gazing out the passenger window and asked, “So, darling. How’s it going?”

I laughed. It was impossible for me to stay angry with my mother. “Promise me something, okay, Mom?”

“Anything, darling. You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Do
not
be rude to Dr. Comstock.”

“Rude?” She looked seriously perplexed.

I lifted Adam from his car seat and placed him in a baby sling that Zoe gave me as a shower gift. All this kid ever did was sleep, but at our last checkup, Dr. Comstock assured me that this was normal and my son was not bound to be a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker as I’d feared. I suppose I should have done more in terms of educating myself about infants, but I always felt that in doing so, I was tempting fate.

When Dr. Comstock entered the exam room, his eyes shot directly to my mother. I was used to this. She was a stunning-looking woman who drew even more attention to herself by wearing colorful scarves, feathered hats, and low-cut blouses. “Well, hello, Mom,” he said, more excited to see me than he’d ever been. “I see you brought your sister with you today.”
Oh God, how cheesy!
He glanced at her left hand and I saw the beginnings of a smirk on my mother’s face. She glanced at his wedding ring and smiled dismissively at it.
Oh no! I smelled pheromones in the air. Gross.

“My
daughter
didn’t tell me she had such a charming pediatrician,” Anjoli leaned forward in her seat and extended her hand. “Anjoli.” God strike me dead if the old white-coated geezer didn’t kiss her hand.

“What an unusual name,” he said, still holding her dainty hand in his.

“I’m an unusual woman,” she shot immediately.

“I can see that.”

“Okay, so anyway, Dr. Comstock, nursing has become extremely painful and I’m not really sure what to do about it,” I said.

“Nor am I,” Dr. Comstock said. “I gotta be honest, I don’t know a whole heck of a lot about breastfeeding. Have you tried calling La Leche League?”

“My, my, Dr. Comstock,” Anjoli said. I swore the next words out of her mouth were going to be “I do declare” as she hid behind a lace hand fan. Instead, she finished, “A doctor who admits he doesn’t know everything. How very unusual
you
are.”

“So anyway, Adam is still peeing about eight times a day and pooping four times, so he’s right on track with the chart you gave me.” I said, though it got absolutely no response. “He didn’t have any reaction to the vaccine, so that was a relief.”

“Yes,” Dr. Comstock said. Finally, I’d reclaimed the pediatrician’s attention. “I try to empower my patients by not leading them to believe I have all the answers.”
What? Just last week, I asked a question and you said, “You came to the right place. When it comes to babies, I have all the answers.”

“We got the meconium poop just like you said,” I struggled. “But my mother and I were wondering how we remove the umbilical cord scab.”

“Excuse me.” Dr. Comstock finally turned to me. Then he asked my mother what she was wondering about.

“That dreadful-looking scab, darling,” she said. “Whenever can we stop looking at that thing?”

He burst into laughter. “You are so refreshingly honest, Anjoli.”

“Thank you ...” She paused for his name.

“Edward,” Dr. Comstock answered. “I can’t tell you how many grandmothers come in here and pretend they’re charmed by every bowel movement their little ones make. You are so genuine.”
Ask her about IHOP!
Never breaking eye contact, he assured Anjoli that the scab would fall off on its own in a few days.

“So how are you doing, Mom? Are you breastfeeding?”

On the drive home, we avoided talking about the unbelievably gross spectacle she and Dr. Comstock, oh excuse me, Edward, made of themselves. Instead, Anjoli asked if we should buy our pies that evening. “Will they keep for two days?’

“We can buy them fresh Thursday morning,” I said. “I’ll take you to a nice little bakery where they have everything from apple to mincemeat.”

“Oh, Kiki’s a vegetarian.”

“Mother, mincemeat isn’t meat and besides, all I meant was that they have a large selection.”

“What do people like best?”
Again with the people. What planet did she fancy herself from?

“People like apple pie,” I declared, absolutely certain my suggestion would be rejected.

“Not pumpkin?” she asked.

“People like pumpkin pie too. We should absolutely get the pumpkin pie.”

“What is mincemeat if not meat, darling?” Anjoli asked me.

“It’s an apple-raisin thing. It usually has meat in it though and Kiki’s a vegetarian, remember?”

“She’s wheat-free, too.”

“Well, Mother, pies have wheat in them.”

“I want to go look at the pies myself,” Anjoli said. “Does the pie place open early?”

“It’s a bakery! They open at, like, five in the morning.”

“We don’t need to get there
that
early.”

“Okay, my point was that they will be open for pie inspection earlier than we could ever, possibly, in our wildest dreams imagine going there.”