Tales From the Crib (18 page)

I was simply the sacrificial lamb, a symbol of Kimmy to be slaughtered at the dinner table. With that realization I stood and told them that my son, my breasts, and I were leaving. “Geoff, I’m sorry to leave early, but given everything you’ve been through this evening, I’m sure my skipping dinner falls into the category of small stuff you’re not going to sweat. Good evening.”

Dramatic exits are always so much more effective when the person leaving doesn’t need to pack chewing toys, a muppet, and a case of wipes into a diaper bag, then strap on a baby sling and adjust an infant into it. Three full minutes later, I was ready to walk out the door. “So good evening then,” I repeated, resisting the temptation to whip out my right boob and squirt a stream of milk in Geoff’s father’s face.

On the bus ride home, I asked Adam if we’d ever go to a normal party together. “You always said normal was boring, Mommy,” I imagined him saying to me one day. Right now, I’d kill for a healthy dose of boredom. Adam floated off to sleep as I drifted fifteen years back to my wedding to Jack.

In some ways I envied Kimmy’s and my mother’s complete conviction that they are the epicenter of everything fabulous. I would never presume to ask people to give up their Valentine’s Day to attend my wedding. Nor would it ever occur to me to have a royal wedding at the colossal St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I would never dream of asking my mother to pay for 300 dinner guests at Marco’s. When I was younger and started lightening my hair, I remember seeing those L’Oreal commercials where the gorgeous women would say that the hair color costs a bit more, but they were worth it. So I bought Clairol.

My wedding to Jack suited our style, though, and it was thoroughly lovely. We had fifty guests in Anjoli’s backyard on a humid summer night in July. She placed white Christmas lights in the trees and a string quartet played classical music on Anjoli’s terra-cotta patio. She hired out-of-work actors to serve tiny hors d’oeuvres like lobster puffs and mini potatoes with sour cream and caviar. More than any of that, I remember looking at Jack and thinking how lucky I was to be spending the rest of my life with my best friend. To finally have found my home. When Jack and I danced together for the first time as a married couple, he whispered that he hoped we died together because the thought of one of us holding the other’s body, and not feeling the incredible warmth we shared that night, was too painful to bear. I told you Jack was never light and breezy.

His marriage proposal was surprisingly upbeat. We were still in grad school in Ann Arbor and one night we were walking home from seeing a movie at the Michigan Theatre. “Stop,” he said. He looked at his watch and said, “Kiss me right now.” I happily complied. We were underneath the arch of the West Engineering Building as the Bell Tower gonged twelve times. “Keep going,” he pulled on my hands when I pulled away. “That will do,” he said as the final bell tolled.

“What was that all about?” I laughed, although I secretly knew.

The campus legend was that couples that kissed under the arch at the stroke of midnight would stay in love for ever, he explained. “So do you think it’s true?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” I giggled.

“How ʼbout we find out? Whaddya say? Are you game for an experiment? We’ll get married and see about this staying in love forever business.” He smiled. I wasn’t sure if he was kidding. “I know it would be a huge sacrifice on your part, Lucy. Having to stay with me for your whole life, but in the name of social science and the love of U of M, might you consider it?” Then he got down on one knee and pulled from his pocket a velvet box with an antique engagement ring that belonged to his grandmother. A few people slowed down their walk onto the Diag to watch the proposal, though no one stopped and stared openly.

“Jack,” I knelt down to him. “I already know I’ll love you forever, and I’ll marry you right this second if I could.”

Our wedding was the following weekend.

Obviously, I will be suing the University of Michigan for selling a naïve grad student false hopes for eternal wedded bliss. Unfortunately the monetary compensation for a broken heart is quite low. The best I’d get is a Chicago Dog at Red Hot Lovers.

Our first ten years were so smooth and effortless, I remember being quite smug about it actually. People would talk about how marriage was such hard work, and I very arrogantly thought that they simply didn’t have as intense a love as Jack and I did. I guess when things really started to unravel was after the second miscarriage. It could have brought us together, but had quite the opposite effect. Jack was so distant. He never said anything about anything, and would’ve preferred if I didn’t either. Every time I shared a feeling with him, he immediately insisted that I deny it. I understand that when someone says, “Oh, don’t feel sad,” they really are trying to help. But telling me not to feel what I’m already feeling is not at all helpful. He’d also repeat like a mantra, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Lucy.” Again, I know he was trying to soothe me, but “it” was not okay. Helpful tip for husbands: If your wife is hysterically crying over the loss of her babies, her father, or you, her husband, everything is definitely not okay. Trying to convince her otherwise is emotional abandonment at its worst. I remember a few weeks ago, I was at the park with Adam and a baby in his stroller was wailing at the top of his lungs, and the mom was saying, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Guess what? If the kid’s crying, he’s not okay, no matter how much you wish it weren’t so. Deal with whatever’s bothering him.

I wondered what Jack’s side of the story was. According to Natalie, he had no idea why our relationship broke down. Perhaps he had theories but didn’t want to share them with her despite their oh-so-long history. Was it my weight? Did we simply drift in opposite directions or does he feel I pushed him away? If I asked him where we went wrong, would he think I was trying to reconcile? Perhaps I would tell him I needed closure on our relationship. Oh God, I’m turning into my mother.

Chapter 22

If I hadn’t had a six-week-old baby with me, I would have checked into a homeless shelter that night. When I arrived at my mother’s home, there was a soiree that surpassed my wildest expectations. Kimmy was body surfing in her wedding gown atop the meticulously manicured hands of her guests. Anjoli was wildly playing the saxophone (she doesn’t play). Dr. Comstock gyrated his hips as though he should have dollar bills stuffed in his G-string. Oh God, on second glance, I saw that my son’s pediatrician
did
have dollar bills stuffed in what was thankfully not a G-string, but rather, Disney character boxer shorts. And surprise, surprise, Alfie was at the keyboard doing the campiest, gayest renditions of wedding songs ever heard. No one noticed me come. Or go.

An hour later, as I turned the key to my home in Caldwell, I heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from the room formerly known as my home office. “Quiet, honey,” I whispered to Adam. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt Daddy fucking his girlfriend.”

The next morning Natalie made pancakes for the three of us, and asked if I minded if she and Jack spent the day with Adam. The way she moved around my kitchen filled me with rage and inadequacy. I felt as though I was in a gender-swapped American version of
Bed and Sofa.
How did she know where the wire whisk was when I had no clue? Was she boiling water with
my
teakettle?! As much as I tried to find fault with Natalie, the reality was I couldn’t help but like her. She was smart, insightful, and pretty in a very unassuming way. (Which was difficult to do considering she was assuming my role as Jack’s wife and Adam’s mother.)

“Enjoy!” I said, too enthusiastically. “I’m sure you guys will have a lovely day together. And I could use the break myself. I’ve got a million things to take care of.”
Namely screwing the first willing guy that comes directly into my line of vision.

What was Natalie’s agenda anyway? Oh sure, she seemed sweet enough with her schoolteacher calmness and artsy good looks, but beneath the surface was there someone far more evil and dangerous? Might she and Jack have a plan to kill me for my life insurance money? Or was she simply trying on the role of stepmommy and second wife to see how it fit her?

“I’ve got to tell you, Lucy. I think you’re just about the coolest woman I’ve ever met,” Natalie interrupted my silent musings. “Not every mother would feel comfortable with this whole setup, and welcome me into her home like you have. I hope you know how much I genuinely appreciate your generosity.” Jack looked up from his newspaper and smiled. He was having his pancakes and eating them too. I wanted to cry. Why couldn’t this woman have the decency to be loathsome?!

Adam had no loyalty whatsoever. Whenever Natalie made funny faces at him, he laughed. Whenever she cooed baby talk to him, he gurgled back. If I had a daughter, she’d instinctively know to shun this imposter. I heard the three of them bundling up at the front door, discussing their plans for the day. Natalie wondered if the Natural History Museum still had the frogs. Jack thought the planetarium would be fun. A laser show, he suggested. I got the pediatric appointments, midnight nursings, and toenail clippings. These two get the planetarium. Adam would grow up to hate me, thinking Jack and Natalie were the fun ones and I was the bitch who enforced curfew and homework.

“Good boy!” Natalie squealed.
What did he do?!
I nearly ran from my bedroom to see. Then I heard Adam giggle.
That was my giggle! He should have giggled for his mommy. He’s never giggled for me. Ever! When they get home, I’m going to snatch back my child and be the funniest mother anyone has ever seen! The boy will laugh himself into a state of exhaustion, then fall into a deep, eight-hour slumber thinking that he has the most hilarious mother in the whole wide world and that all others are simply cheap imitations.
The door closed and they were gone.

I sat at my computer screen and stared at poor rain drenched Desdemona. I imagined her turning her coquettish little body toward me and putting her hand on her hip. “I’ve been in the rain on a cobblestone road for months,” she’d say. “How ʼbout you do something with me already? At least bring me indoors!”

Desdemona came in from the rain, drenched and dejected. It had been a tough day. Her husband never noticed her come in, much less offered her a towel or a cup of tea. It had been so long since he’d noticed anything about Desdemona. She went to the kitchen to look for her tea kettle, and wondered where it had gone. It seemed so much of Desdemona’s life had been misplaced recently.

“Thank you,” my character said to me from the computer screen. “Perhaps in chapter two, I will find my kettle, no?”

Thankfully, the ringing phone interrupted my internal chatter. “Hello, I’m looking for Lucy Klein,” a woman said. 

“Who’s this?” I snapped m my telemarketer-defense mode.

“This is Karen from
Salon.
We received your submission
There’s Something About Barney,
and we love it.”

I peed. The downside of having recently given birth was the incredibly poor bladder control.

“You did?” I said, hoping she’d spend the afternoon on the phone telling me exactly everything she loved about my piece.

“Yes, it’s just what we’re looking for. Smart, sharp, and edgy.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank
you
for thinking of us. Do you mind if I ask how you came up with the idea?” I told her about the Barney birthday party and how Dr. Lee showed up at the end to facilitate a therapy session for the kids. “Wow, that’s pretty bad. I thought the one I went to in Los Angeles was weird,” Karen said. “A three-year-old slugged the photographer and called him ‘paparazzi.’ Prince Charming refused to eat a piece of cake because he was on Atkins.”

“You’re kidding?! What about the princess?”

“Oh she had two slices. I’d never seen a porky princess character before,” she said.

“Well when you’ve got all those royal feasts to attend, who can keep trim, right?” I said desperately hoping she wasn’t a calorie Nazi who’d snap that Cinderella was a lazy, fat cow who should join a gym.

“Amen to that,” she said instead. “Maybe that should be your next article, Lucy. Anyway, my editor asked me to see what else you’ve got. We like your style. What are you working on now?”

Ummmm.

Desdemona stormed into her room and burst into tears. “Now I will never get my cup of tea!” she cried.

“I actually just started working on a piece called ‘It Takes a Village to Nurse a Child,’” I bluffed.

“Pitch me,” said Karen.

“Traditionally breastfeeding is something that was taught by one generation of mothers to the next, right?” I heard her grunt in agreement. “But our mothers weren’t encouraged to breastfeed, so there’s this whole gap in knowledge between today’s grandmothers and new moms. There’s a whole community of breastfeeding consultants, though, from La Leche League mothers who will drive to your house and help you, to paid lactation consultants, and specialty shops just for breastfeeding. How ’bout if I write something about my experience struggling to nurse and how this subculture of breastfeeding experts was there to help. The whole village concept in the context of nursing a child.”

“Write it,” she said.

“Write it?”

“Yeah, it rocks. Give us seven hundred words in two weeks and we’ll run it in May. We like your edge, Lucy. There’s not a lot out there with your utter lack of treacle sentimentality about motherhood.”

I felt pressure to say something that would maintain this image. What unsentimental thing could I say to show her how edgy I am? “Alrighty then, two weeks it is,” I said.
Oy!

Four hours later, I finished my story.

 
When I was pregnant, the Nature Channel aired a video safari through Africa. I watched the animals effortlessly nurse their young and arrogantly recalled a friend’s suggestion that I take a breastfeeding class. Who needs a class in the most natural thing in the world? Why would anyone waste their time and money on a breastfeeding class? Be careful what you ask, because very soon, you may discover the answer. Breastfeeding may be natural, but it’s not always easy. It’s a skill that was once passed down from generations of mothers, but as I soon learned, today it takes a village to nurse a child.