Maternity Leave (9781466871533)

by Julie Halpern

  Zach wears Sam on his chest in a BabyBjörn. While I prefer the Moby Wrap, Zach thinks the Björn is easier to use and the black makes it more manly. He told me this one afternoon while brushing Sam’s scant tuft of hair with a Cabbage Patch Kids brush.

  In order to not just buy condoms (God forbid), Zach wants to pile our basket full of candy and office supplies. “Why not get one of those tiny shopping carts? Then you can look really old, like those cute little ladies who come to Walgreens for eighteen boxes of Kleenex,” I suggest.

  “Whatever works,” Zach insists.

  Twelve theater boxes of candy, two packages of highlighters, and a shitload of packing tape later (“It’s buy one, get one/half off,” Zach notes), we’re at the register. A middle-aged woman with cat’s-eye glasses and a name tag reading “Mindi” greets us pleasantly. Since I’m alone with a baby 90 percent of the time, I take this opportunity to chat.

  “How are you?” I ask, and she looks genuinely surprised by the question.

  “I’m doing great, thanks. I get off in a half hour. How are you?” Mindi echoes.

  “Doing well, thank you,” I answer as I unload the basket. Zach mills about several feet behind me, pretending to admire the last-minute tchotchkes offered nearby.

  “Care to buy any Hershey products?” Mindi swipes her hand, game-show-hostess style, toward a candy bar display. “They’re three for two dollars.”

  “No, thank you. I think we’ve got our sugar fix covered. Let me check with my husband.” A line has formed behind me, so Zach moved himself to a nearby display of flowers that dance whenever you play music. “Zach? Want any more candy?” I yell to him. He shakes his head aggressively, as though I’m blowing his cover. “Nah. We’re good,” I tell Mindi.

  She beeps each item as she takes them out of our basket and drops them into a plastic bag. When she gets to the condoms, I strike up the band. “I used to work at F&M, a sort of discount Walmart place that closed before Walmart even existed,” I begin.

  “I remember that store,” Mindi remarks.

  “When I was in high school. A friend of mine, well, a girl who I was good friends with as a kid, but we sort of grew apart as teenagers, she came through my line one day. She was acting all sneaky and embarrassed because she was buying condoms.” I’m telling the story not only to Mindi now, but to an athletic-looking guy behind me buying two tiny energy drinks. “I could tell she picked my line because it seemed the least mortifying of the choices. So to clear the air, make her not feel so nervous, I say, ‘Would you like a bag, or do you want to wear these out?’”

  Mindi snickers, and the jock guffaws. I slide my credit card through the slot. As she hands me the receipt and Zach finally decides to rejoin me, Mindi asks, “I’m guessing you want a bag?” to Zach. He’s too flustered to answer.

  Back in the car, Zach muses, “I can’t believe you just did a stand-up act about buying condoms in Walgreens. Weren’t you the least bit embarrassed?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just deal with embarrassment differently than you. It’s all good. We’ve got the condoms now. And candy.”

  “And tape. Don’t forget tape,” Zach reminds me.

  “My sticky hero.”

  Three hours later, we put Sam to sleep and slip into bed. I’m wearing a giant Ren and Stimpy t-shirt my sister gave me in high school that happened to make for a perfect maternity nightshirt. I don’t need to be wearing maternity-sized clothing anymore, but it’s hard to give up the aged softness of Ren and Stimpy.

  “That’s what you’re going to wear?” Zach asks me, sounding boyishly disappointed.

  “I’m sorry I’m not in my Frederick’s of Hollywood feathered robe. I’m not quite there yet. Besides, it’s not like you dressed for the occasion.” Zach has on the NPR t-shirt he wore today, along with his ten-year-old plaid boxers and ubiquitous black socks. He refuses to wear socks of any other color, even if he’s wearing shorts. Which is never.

  “Maybe I’m not ready to wear my feathered Frederick’s of Hollywood robe, either,” Zach cracks.

  I slide into bed next to him, and we sink into a cuddle. “Why don’t we watch a little TV first to relax,” I suggest. And stall.

  Game of Thrones is on, and within seconds there’s a graphic sex scene between siblings. Zach kisses my neck. “Dude,” I say, “I am not being turned on by the brother and sister doing it.”

  “Do you want to change the channel?” he asks.

  “How about you scratch my back?” I suggest.

  I flop over onto my side, not able to lie on my stomach because of my milk-laden breasts. I close my eyes for what feels like a second when I’m awakened by Sam over the baby monitor.

  Only when I look at the clock do I see it has been far longer than a second.

  “You fell asleep when I started scratching your back,” Zach tells me, squeaking popcorn between his teeth and staring at Wipeout on the TV.

  “Oops. Sorry. I guess I was tired. Try again tomorrow?” I ask, trying to sound cutesy and enthusiastic while really I’m secretly relieved that we didn’t have to attempt the Great Sex Experiment tonight.

  Zach doesn’t seem too bunged up about it and can hardly rip his eyes from the idiocy on the screen to tell me, “I’ll put you down for a sex rain check.”

  “Thank you. Enjoy your big balls.” I nod to the screen.

  “I always do.” He smiles, and we kiss before I get the baby and put him to my breast.

  And I’m supposed to let Zach near these things tomorrow? Like they’re some kind of special edition Transformers: baby food jugs that transform into sex toys. Now all I have to do is figure out how exactly the transformation works. There’s nothing about this in my baby’s first year book.

  99 Days Old

  Tried a new lullaby tonight. Poison’s “I Won’t Forget You.” I always liked that song better than “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” Sam seemed to like it until I sang the guitar solo.

  Aw, baby …

  100 Days Old

  Still no sex. Sam has another cold, so Zach and I are taking turns on sneeze alert. The booger sucker is all Zach, though. Doogan seems thoroughly annoyed that he’s not allowed to get comfortable, since every time he does one of us has to stand up. I try to apologize, but he gives me one of his patented “Just wait until you find the poo I’m hiding for you” faces.

  THE SEXIEST THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME THIS WEEK:

  Sam left a big fat green booger on my boob.

  101 Days Old

  This cold fucked everything up. I don’t think I’ve slept for more than four hours the last three nights. I look like shit, I stink, and my throat hurts—always a precursor to my own colds.

  At least no one’s talking about sex these days.

  Later

  I flip on QVC in the middle of the night. The giant guy, David, is trying to sell me chocolates. A fancy tin at fifty bucks a pop. Could they be that good?

  “They’re that good,” he tells me. “And think of the many uses you can find for this magnificent tin!”

  David is really moaning now over the flavor of these chocolates. Maybe when it’s actually time to have sex, I can take a cue from him in the faking-it department.

  The chocolate sounds so delicious, I’m almost tempted to order myself a box. Instead, I raid our pantry and find the closest thing we have: a box of Count Chocula left over from last Halloween. The marshmallows are all stuck together, but if I chew and listen to David’s expulsions of ecstasy at the same time, I almost manage to convince myself that I’m eating $50 chocolates. I can’t taste much right now anyway.

  To: Annie

  From: Louise

  Jesus fucking Mary and Joseph, Annie.

  I went to a barbecue yesterday at the in-laws because they can’t possibly go a fucking weekend without forcing people to come over to their compound. Don’t they ever want to be alone? They put up this front like they have such a perfect marriage, but if it were so perfect wouldn’t they want to spend more than two s
econds by themselves? They look so polished and stylish, and I look like the Tasmanian devil after he kicked up a dust tornado. I’ll write more later. Jupiter’s complaining about a stomachache. Mine’s not feeling so great either.

  —Lou

  102 Days Old

  Today is one of those days where everyone on Facebook has a better life than I do. I don’t even know who half these people are—I mean, beyond us going to high school together and growing up in the same zip code. But there they all are, on summer trips and eating homemade salads they cultivated from their backyard gardens. I want to go on cheesy road trips with Zach like we used to do each summer, to Wall Drug and Roswell, New Mexico, and De Grassi Street in Toronto. I want to fly away to far-off countries and freak out on our first attempt at using public transportation. I want to temporarily learn a new language because it’s fun to ask where the bathroom is in a foreign land.

  I want this damn baby to stop crying.

  I rescue Sam from what apparently is his Crib of Hell. He pooped. I change him, and he cries because my cleaning his butt is a wicked form of torture. Really, they should lock me up for the horrible act I’m committing. Damn, dude, are you ever going to figure out that changing your diaper is something I have to do multiple times a day, and unless you’re planning on learning to use a toilet in the next month, you’re going to be in this predicament for at least a couple of years? Why not enjoy it? I put up a stupid black-and-white picture of farm animals that should be stimulating your brain this very minute!

  I’ve taken to keeping a set of earplugs in a basket near the changing table. I have horrible visions of Sam discovering them and thinking they are marshmallows (not that he knows what marshmallows are, but no matter; in my vision Sam is born both mobile and snack savvy) and swallowing them, and before I can get them out of his mouth he dies all because I couldn’t handle the sound of his cries.

  I’ve tried everything to make this more pleasant. Pictures next to his head. A mobile above him. I give him toys, but he inadvertently throws them into the bowels of his bowel movements. At this point we play a game where we try to outyell each other, him screaming while I shout, “Why are you yelling?” repeatedly until the changing is over and I assess the damage of how much poo has glommed on to my hands.

  Delightful child.

  Finally, he’s changed and dressed, and I take him downstairs, still feeling melancholy wanderlust. I turn on the stereo and pop in a mix CD I made in college. I’m having trouble finding music to fit my mood or, more important, my identity. It feels ridiculous to rap along with N.W.A when I’m a mom and teacher living in the suburbs, although I suppose it was always a little ridiculous. I’ve never been the slightest bit close to being straight outta Compton.

  After a Guided by Voices song ends, “Anchorage” by Michelle Shocked begins. I put this song on the CD because my mom was about to take Nora and me on a trip to Alaska, and a song called “Anchorage” felt appropriate. I fell in love with the song, Michelle’s deep voice, and the story of two old friends finding each other again as adults, one in Texas and the other in Alaska. As a college student, I thought the lyrics were sharp and clever.

  But now, as Michelle sings about nostalgic times with the friend she used to rock out with, I feel that sad pit in my stomach. It’s the sensation I sought out as a teenager, when all I wanted from music was a relatable song of weepy angst. Only this song isn’t tragic or angsty. It’s me. The words sting when her friend muses about her new life with kids:

  I got a brand new eight month old baby girl.

  I sound like a housewife.

  Hey Shell, I think I’m a housewife.

  And I start to cry. Because the Shell who her friend tells to “keep on rocking, girl. Yeah, keep on rocking,” was once me. But I am Shell no longer. I am no longer rocking.

  103 Days Old

  You know when something happens to you and you don’t know if you’re turning it into something bigger than it actually is? Like when Fern saw that gastroenterologist, and he told her that her body looked good for having four kids. Then he touched her boob. Was he being inappropriate?

  Today, Sam and I are at Michael’s. I have it in my head that I’m not only going to write things in Sam’s baby book, but I’m going to add flair, like stamps and stickers and lace and decoupage. It will never happen, but now I’m buying $70 worth of crafting supplies to make me feel more inadequate.

  Sam is being his usual unpleasant self; “fussy” is the gentle term people like to use about babies. Annoying, I say. Does he have to cry whenever I want to get something done? Can’t he find his love for shopping, too? By the time I arrive at the register, I am sporting my grumpy bitch face and rolling my eyes heartily at grumbly Sam. The cashier, instead of showing the slightest bit of empathy, starts a royally creepy conversation—with Sam.

  “Your mommy is so lucky to have you. You are an angel sent from heaven. You are a sweet boy, a gift for your mommy to cherish.”

  I ignore her, seeing as she isn’t talking to me anyway, and try to move the transaction along with my coupons. The building line behind me is no deterrent for her infatuation with Sam.

  “I would have a grandchild his age by now,” she begins, and I’m ready to give her a sympathy face for what I assume is going to be a story about either a deceased child or grandchild or possible infertility. But, no, instead she continues, “If I had married.”

  Say what now? She proceeds to carry our shopping bags around the counter to hand deliver them, as though we’re at a fancy department store, and touches Sam’s cheek with her cash register hands.

  I call Louise the second I leave the store and recount the tale. “That’s fucked up, right?” I check. “It’s not just me being a paranoid bitch, is it?”

  “I would maybe have been okay with the whole thing if she did lose someone, but that woman was nuts. You don’t say you would’ve had a grandchild if you had been married!”

  “Thank you!” I interject.

  “No one has to be married to have a kid anyway. She was full-on projecting craft crazy on you. You should report her,” Louise asserts. “So she can’t do something like that again.”

  “I can’t report her. She was like, seventy. And she doesn’t have anyone, apparently.”

  “I’d report her,” Lou admits.

  “I bet you would.” I laugh.

  “Babies make everyone crazy,” Lou pontificates. “Even people who don’t have them.”

  We hang up, and I look at Sam in the rearview mirror. “I bet you’re glad I’m your mom and not that whack job at Michael’s, right, Sammy?”

  Silence.

  Is that a yes or a no?

  104 Days Old

  Tonight is one of those nights when I go to a very bad place. I turn on QVC to drown out my thoughts. I’m in luck. A full hour of Quacker Factory, a clothing line with enough sparkles to brighten up even the Witching Hour. Bubbly sellers talk to happy buyers on the phone. I nearly buy a set of t-shirts, one in every color offered, a different appliqué of jazziness emanating from the chests: an apple for fall, a pumpkin for Halloween, a Christmas tree, a heart. I’m tempted to call and ask if they’ll ever make a Jewish star or menorah for Hanukkah. I imagine the on-air chat.

  “Quack quack! Hi, Annie from Chicago. Which shirt did you get?”

  “I bought all of them!” I holler.

  “Smart girl! I am so excited for you!”

  “Thanks! I have a question. Do you think you’ll ever make any Hanukkah designs? I would love that.”

  “What a fabulous idea! We’ll talk with our designers the second we get off the air! Thank you for your call!”

  I’ll go down in history as the inspiration for a Jewish line of Quacker Factory apparel.

  It’ll be nice to have a legacy.

  My brain begins to calm, moving further and further away from the despair of motherhood toward a world filled with Happy Quackers. As I’m about to fall asleep, I hear a caller claim, “When I die, I’m going
to be laid out in my Quackers.” Now there’s a visual for my subconscious.

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  Over the last few days, Sam has been facing one of the four cardinal directions when I go to get him from his crib. It’s hard not to get a creepy, Paranormal Activity vibe.

  106 Days Old

  With only nine weeks left in my maternity leave, I have decided to fully begin panicking about hiring a nanny. Or a sitter. Or day care. I don’t know which to choose or how to find the best one. Everyone I talked to explained there was no point in hiring someone months in advance because someone waiting for a nanny position isn’t going to sit around for a job that starts five months in the future. Even nine weeks is pushing it, but at least I can start researching, get a feel for who’s out there. It’ll give me a sense of purpose, other than my day-to-day goal of keeping my sanity afloat.

  The first step in my research is asking friends, but what I’m already learning is that nannies are regional. Fern, in L.A., shells out thousands of dollars to an agency that then matches a number of nannies to the family. There are background checks and a multitude of interviews, until the perfect match is made. Or what is supposed to be perfect.

  “Adam hired this one woman while I was on bed rest after Dov’s birth. He said she reminded him of a quirky old aunt. That was all well and good until she took off work an entire day to watch Michael Jackson’s funeral.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “Why is it so quiet over there, by the way?”

  “It’s eerie, isn’t it? Dov’s at summer school, Hannah’s napping, and the other two are with our new nanny.”

  “How many nannies have you had?” I ask.

  “Six? Maybe seven? There’s always something weird about each of them. The last one had gigantic feet.”

  “You fired someone because she had gigantic feet?”

  “Well, no. I caught her stealing my jewelry. But her feet were seriously freakish. Sometimes after she’d leave, I’d go into my closet and try on all of my shoes just to see if she stretched them out.”

  After Fern and I hung up, I reasoned that things were probably very different in the Bling Ring world of wealthy L.A. compared with the “my only fancy jewelry is my engagement ring” environment of the Chicago suburbs. Still, I don’t love the idea of someone being alone in my house. And there’s that added piece of taking care of the human life I sired.