Maternity Leave (9781466871533)

by Julie Halpern

  I nod and try to control the welling tears at the prospect of ever having a pet to replace Doo.

  Sam and I leave quickly, and I sob quietly as I strap him into his car seat. I place the bag with Doogan’s ashes on the floor next to me.

  When we arrive home and Sam is down for a nap, I open the shopping bag with Doogan’s ashes inside. Just as my mom predicted, there is a small white tin with black paw prints dotted whimsically about. Who decided this was the standard tin for dead animals? Why didn’t I get a choice, like people with coffins?

  I’m curious to see what’s inside. As a child, Fern had a pet dog die whom they had cremated, and when his ashes came back they included a tuft of his fur. I wish I had saved a tuft of Doogan’s fur, the very fur I attempted to use as my focal point during Sam’s birth. Maybe there is some inside the tin. I gingerly pop off the lid and envision the scene from The Big Lebowski where Walter and the Dude scatter Donny’s ashes off a cliff, only to have them fly back into their faces with a gust of wind. No wind here, but I am struck by how bad the ashes smell. The instant I recognize no sign of Doogan’s hair, I shove the lid back in place. Maybe I imagined the smell. It’s incredible how a sizable cat can be reduced to such a scant, pungent pile of ash.

  I place the wacky tin on the mantel between a wedding picture of Zach and me dancing and a piece of Acoma pottery we bought on a long-ago road trip. “You’re home again, Doo,” I pronounce. I kiss my two fingers and touch them to the tin, then curl up in a ball on the couch and fall asleep.

  137 Days Old

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Mom’s huffing over the phone as she tackles a San Francisco hill with Aunt Mabel.

  “I’m okay, I guess. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Every time I open the door, I expect him to trip me.”

  “What did you decide to do with the remains?”

  I’m reminded of a conversation my mom and I had several years ago, where I told her when the time came we wanted to bury Doogan under the apple tree in our backyard to honor his love of apples.

  “You don’t want to do that,” she warned. “Elana, you know her, the one whose husband ran off with his golf instructor—a man—she buried her cat in her yard and less than a month later she found a red fox digging it up. Had to shoot at the thing!”

  “Elana has a gun?” I asked. It was a scary thought, envisioning one of mom’s mah-jongg crew with a gun.

  “Well, it was a Nerf gun, but it was very traumatic.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” I told her. The point became moot when Zach and I had the apple tree removed after years of finding worms in our apples but not wanting to use harmful pesticides. We recognized the environmental irony of taking out a tree, but I’m still not able to eat an apple without chopping it into minuscule bites just to be certain there are no squirmy green freeloaders inside.

  My mom sounds relieved when I inform her, “We had him cremated.”

  “Well, that’s good. Did you get him back already? Did they give you one of those tacky tins?”

  “Yeah. Paw prints and all.” I sigh.

  “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll see if I can find him something classier out here. Maybe in Chinatown. They have a fabulous Chinatown in San Francisco, you know.”

  “I know, Ma.”

  Sam’s alarm sounds over the baby monitor. “I have to go, Ma. Sam is up.”

  “How is my Sammy? Give him a kiss from his favorite grandma. I already bought him six t-shirts.”

  “He’ll love them, I’m sure. I’ll give him a kiss. We miss you,” I tell her.

  “I miss you, too, honey. Love to Zach.”

  We hang up, and I gather Sam from his crib. “Grandma asked me to give you this,” I say, planting a squeaky kiss on his cheek. “And here’s one from me.” I add a second kiss to his other cheek. “Shall we go for a walk?” I ask. “Yes? Okay, then.”

  Only 180 minutes until Zach gets home. I got this.

  HOW I SPEND 180 MINUTES ON MY MATERNITY LEAVE

  by Annie Schwartz-Jensen

  180 minutes left. Change Sam’s diaper. Readjust tabs three times to make sure his penis is tucked correctly. Change him into onesie and shorts. Spend five minutes trying to find matching socks. Settle on one green and one red.

  160 minutes left. Put on my shoes, put hair in ponytail. Realize I have to go to the bathroom.

  150 minutes left. Fill water bottle for me, gather blankey, diapers, wipes, and toys to put in bag. Diaper bag is too heavy to carry on walks.

  130 minutes left. Sam is cranky, so I nurse him. He fills his diaper.

  120 minutes left. Poo explosion. Full outfit change. More sock drama.

  105 minutes left. I’m hungry. Slice up an apple and eat with peanut butter. Chase with Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.

  90 minutes left. Walk around neighborhood. Run into Walking Man. Exchange pleasant greeting.

  60 minutes left. Arrive home. Wash hands of outside germs. Wash Sam’s hands of outside germs. Nurse Sam. Put him down for nap.

  30 minutes left. Take shower. Put roast in oven. Kidding! Put frozen pizza in oven.

  Zach walks through the door. “How was your day?” he asks. “Do anything interesting?”

  What the hell kind of loaded question is that?

  138 Days Old

  Fern called this morning, which is highly unusual. With four kids, emails and texts are more convenient modes of communication, and I don’t mind. It can be frustrating having so many interruptions, of which I’m sure I will be just as guilty as Sam gets older.

  “Annie?” I detect a waver in Fern’s usually strident way of speaking.

  “Fern? What’s up?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Is now an okay time?”

  Fern’s formality has me worried. “Is there an intruder in your house? Are you being held hostage? Do you need me to call 911? Code phrase: menstrual cramps!” I blurt.

  “No.” She chuckles. “It’s just … I found a text on Adam’s phone. I’m not sure if it’s anything, but I’m kind of freaked out about it.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was from a phone number, no name connected to his address book, and all it said was, ‘Had such a good time on set with you. Looking forward to dinner.’ It could be anything. Anyone. But, ever since we moved to L.A. I hardly see Adam and he’s always surrounded by gorgeous women and everyone here thinks infidelity is part of your marriage vows.”

  “Do you really think he’d cheat on you?” I don’t know Adam very well. He’s always been incredibly focused on work, but he’s struck me as a good match for Fern, someone who works hard and feels an almost 1950s obligation to provide for his family. I’d hate to think he could be so easily swayed by the glare of Hollywood lights.

  “I think anyone would cheat if they had the chance,” Fern admits. “Don’t you?”

  “No. Not at all. What’s the point of getting married if you assume your husband is going to cheat on you? That sounds miserable. I think you’re just saying that to protect yourself. From, hopefully, nothing. Maybe it’s a group dinner. Maybe it’s from a guy. A really old guy. With bladder issues.”

  “Maybe. Should I confront him?” Fern wonders.

  “I don’t know if ‘confront’ is the right word. Maybe approach him? Have a conversation? You barely see him, right? Tell him you miss him, and you want to know what he’s been doing and you want him to want to know what you’ve been doing. Reconnect. That’s probably important to do sometimes when you have four kids.”

  “I guess so. I don’t totally mind that he’s gone so much because I like doing things my way, and when he’s home it’s more about his way. But, fuck, what if he’s really cheating on me and then he’s never going to come home again and I have to raise four kids by myself?”

  “That is not going to happen,” I blindly assure her. “You found one not very conclusively sleazy text. Just talk to him, Fern. For the kids. For you. For the old guy with the bladder issues,” I jest.


  “It would have been funnier if you said shingles,” she points out.

  “Duly noted.”

  “Thanks for listening, Annie. Everything okay with you?” Fern asks, but before I can answer she interrupts. “Crap. Dov just peed into the aloe plant again. I have to go.”

  “Let me know what happens—” I start, but she’s already hung up.

  When Zach arrives home this evening, instead of an exhausted, annoyed hello, I greet him with a kiss and the aroma of freshly baking cookies.

  “Whoa.” He steps back. “Did I walk into the wrong house?” He looks around.

  “Ha ha. I just wanted to let you know that I love you, and I’m glad you are an IT guy at a bank who loves his wife and son very much.”

  “That I do,” he agrees. “You baked?” He inhales the air.

  “Yep. Well, they’re the break-apart freezer kind, but I did painstakingly put them on a tray and turn on the oven. There were oven mitts involved.”

  “You spoil me,” he gushes.

  “You deserve it,” I tell him. And I mean it.

  139 Days Old

  I signed Sam up for a baby music class. It’s supposed to be for six months old and up, but at six months I’ll be back at work, so I lied about his age on the park district website. I hope this doesn’t start him on a trajectory of fake IDs, early promiscuity, and experimenting with illegal substances.

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  Sometimes, like right now, after another night of waking up with Sam six times, I think of him as the spawn of Satan. But since he came out of me, wouldn’t that make me Satan?

  140 Days Old

  I walked extra far this morning with Sam on my chest, so I reward myself by stopping at the local coffee shop, Latte Love. I order an iced coffee and wait for them to call my name. A gaggle of blond children, all under the age of five, use me as a pole from which to play hide-and-seek.

  “Hey!” I reprimand them in my most authoritarian, annoyed-sounding grown-up voice. It’s the same one my middle schoolers ignore, too.

  “Sorry…” The equally blond mom saunters over and offers a chill apology. “How old?” she asks, alluding to the package on my chest.

  “Four and a half months,” I answer.

  “You guys come here a lot? We could meet up. My kids love babies.”

  She’s awfully quick on the social draw, and frankly, I’m not enamored with the idea of her many unruly children “loving” my baby.

  “We don’t have a whole lot of time. I go back to work in a little while.” I offer what I think is a viable excuse.

  “What? No. Don’t go back to work.” The woman throws her arms back and seems genuinely put out. I’m so confused by her aggravated reaction that I say nothing as she argues, “You’ll regret it. This is why we’re put on this earth. Our kids need us. You can’t go back to work and leave this sweet little guy”—she makes a move toward Sam, but I back away protectively—“with a complete stranger. It’s so much more important for us to raise our families than work. In fact, it is the most important thing we can do as mothers.”

  How dare this woman with two hundred ass-can kids tell me what I should be doing with my life? She doesn’t know me. For all she does know, my husband could be dead and I have no other family and if I don’t go back to work, both Sammy and I will starve. I have it in my right mind to—

  “Annie!” the barista announces, and instead of calling her out on her high-horse bullshit, I grab my drink and hightail it out of Latte Love without saying a word.

  I’m so fired up, I walk home in record time.

  As I unwrap Sam, I tell him, “I am going back to work for you, Sammy. For us. You’ll see what a good job I do, and we’ll both be happy and so glad to see each other at the end of the day. This is what’s best for us.” I think I’ve managed to convince him. Now how to convince myself.

  141 Days Old

  How the hell is it that I go back to work in only four and a half weeks? I call Louise, panicked.

  “What the fuck? Only four weeks left, and I have accomplished absolutely nothing!” I lament.

  “There is that little human sucking at your teat. That’s not nothing,” she drowsily points out.

  “You sound tired. Are you tired?” I ask.

  “Will there ever be a moment again in my life when I’m not tired? This time I’m dizzy, too. Maybe I need to up my iron intake. I think I have a raw steak around here somewhere.”

  “I haven’t even looked for a nanny,” I admit.

  “You better get on that shit, or you’ll be left with the dregs of sitter society.”

  “God, don’t make me freak out even more. I’m already terrified of leaving Sam with a stranger. Some bitch at Latte Love yesterday told me not to go back to work. That staying home with our kids is the most important thing we can do as mothers.”

  “What a cunt. She probably has a rich husband and hangs out at Latte Love with her stay-at-home-mom agenda because it’s the only way she can feel a sense of power in her pathetic suburban-wife existence.”

  “Hey, watch it. I live a pathetic suburban-wife existence.”

  “Yeah, but you can make fun of it, so you’re cool.”

  “Do you ever feel just a little bad about leaving your kids home? Like, after you had Jupiter and went back to work?”

  “Of course. I’m not a total monster. But then my students come in, and I’m busy and I’m successful at my job. And I come home, and my kid sees that I have a life and I’m fulfilled, so I become a role model for her. You’ll see. It won’t be so bad. Most of the time.”

  “What about the times when I feel guilty and horrid and just want to hold Sam for ten straight hours?” I ask.

  “Have you ever felt like that?”

  “No, but maybe if I’m away from him I will.”

  “That’s what sick days are for. Use them wisely. Going back will be a tiny transition bump, and then it will just feel like—life. Because it is. It’s the life you choose and the life you’re building for your family.”

  “Um, hello? Did I call the wrong number? You don’t sound anything like my cynical booby buddy Louise.”

  “Booby buddy?” She laughs.

  “I just made that up.”

  “Clever mama. I gotta go. PB and J time.”

  “Hope you get some sleep,” I say.

  “Same to you.”

  * * *

  I feel a lot better about yesterday’s Latte Love encounter after talking to Louise. I still spend an exorbitant amount of time fantasizing that I ordered an extra-hot drink and threw it in that woman’s face, shouting, “Mother this!” My zinger may need some work, but I do feel a little better.

  142 Days Old

  It is time to bite the nanny bullet. As much as I would like, I don’t think Sam is quite self-sufficient enough to take care of himself. Plus, I really don’t want to go to jail. Who would take care of Sam if I do? This is confusing.

  I’ve been researching questions to ask potential nannies for when the interview time comes. Here are the few I’ve narrowed down:

  • How long have you been watching children?

  • Any other newborns?

  • Did you like them?

  • What is your favorite age to care for and why?

  • What special training do you have? CPR, ESP, Heimlich, tourniquets, kung fu?

  • What is your highest level of education? Why did you stop there?

  • Do you currently have a job? Why are you leaving? Are they making you leave? If we do the same, will you leave us?

  • Are you going to leave us if you find a better position?

  • Are there any activities or responsibilities you won’t do? That you want to do but we won’t let you?

  • Do you exercise regularly? Kids require a lot of energy. Please outline your exercise regime and your diet.

  • Have you ever been convicted of a crime? What did you do? Is jail anything like Orange Is the New Black?

  �
�� How do you feel about writing down everything you do with the baby for the entire time you are here? I will provide a handy chart for your convenience.

  Deal breakers:

  They try on my clothes.

  They give Sam fast food.

  They let Sam watch violent TV.

  They let Sam watch porn.

  They make a porn film in our house.

  They hurt Sam.

  They steal from us.

  They steal Zach from me.

  Note: Hire an old, toothless nanny.

  * * *

  Zach and I talk, and using a nanny agency is way out of our price range. We decide to go with the website Louise used, where we can post our own listing and the applicants will flock to us. At least I hope they will.

  SEEKING PART-TIME NANNY for one adorable, sweet, mostly pleasant five-month-old boy. Must have previous experience with age group. Looking for someone connected to the arts, preferably with a music and/or education background. We keep a child-healthy home, so minimal television watching and only healthy snacks allowed once child is of age. Must be comfortable reheating and feeding mother’s pumped breastmilk. Looking for long-term help, with time off for summer vacation. Please send résumé and three letters of recommendation to …

  What if no one thinks we sound cool? What if no one applies? What if the only applicants we get are unhygienic psychopaths who, after we interview them in our house, become obsessive stalkers who kidnap Sam after we fail to hire them?

  How do people do this?!

  143 Days Old

  A couple of nibbles on our listing. So far, I’m not overly impressed. But who would impress me? I’m of the mind to write up a truly perfect description of a nanny, rip it to shreds, send it into the fireplace, and wait for Mary fucking Poppins to arrive.

  I don’t want to interview people who only seem okay. I want someone who speaks three languages and is putting herself through medical school to become a neonatal specialist. How do I know if any of these people are going to take care of my kid the way I want him taken care of when I’m not around? Am I going to be one of those people who installs nanny cams strategically placed in dismantled teddy bears throughout our home? I’m sure they have systems that I can access directly from my smartphone. What if I’m so busy addictively checking my phone for Sam’s progress that I get fired from my job?