Maternity Leave (9781466871533)

by Julie Halpern

  At least then I wouldn’t need to hire a nanny.

  144 Days Old

  The nanny pool is still very slim. Four applicants.

  “These two sound fine,” Zach says over dinner, a new Thai restaurant. This one cuts their tofu into cute little cubes.

  “Fine? Fine?” I scoop out a cashew with my fork and bite into it. “This is good,” I note of the food. “But fine? How can you possibly be even remotely comfortable with having a merely fine person taking care of your only heir?”

  “I never thought of Sam as an heir before. You are the son, and the heir…” Zach recalls a song by The Smiths. “You’re right,” he says, resigned. “But I don’t want you to worry so much. They wouldn’t let people answer our ads if they were raging lunatics, would they?”

  “It scares me when you are that ignorant, Zach. Seriously. Maybe they faked their résumés. Maybe they’ve concocted completely false identities and use nannying as a front for their human trafficking business. Or maybe they’re going to turn our house into a crack den,” I suggest, pointing wisely with a baby corn at the end of my fork. “The question is: How do we know? Will we ever get to a point where we really truly know this person who has our son’s life in her hands?”

  “Jesus. Maybe I’ll just quit my job,” Zach grumbles.

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t use the nanny cam on you,” I threaten.

  “I’d count on it.”

  I pout over my golden cashew nut until Zach says, “Why don’t you set up one interview and see how it goes? Maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “In all the years you’ve known me, how many times have I been pleasantly surprised?”

  “We’re in trouble, Sammy,” Zach asides. When he sees I’m deadly serious, he says, “Annie, this isn’t like you. I mean, fretting over every detail until it’s perfect is, but I’m kind of surprised you didn’t choose a nanny months ago.”

  “Fuck, Zach. Do you know how big of a douche you just sounded like? Why is this all on me? We’ll both be at work! If I didn’t do this, where did you think our kid would go? And this isn’t like me because I’m not just me anymore. I’m me plus a mom, and that trumps everything! What makes you immune?”

  Zach looks stunned, frozen mid-chew. “I’m sorry?” he tries.

  “I know. But don’t give me shit about this. It’s huge. Bigger than anything. Our kid’s life will be in someone else’s hands, and I’m not going to fuck it up.”

  “I know you won’t. That’s why I rely on you too much in these situations. In pretty much all situations, actually.”

  “As long as you’re aware of your colossal dependence and my obvious superiority.”

  “I’m well aware because you rarely let me forget.”

  “Don’t overcompensate for your inadequacies by making me feel insecure about my perfectionism! It’s not about you, Zach. It’s about the baby. Finding the right person for the baby so we don’t regret the choice later. Because everything we do from now on until the end of us is about him. And if your only help is going to be criticizing my awesomeness, then I don’t want to hear another word.”

  “Damn,” Zach surrenders, “you are a mother.”

  “And don’t you forget it. I can’t,” I add.

  145 Days Old

  Even though I won last night’s argument, Zach made a good point about scheduling a single interview. I set up an interview with one of the four applicants, chosen because she has an undergraduate degree from her native Ukraine. To me, this says intelligence and ambition. She also has held two nanny positions already, so she has experience. Her emails were somewhat brief, if not also stilted, but I chalk that up to the younger generation’s penchant for abbreviating everything and for the curse that is autocorrect. She seemed nice enough, and thankfully she is currently between jobs and can come by as early as tomorrow. Our interview is set for nine A.M.

  What do I wear? If I dress in my normally schlubby attire, she won’t respect me as an employer. Or she’ll think I’m cool and laid-back. If I dress like a grown-up, maybe I’ll scare her off. Or she’ll take me seriously and know I mean business.

  I’m so anxious, I go twice through the Dunkin’ Donuts/Baskin-Robbins drive-thru: morning for donuts, after lunch for ice cream. Who was the genius who thought of that double necessity? I wish I could hire her to be Sam’s nanny.

  146 Days Old

  The interview was a total bust, and frankly it made me feel like a royal asshole. Polina seemed very nice. I answered the door, she presented herself professionally in a tidy dress and sensible flats. She cooed and smiled at Sam, who did not hesitate to smile back. But when it came time to ask my arsenal of Very Important Questions, that’s where we ran into trouble. Polina and I had a very large, some might say cavernous, communication gap. That is, neither of us could understand a word of what the other said. It reminded me of my travels to Italy, when I naively believed I could talk to people because I took three years of high school Spanish. Occasionally one word would be understood, and it was like we won a consolation prize on a game show—we were so happy to connect, but then we’d recognize that one word wasn’t as exciting as we thought.

  The interview was brief, and there were a lot of friendly nods and misfired handshakes.

  Was I being too picky? Close-minded? What if she was a great nanny, she just spoke a different language? And her English would surely improve over time. She did arrive in the United States only two months ago. But if we didn’t understand her, how would she know what I needed from her? How would I know what she did with Sam all day? What if there was an emergency, and things went from bad to worse in the amount of time it took for the two of us to figure out what the other was saying?

  Discouraged, I checked the website. No more nanny applicants as of yet.

  I’m fucked.

  I wonder how you say that in Ukrainian.

  147 Days Old

  I go back to work in three weeks. Time has not flown, yet I cannot believe I go back to work so soon. Even without a nanny in place, I still have to get my breastmilk stored up for my imminent departure. I also have to figure out how I am going to fit in pumping between classes at work. I designed a schedule for myself during grading periods so I can pump twice a day, ensuring my milk supply remains up and I don’t get too uncomfortable. The only place I can think to do the pumping is the supply closet in my classroom. I know colleagues have pumped in the bathroom, but how does that work? I sit on the toilet and have my naked breasts hanging out in a stall while someone sits on the pot adjacent to me taking a shit? No, thank you. And I know from the Kesha concert that the pump requires gobs of batteries to operate. Instead, I’ll drag a student desk into my supply closet, along with my iPad for watching movies to distract me from the awkwardness of being topless so close to hundreds of pubescent boys. I think it will be okay. As long as nobody goes searching for a classroom set of The Old Man and the Sea while I’m in midpump.

  To: Annie

  From: Louise

  Subject: HOLYFUCKBASKETJESUSCHRISTOHMYGODWHYWHYWHY

  Annie, I am in hell. God and Satan are laughing at me, and I am ready to visit them both and punch them in the balls.

  I’m pregnant.

  I AM FUCKING PREGNANT.

  How the fuck did this happen? Terry wanted to have sex, and I was like, sure, whatever, and with Jupiter and Gertie I didn’t start getting my period again until after they turned one, so I didn’t even think about using birth control and NOW I’M PREGNANT AGAIN and I am way too old and insane for this. What if this baby is an even bigger asshole than my other two kids? What if I never take a shit by myself again? All I envision are three zombies clawing and groaning outside the bathroom door. I’ll tell you one thing I’m never doing again: having sex. Terry can hire a prostitute or we can add some sister wives because this vag is closed for business. Oh, Annie, wake me when this nightmare is over.

  HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  To: Louise

  From: Annie
<
br />   Dear Lou,

  I cannot believe it. I am in shock. I screamed when I read your email. All I can say is that everyone says the more you have, the easier it gets. Maybe the third will be the sweetest and nicest and most well-behaved. My friend Fern has four, and she told me her third and fourth are the best. Little comfort, I realize. Call me if you want to talk. We can yell over our crying babies.

  xo,

  Annie

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  Sam is napping going on two hours, and I am wasting these unheard-of precious minutes by reading a Tumblr page called “Duggars Confessions.”

  To: Fern

  From: Annie

  I’ve been thinking of you and wondering how it’s going with Adam. Remember my friend Louise from school? She had a baby right after I did, and she just found out she’s pregnant again! I don’t know what I’d do if I were pregnant again so soon. I think my vagina started crying at the thought.

  Call or write when you can.

  xo Annie

  148 Days Old

  Today is Sam’s first music class. I try to dress him in clothes that make him look older. His Harley-Davidson onesie from the in-laws gives him that rough-and-tumble look, but the ridiculous (albeit hilarious) assortment of plaid shorts he owns aren’t helping the cause. Maybe I could draw a mustache on him.

  Sam and I arrive at the park district building three minutes before class is set to start. I find the classroom number, and a warm woman with a soothing voice welcomes the gaggle of parents and kids waiting outside into a carpeted room, sans all furniture but a table in the corner. There are four other moms, one dad, and one man who must be a grandpa or else a seriously old dad. Of course, I instantly imagine him having sex. Definitely the grandpa.

  As I scan the room, I can’t help but compare Sam with the other kids. He is certainly in the upper echelon of cuteness, although he may be neck and neck with a boy sporting the most hair I’ve ever seen for a six-month-old. The teacher, who presents herself as Miss Randi, gathers us into a circle on the floor. We introduce ourselves and our babies, two of which are named Jackson, although one is spelled J-a-x-s-o-n, the mother notes. I silently question the use of both an x and an s. When it’s my turn, I tell the group my name and Sam’s, and Miss Randi mentions, “He’s so tiny.”

  I quickly concoct a lie to cover my age flub. “He was a preemie.” Damn. Now I’m making up medical history for the boy. All I wanted was for him to get a little music education!

  The class is fun and awkward, and there are plentiful instances of humming, rocking, and spinning. I can tell everyone feels like an idiot, but we also don’t want the teacher to notice. So we attempt to sing, and I remain composed even when marching in a circle and singing about goober peas. By the end of the class, I’ve learned two things: Some people have wretched singing voices but don’t seem to care; and I have incredibly veiny legs, as witnessed by the world as we sat crisscross-applesauce on the floor. Sam seemed oblivious to it all and mostly just stared at people with a concerned look on his face. I’m glad I have already instilled in him the gift of suspicion.

  149 Days Old

  I walk through the neighborhood, Sam strapped facing outward on my chest. I’m trying to savor moments like this, ones I imagined I’d have as a mother. Me connected with my kiddo, literally if not always figuratively. The care of Sam when I’m not at work weighs heavier than the growing boy hanging off my body. I tick through the possibilities: Convince my mom that other people’s parents watch their grandkids full-time; endure a painful round of potentially fruitless nanny interviews; or spend a chunk of Sam’s meager college fund to hire a company, which still won’t exempt me from having to conduct interviews. There is always plan X: Quit my job and stay home from work. Maybe Righteous Latte Love Mom was right. Maybe I was meant to do this. But as much as I enjoy walking around the neighborhood with Sam, something about being at home all day every day doesn’t feel like the right choice for me. Just because I go to work doesn’t mean I’ll never get to walk with him; I can do it after work, on the weekends, even before work if I force myself to wake up that early. I’ll still nurse him before school, after school, and at bedtime (not to mention a veritable smorgasbord of times during the night). I’ll be gone during the day, but he’ll still crawl, talk, and walk when I come home, too. Speaking of walking, whom should we encounter once again but the infamous Walking Man. Does he ever stop?

  “Hello.” He smiles.

  “Hello,” I greet back.

  We both slow down, two lonely daytime souls looking for adult communication. At least that’s my take on it.

  “Boy, is he getting big.”

  “You don’t have to tell me or my back.”

  He chuckles. “You go back to school soon?” he asks.

  Had I told him I was a teacher? Is the Walking Man omniscient of everyone in the neighborhood? In the world? Is the Walking Man God?

  “Less than three weeks,” I say, and pout my lips in the way I’m supposed to show I’m sad about it.

  “What are you going to do with this guy?” the Walking Man asks, twiddling Sam’s toes. I appreciate how he doesn’t touch Sam’s hands; too often people think they have the right to play with a baby’s fingers when I don’t know where their hands have been.

  “My mom’s going to take him part-time, but I’m still searching for someone the rest of the time.”

  “Have you talked to Maureen?” he asks. He does know everyone, doesn’t he?

  I shake my head. “Maureen?”

  “She lives…” He pauses to count. “Seven houses down the block. She runs a day care out of her house. Really nice woman. Retired from teaching five years ago and now has this business.”

  “Do you happen to know if she’s licensed and everything? CPR?” My questions sound preposterous as I ask them, because why would the Walking Man know? But he answers, “Yes, it’s a full business. We talked when she set up her corporation. I’m a retired accountant,” he asides. Could God really be an ex-accountant? How unassuming. “And yes also to CPR. We took a class together last year through the park district.” Naturally.

  “Do you know if she has room for another child?” I ask, hope growing inside me.

  “I’m sure. She tends to have more kids during the summer while their parents work, and some after-school kids. But why don’t we go ask her?”

  “Really? Right now?” I’m delighted at the prospect of discovering a hidden day care gem for Sam in my own neighborhood. It all feels too good to be true, which scares the shit out of me. Still, the Walking Man …

  “Come on,” he says, and I follow him up the block to a ranch house with a small porch on which stands a dress-up goose. I tried to convince Zach we needed one on our porch, too, when we first moved to the suburbs, but he was adamantly against it. I decided it was a small war I’d let him win (and a victory I lorded over him for several years after).

  The Walking Man rings the doorbell, and after a minute or so a gray-haired but not particularly old woman with a round face and matching round belly answers. She wears an apron over a faded school district T-shirt. “Irving!” she greets the Walking Man with a hug. “You’re early for bridge night by about four days.” I hear children playing from inside. “Come in. And who’s this?”

  We step into the foyer, and I realize he doesn’t know my name. Or at least I assume he doesn’t. “I’m Annie Schwartz-Jensen, and this is my son, Sam. We live a couple blocks away.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got grape jelly all over mine. I was just making lunch.”

  “Annie was wondering if you have room this fall for part-time day care for Sam,” the Walking Man, Irving, tells Maureen.

  “I do,” she answers cheerfully. “In fact, as of now I only have one baby, about a year, and a two-year-old brother and sister during the day. We would love to add this little guy.”

  I’m stupefied and unprepared without my list of interview questions, but she doles out plenty
of information without me even asking.

  “How many naps does he take? I have three cribs set up, each in a separate room. My kids moved away, and I took over their bedrooms. They like to complain about it, but I tell them they’ll thank me when they learn what their student loans could have been if I wasn’t making the extra money. You’ll have to tell me everything: number of naps, when he likes to eat. Are you breastfeeding? Pumping?”

  “Yes. Both,” I answer, overwhelmed.

  “Good for you. I have a nice fridge just for the kids’ foods. The only TV is upstairs in my room. We have a swing set in the backyard and a playroom. I put on lots of classical music, and I like to sing even if I’m not very good. You won’t tell your mom, will you, Sam?” she asks him. He kicks wildly and smiles as though excited. “I think you’ll like it here, Sam. You’ll make some nice friends.” Maureen’s voice is so sweet, so exactly how I want Sam’s caregiver to sound, that I choke out an involuntary sob. “Oh, it’ll be okay, honey. He’ll be happy, and frankly, when he’s older he won’t remember much of his life before he’s in school anyway. I worked when my kids were little, and they don’t hate me.”

  I laugh through a sniffle and ask if she has a tissue. She walks me into the kitchen, and I watch three kids playing in her backyard. We talk through the logistics, times, cost, qualifications. It all feels very reasonable and stress-free. When I get up to leave, I notice the Walking Man is gone. “Where’s Irving?” I ask.

  “He must have slipped out when we were talking. He can’t stop walking for long, can he?” she asks.

  “No,” I concur.

  Maureen and I set up a day next week to test a half-day run-through with Sam. She hugs me good-bye and kisses Sam lightly on the top of the head. Unlike the pictures of the prince and his nanny, I’m not freaked out.

  The Walking Man is nowhere in sight as Sam and I make our way home. I’d like to pretend that I imagined him, as though he were a guardian angel or, yes, even God leading me and Sam to the right place. Or maybe he’s just a really nice guy who likes to walk a lot, and I was at the right place at the right time.