Maternity Leave (9781466871533)

by Julie Halpern

  See you at Institute Day NEXT WEEK (Holy shit!!!!!)!

  ♥ Annie

  161 Days Old

  I have put it off long enough: It is time to try on my work clothes and see if they fit. Yoga pants and summer stretchy shorts easily hid the fact that I may need an entirely new wardrobe. I’ve already resigned myself to the truth that I will not be wearing any button-down shirts until I stop breastfeeding and my boobs go down to a less bulbous size. I also realize I will need some seriously padded nursing bras; the last thing I want to do is walk into a classroom filled with middle school boys as I sport gigantic boobs and pump-elongated nipples.

  I place Sam on a baby blanket inside of my small walk-in closet. Outside, a boombox plays another mix from college, currently on Guided by Voices’ “Echos Myron.” “You know,” I tell Sam, “this closet felt a lot bigger when we first moved in. You should have seen our apartment in Chicago. We had the tiniest closets.”

  I sift through my rack of clothes and periodically try on a shirt. When it fits, I place it to the left. When it doesn’t, it goes on a spot to the right. “We lived on the third floor, it was the top floor, and we had to carry all of our groceries up the stairs and our garbage down the stairs. It was always a little suspenseful—would the garbage bag leak? Would it slip out of our hands and tumble down three flights of stairs?” Sam listens intently. “Doogan lived there with us, and once we had mice in the apartment, which sounds gross but is way better than rats. That happened to Aunt Nora once.” Sam exhales noisily. “I know, right? One day I was watching TV on my bed. That was all we could fit into our bedroom: a double bed and a tiny dresser with a TV on top. Doogan had all manner of toys, some that looked like little realistic mice.” Sam coos. “You see where I’m going with this. So Doogan is bopping what I thought was a toy mouse all over the place between his paws, and he jumps up onto the bed with his toy mouse. But it wasn’t a toy mouse at all. It was a baby mouse! I screamed and whipped my covers up, so the baby mouse flew up into the air and landed somewhere on the floor. Lucky your dad was home. He caught the baby mouse under a bowl and brought him outside. Where he was probably instantly devoured by rats.”

  I look at Sam, and he smiles at me. I’m encouraged. “Want to hear another mouse story? This one is from college, where I lived in a total dump with two girlfriends. I couldn’t sleep one night, so in the dark I got up and started looking for earplugs to help. I threw textbooks around on my floor, went into the bathroom, and finally found a pair. When I went back into my bedroom, I turned on the lights to clean up the books and there, underneath a giant physics volume, were two mouse legs sticking out, feet pointing up to the ceiling. I had thrown a book randomly and killed a mouse!” Sam reacts with a squeal. “Can you believe it? I’m still amazed. My roommate, Annika, I think I may have told you about her—the one that liked canned cheese—she got rid of it for me. College roommates are awesome. You’ll see.”

  For the rest of the hour, I try on clothes and regale my son with college stories. He is a captive audience. It’s the first occasion we spend together where I don’t feel like I’m alone.

  162 Days Old

  Sam and I spend the day packing up his newborn-sized clothes into storage bins and listening to the Monkees.

  The opening piano notes of “Daydream Believer” tinkle from the stereo. When the dulcet sounds of Davy Jones’s voice begin singing, I join in. Sam watches. His eyes are still blue, but I can see they’re similar in shape to mine. He looks awfully sweet when he’s not torturing me.

  The song’s chorus swells, “Cheer up, sleepy Jean…,” and I lift Sam off the floor. We dance around his bedroom, Sam’s head tucked into my neck. Every once in a while he leans out to look at my face. I kiss his nose and laugh, amazed that here I am dancing with Sam—not crying, not wondering what to do, not cursing him with sleeplessness.

  “We’ve got this, Sam,” I whisper to him. “We’ve got this.”

  163 Days Old

  Zach and I had sex again tonight.

  “What about Buffy and Angel?” is his initial idea for a role-play.

  “What? I don’t want to have sex with Angel. If I’m going to be Buffy, you’re going to be Spike,” I say.

  “Really? I always thought Angel was her one true love.”

  “You’re crazy. Spike was funnier. And more passionate. Angel was like a stone statue. Nice guy, but I’d choose Spike over him any day.”

  “How about any night?” Zach says as he nips at my neck. “I’ve got a stake for you.”

  “I’ll be the one to dole out the banter, thank you,” I tell him, and Buffy and Spike get naked.

  164 Days Old

  Ack! The company that makes my favorite nursing bra has gone out of business! The bras are now available only on the black market of Canada. I called a Canadian bra store and actually had an employee tell me she couldn’t ship to the United States. It’s a conspiracy! You’d think all my support of Degrassi High lo these many years would count for something.

  Trying to find a new bra, I discover something extraordinary: My zit, the one that colonized onto my chest for the last five months, is gone. Packed and moved away to greener pastures. Is it weird that I might miss it a little?

  To: Annie

  From: Fern

  Annie,

  So sorry I haven’t been in touch. After I talked to you, I confronted Adam about the text. Things got messy, and there was a lot of yelling, then silence, then more yelling. Thankfully we’re both committed to trying couples therapy and making things work. Not just for the kids, but for us, too. I’ll fill you in more when I get a second.

  Good luck when you go back to work! Kick it in the ass! Thanks for listening and for being such a good friend.

  Love,

  Fern

  I don’t know if this means Adam cheated or not. Or if that is what matters, if Fern and Adam are willing to work on it. I snuggle Zach a little closer at bedtime and wish on a star for my friend.

  165 Days Old

  Today I take Sam to my school to see what shape my classroom is in. They’re always doing things over the summer that make it look like a poltergeist came in and stacked up the chairs in the most precarious way possible.

  I run into my favorite custodian, Stanley, who disinfects my classroom in exchange for freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies whenever I panic when a student coughs. It’s a good deal. He helps me take down the mounds of chairs and desks and place them into a U shape for the beginning of the school year. Sam rides calmly in a wrap on my chest as we do this.

  “You should wear him on you during the school year. He’s so good,” Stanley suggests.

  “Yeah, I don’t know how good he’d be for an entire day.”

  “You’re going to miss him?” Stanley asks.

  I lean down and inhale Sam’s baby scent. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking toward the future when I would gain some semblance of myself back, but now I’m definitely feeling, “Yes. I’m going to miss him.” I kiss Sam’s head several times before returning to furniture moving. Maybe I could bring him to work with me. There are those pictures on Tumblr of Licia Ronzulli, a member of the European Parliament, who brings her daughter to work with her, and she looks so good while doing it. I’m guessing the European Parliament is a lot easier to handle than eighty thirteen-year-olds.

  166 Days Old

  I finally found the perfect lullaby for Sam. I remember most of the words, it’s sweet, and it’s even a little inspirational: “Rainbow Connection” from The Muppet Movie. It’s like taking a little piece of my childhood and inserting it into Sam’s. He loves it. Admittedly, I cried the first time I sang it to him. But I have every night for the rest of his life to perfect it.

  167 Days Old

  Nora and her husband, Eddie, bring over a pizza and some movies. Since I go back to work next week, I get to choose the films. I select a nostalgic double feature of The Last Unicorn and The NeverEnding Story. Sam is upstairs in bed, and the adults in the house
are drinking beer and enjoying watching a boy warrior and his horse named Artax. Nora and I drive the husbands crazy by reciting every line verbatim.

  “You should have seen Annie last year at Comic-Con when she got to meet that guy.” Zach points to the screen at child actor Noah Hathaway, now a rather lovely, if still diminutive, man covered in tattoos.

  “It was thirty years in the making! I’m not supposed to freak out?” I protest. “He was so sweet.” I recount the story they’ve already heard a thousand times. “I asked if we could record him saying, ‘Annie, would you hunt the purple buffalo with me?’ And he did! He had his arm around me. It was one of the most romantic moments of my life.”

  “Thanks for that,” Zach interjects. “I thought she might go home with the guy,” he admits.

  “I wouldn’t. I don’t think. It’s not like he asked. Do you think he liked me?” I gush.

  We laugh loudly and then shush each other lest we wake up Sam.

  In the middle of The Last Unicorn, Zach snoring on the couch, Nora elbows Eddie. “I want to tell them.”

  “I thought we said we’d wait,” Eddie whispers unnecessarily. I can hear every word they’re saying.

  “You two have all the subtlety of a tornado siren. What do you want to tell me?”

  “I’m pregnant!” Nora whisper-yells.

  “Don’t you mean we’re pregnant?” Eddie asks.

  “Who are you kidding? If this thing works, I’m the one getting fat and pushing a human being the size of an American Girl doll out of my cooter.” Nora looks at me and reiterates, “I’m pregnant, Annie.”

  I hug her, and inside I hope and pray this is the one that will stick around to become the daughter or son Nora so deserves.

  Zach pops up from his late-night nap on the couch. “Is it over? Are you crying because it’s over?” I don’t realize I’m crying, but I am. Making babies is magical, mysterious, terrifying, gratifying, and all-encompassing. I can’t wait for Nora to experience every bit of it.

  Later That Night

  Zach and I are in bed when he proposes, “How about we play a little NeverEnding Story?”

  “Are you talking sexy playing?” I clarify.

  “Yes,” he answers, stretching the word out like the giant turtle from the film, Morla, the Ancient One.

  “Stop. That’s creepy. And you do realize there is no romantic plot in that film?”

  “You were hot for that kid,” he notes.

  “When I was a kid,” I acknowledge.

  “Come on. I saw the way you looked at him at Comic-Con last year. I’ll be him. And you be…” Zach thinks on it.

  “Don’t you dare say the Childlike Empress. Because we are not going there.”

  “Yeah. I guess I didn’t think this one through,” Zach admits. “So who do you want to be tonight?”

  I ruminate for a moment and then suggest, “How about Annie and Zach? Or is that too weird?”

  “I seem to recall Annie and Zach being way hotter at one point than any fictional couple,” Zach butters me up. “Remember that one time on a road trip near Prairie Dog Town—”

  “Less talk, Zach. More kissing,” I command.

  And our imaginary soundtrack swells in the background.

  168 Days Old

  My mom is finally home from her trip, and she brings Sam the entire inventory of San Francisco’s baby t-shirt line.

  “I don’t think he’ll even be this size for the number of days there are t-shirts,” I tell her.

  “So I’ll change him multiple times a day,” she explains. “You won’t be here to stop me anyway.”

  “Ma! What kind of thing is that to say? You know I’m freaked out about going back to work in three days. You don’t have to scare me with your psycho grandma threats.”

  “It was one threat. Hardly a threat. They’re just t-shirts. It’s not like I’m going to slip chicken soup into his bottles to help him sleep during the night.” She smiles slyly.

  “You wouldn’t,” I challenge her.

  “I don’t think I will. Not consciously, at least,” she goads.

  “Mom! Please don’t make me have to fire you.”

  “You have to pay someone to fire them,” she notes.

  “You are being paid in baby kisses and dirty diapers. Besides, you’re the one who’s always telling me solemn tales of your friends where daughters-in-law never let them spend a single moment alone with their grandbabies. Think of how many moments I’m gifting to you.”

  “Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to go to work?”

  In order to make this a true trial run, and not me just running errands around town and secretly spying on my mom with a pair of never-used binoculars I found in our crawl space, I’m going into my classroom today to set things up, including my pumping closet, which I will also be using for the first time.

  My car is packed with folders, papers, snacks, and my pump bag. The fridge is stocked with cold cuts for Mom, along with thawing packets of breastmilk. The kitchen counter is lined with clean bottles, and the refrigerator is covered with neatly typed instructions for everything from feeding to changing to naptime to playtime.

  “Call if you have any questions. Really. You won’t be bothering me,” I remind my mom for the fiftieth time.

  “Sam and I are ready, Annie. And so are you. Go have yourself a nice day at work.”

  I take several starting breaths, searching for one more instruction or warning, but none materialize. I guess it is time to leave.

  “I love you,” I say to Sam, and kiss his forehead, each cheek, rubberband wrists, and his forehead again.

  “Love you, too, honey,” my mom says. “Now leave.”

  “Bye-bye.” I wave while backing out the door. Taking deep breaths, I manage not to cry the entire ride to work. In fact, I sometimes manage to enjoy the freedom of driving without having to turn into a contortionist to settle Sam in the backseat.

  On the way to my classroom, I run into several colleagues, and we exchange hugs, summer stories, and gossip about who’s dating, who’s hired, and who left unexpectedly. I barely have time to hang up my bulletin board when it’s time to pump.

  The first thing I do is tack up a notice I created on the computer and laminated, a smiley clock surrounded by the line “Privacy needed—Please come back in ten minutes.” I don’t know if that will encourage too many questions from my students, but even if it inspires a discussion about pumping breastmilk, at least I’m teaching the kids something. Plus, there’s this handy slide lock Stanley installed on the inside of the door for me.

  I prop up my iPad and play some footage I have of Sam attempting to raise his head during tummy time. Already that seems like so long ago. My big boy, I think, and the happy feeling inspires a healthy amount of pumped milk.

  When I finish, I snap my nursing bra shut and place the pumped milk into a small cooler bag. I wind up the pump tubes, and I hear a quiet knock resounding through the small closet.

  “Annie?” a voice sneaks under the door, and I recognize it as my librarian friend, Devin.

  “Can you have lunch?” she asks.

  I open the door and shut off the closet light. “Not today. I have to get home. My mom is watching Sam solo for the first time.”

  “For a second I thought you meant his name was ‘Sam Solo.’” Devin chuckles.

  “That would have made sense in our house. But actually, it’s Sam Doogan.”

  “Like your cat? Sweet.” Devin smiles.

  “Yeah. I better get going. I’m afraid I’ll get home and find that my mom cut Sam’s hair and is feeding him a bagel.”

  “Good luck,” Devin offers.

  The morning flies by, and when I get home my mom is knitting on the couch and watching Out of Africa, one of her favorites.

  “How did it go?” she whispers.

  “Fine. How did it go here?” I ask.

  “He was perfect. Took the bottle well. He didn’t fall asleep right away, but he only fussed for a
minute or two. And now he’s sleeping.”

  “Well, okay, then.” I nod, partially with relief and just a tiny bit with disappointment. It would be nice if Sam raised a little hell while I was away. Just a drop. But I remember to count my blessings and remind myself that if he is happy, then I should be happy.

  I take off my shoes and park myself on the couch next to my mom. I take a moment to relax before I sit up. “You didn’t give him any chicken soup, did you?”

  Mom winks.

  169 Days Old

  I planned to spend one of my last days on maternity leave filling out the glaringly blank pages of Sam’s baby book. Do I really want to relive his birth? The sleepless nights? The questionable mental health moments? Maybe I’ll open it again in a year or two when I’ve forgotten everything. It’s not like Sam is going to care about the first time he held up his head. Or laughed. Or lost his (shudder) belly button crud.

  As I ponder whether this will top off my list of parenting flubs, a package arrives. It’s small, postmarked from Sweden, and addressed to Sam. Inside is a crocheted R2D2 hat and a note from Annika.

  Needed to get away for a bit, so I took off for Sweden. Met a lovely man on the plane. Will tell you all about him when I get home. I knitted this along the way. I miss you.

  Love, Annika

  The R2D2 cap is about ten sizes too big for Sam, but I’ll save it for when he’s older. I’ll tell him his wacky aunt Annika made it for him. She’ll be the aunt he hears lots of stories about but rarely sees. And she always sends the best gifts.

  FACEBOOK STATUS

  I go back to work tomorrow! So happy and so sad all at the same time. Definitely a double-dessert kind of day.

  I can’t believe how many people liked and commented on my Facebook status. All of the high school Facebook friends came out of the woodwork again. It’s amazing how many women do this: birth a baby and then go back to work. And they all are so encouraging about it:

  You’ll be so happy you did.

  Best decision I ever made.

  The time you have together will be all the more special.