“Hiya, Lucy!” Dr. Comstock said like a jolly old guy with nothing to be ashamed of. “How’d you two kids get along without Anjoli holdin’ down the fort tonight?”
“I need Diflucan!” I shot with no pretense. He looked puzzled. “I have thrush. I need you to call in a prescription for Diflucan.”
“Good God, darling. Let the man in the house before you jump all over him like a dog that hasn’t seen his master all day,” Anjoli said. They giggled. Anjoli hung her coat in the front closet and offered Dr. Comstock a cup of coffee as she took his coat. “We saw a fabulous film tonight,” she began.
Like all of Anjoli’s best boyfriends, Dr. Comstock tried to make an ally of me without alienating my mother. “We did,” he smiled. “It was great luck bumping into your mother at the Cineplex.” Oh please, even my son wasn’t born yesterday. “What do you need the Diflucan for?”
“I have thrush. I can’t go on another day with this pain. Please call the pharmacy so Jack can run and pick up the Diflucan tonight?!”
“Why didn’t your ob-gyn write a prescription when he diagnosed you?” Dr. Comstock asked.
“Lucy, darling, I’m not crazy about your taking antibiotics. Why don’t you let me try to Reiki your nipples tonight?”
Dr. Comstock raised his eyebrows to question her term. Jack answered for Anjoli. “Energy healing through the hands.” Jack gave Dr. Comstock a subtle eye roll, but he didn’t return the gesture. Instead he let out a hearty guffaw and claimed that my mother was “refreshing.”
“Who diagnosed you then?” the doctor asked.
“The La Leche League lady,” Jack answered.
“They shouldn’t diagnose,” he said indignantly.
“And why not, darling? You said you don’t know enough about breastfeeding to help my daughter. Her ob-gyn said the same thing. So if you doctors can’t help her, why shouldn’t she turn to these Leche people?”
“Anjoli,” Dr. Comstock said as he sat at the kitchen table. “If I let patients tell me what type of prescriptions they need, I’m basically a drug dealer.” No one made a move. It looked as though Jack, Anjoli, and I were frozen as we waited for Dr. Comstock to talk himself into writing the prescription. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm to be had from a little Diflucan.”
The next morning, the thrush had cleared up almost completely. No pain. No swearing. No gnashing my teeth. I was fit for my own page in the nursing book. I was so proud of my new skill, I wanted to share it with everyone. I told my letter carrier about how my nipples were in top form again. He was thrilled for me, really. That day, I was such a show-off I had to resist the urge to lie down on the supermarket floor and squirt my milk into the air like fountains. I thought I had such a choice piece of entertainment, I imagined spending my spring afternoons in the park collecting tips in a cup for my milk-producing excellence. I considered opening a game park for milk-shooting wars among new mothers, like paint ball or laser tag. Forget Desdemona and her stupid walk through the rain. I’d produce a Nipples of Steel video.
Chapter 15
There’s a story from Anjoli’s collection of greatest hits that goes something like this. (There’s an unspoken rule in my family that you can tell someone else’s story for them if you’ve heard it more than ten times. This policy is not just about ensuring accuracy; it’s payback. Like a rewards card for listening to the same blasted story year after year.)
I was twenty-one years old, living with three roommates in Greenwich Village. It’d been two years since I’d run away from Newark, from an oppressive family in an oppressive city in an oppressive state. I was just starting to explore my spirituality, and saw a little ad for a meeting of the Young Metaphysicians on West Thirty-Fourth Street. Fabulous! I showed up and I said to the guy up at the front, “I’m here for the meeting.” So he said, “Next door to your left.” I went in and the first thing I noticed was all of the great-looking, fabulously dressed men. A few freaks too, but mostly very sharp-looking businessmen in suits. So I sit down, and I suppose I must’ve been a tad late because there was someone up front talking about his life, and how after he divorced he started drinking more heavily, blah, blah, blah. The first thing I thought was how wonderful it was that these men were so connected to their feelings. He went on a bit longer, then everyone started clapping and he sat down. So my second observation was that these young metaphysicians really needed to learn to tell a better story. This one was so depressing. Not even a hint of a kicker. I mean, really, of all places to have an uplifting ending, you’d think it would be among a group of spiritualists. So the next guy got up and he was stunning, obviously gay, but delicious to look at nonetheless. And believe it or not, his road to metaphysics was also paved with alcohol. At this point, she raises an amused, but suspicious brow. I didn’t want to be rude and just walk out of this guy’s testimony because I know how sensitive these alcoholics can be, but obviously this was not the meeting I came for. I waited until he finished, picked up my coat, and stood to leave when the leader said, “I see we have someone new today.” And all eyes were on me. So I told them how wonderful it was that they were in recovery and I wished them well, but that I was in no way, shape, or form an alcoholic. “I don’t even drink socially,” I told them. “I’m a dancer. With the Joffrey.” There’s a fifty-fifty chance she actually referenced the Joffrey Ballet Company, but it’s always thrown in for the story to let her audience know she was with the Joffrey at one point. If Anjoli did actually say this, I have to wonder what the AA folks thought of her comment. Were ballet dancers somehow immune to alcoholism? Everyone looked at me as if I was to be pitied, as if I were in such heavy denial that I couldn’t even admit to social drinking. “I thought this was the Young Metaphysicians meeting. Obviously, I’m in the wrong place.” A woman in the back shouted, “We were all in the wrong place once, lady.” Ten-to-one that never happened but it always gets a laugh. They were so concerned, they didn’t want me to leave. Of course, no one blocked the doors or tied me to my chair, but they were so earnest in their desire to help me that I couldn’t just brisk away. The more I tried to explain that I was not an alcoholic, the more invested they became in my taking the first step and admitting that I had a problem bigger than myself. There was no escaping these do-gooder teetotalers. I couldn’t help wondering if they weren’t more fun in their drinking days because after about a half hour of this, I must admit, their persistent charm wore thin. In any event, it was time for me to either make a huge fuss, which admittedly I’d al ready been doing quite unsuccessfully, make a run for the door, or simply admit that I’m an alcoholic. If people weren’t already squealing, “You didn’t?!” Anjoli pauses so they can. “You didn’t?!” her audience says on cue. What else could I do? I stood up there, took a deep breath and said, “Hello, my name is Anjoli and I’m an alcoholic.” Now this part I know is made up because back then she was still called Margaret Mary. Name discrepancy notwithstanding, she does quite well with this story.
My mother also has a story about the time she went to a Chinese cooking class and wound up at a Nation of Islam self-defense class. Don’t ask me how it took her so long to figure this out. No woks. No Chinese people. No food! Just a half dozen brothers in bow ties and gym shorts talking about Elijah Muhammad. Yet she stayed for an hour, thinking she just might be in the right place. The men assumed she was a reporter from The New York Times who was scheduled to do a story on them. “Did you see the fabulous story on organic stir fry in the Sunday Styles?” Then she points to herself as though she was at the center of an adorable little mix-up. Alfie called her “Farrakhan’s bitch” for months after that.
But I digress. Quite a bit, in fact. My point in the “Anjoli goes to AA” story was that I’m not quite sure how Anjoli always seems to wind up at the wrong meeting. And once she gets there, why it takes so long for her to figure it out. Because when I entered the community room of the Unitarian Church, there was no doubt in my mind that I was at a La Leche League meeting. My first clue was that every
child—not just every baby—was breastfeeding. One kid walked up to his mother’s diaper bag, yanked out a book, unbuttoned her blouse, and started reading a little Tolstoy at the breast. Okay, maybe it was a book of shapes and colors, but the kid was a full-on, walking, talking, blouse-unbuttoning toddler.
I saw three species of mother. First, there was the crunchy contingent with rainbow knit skullcaps, long braided hair, and hemp necklaces with a single shell in the center. Rope mesh purses rested beside their Birkenstocks. I could easily see any one of these three mothers scooping organic grains from barrels at the health food stores. I imagined they hand-made rag dolls for their babies and mashed their own baby food. The next group was the one I fell into. Two tired-looking mothers sat in sweatpants and oversized tshirts. They threw their hair in unbrushed, low-hanging ponytails. One had socks that didn’t quite match. The other looked as though her idea of a morning shower was running a baby wipe under her armpits. The other two mothers at the meeting surprised me. They were the tidy twins, more suited for Junior League than La Leche League. These women were impeccably dressed with immaculate toddlers playing calmly with natural wood blocks. Both wore ironed jeans. One wore an Ann Taylor sweater set in icy blue, while the other donned a snowflake sweater over a winter white top. Icy Blue Top had straight black hair, cream skin, and chipper blue eyes. She wore Ugg boots and a cute suede jacket with lamb’s wool trim. My savior, Mary, was one of the granola girls.
Helene, one of my fellow-slovenly moms, complained that her parents were constantly asking when she was going to wean her son. Note to self: Cross this question off your list. Helene does not seem happy having to answer this inquiry.
“Ohmigod, he’s only two!” a crunchy mom exclaimed. “Do they realize how healthy it is to breastfeed?”
For two years?! That seems a bit long. I think at that point it has more to do with...Helene jumped in again. “If I hear one more person say that my nursing has more to do with me than my son, I’ll scream.”
Note to self, part two: Anything I am thinking should be kept to myself around Helene.
Mary took out a bunch of articles and said that Helene’s comment was well timed because this month’s topic was the benefits of extended breastfeeding. “I hate even calling it that because throughout the world, the norm is to breastfeed well into the toddler years,” Mary said, passing out article after article listing the health benefits to nursing past a year. I was just feeling victorious for making it through the first two weeks. These marathon lactators made me feel thoroughly inadequate.
Candace, previously known as Icy Blue Top, placed her hand on my knee and whispered, “Don’t worry, no one says you have to nurse that long. Mary just doesn’t want new moms to dismiss it out of hand because they don’t realize it’s a legitimate option.”
“Oh, okay,” I whispered back, wondering how Candace read my mind. At the break, Candace asked if she could hold Adam, then took him over to her toddler, Barbie, to see. “Do you live around here?” she asked.
“Right in Caldwell.”
“Me too!” Candace said with delight, though I couldn’t really understand why. “How come I haven’t seen you around? Is Adam your first?”
My first? No one had referred to him that way yet. I knew what she was thinking. I looked older than she did by about ten years, so she probably figured I had another few in junior high. “Yes, he’s my first.”
“Barbie’s my fourth,” she said proudly. “Breastfed them all.”
“And you’re still at it with her, huh?” I said, hoping she wouldn’t be offended like Helene. She nodded. “Do you mind if I ask how old she is?”
“Three in another few weeks.”
“Wow, and you don’t mind nursing her that long?” I treaded lightly.
“Sometimes I do, but I’m committed to it, and I know how good it is for her immune system, so most of the time, I’m happy to do it. But I’d be lying if I told you that some days I am not at all in the mood for it. At this point, she’s down to once or twice a day.”
Well, that certainly made a difference. I’d cringed at the thought of her nursing a child every two hours. As I spoke to Candace, I was struck by a double whammy of guilt. First, she was so slim and pretty. I felt I’d somehow failed in the looks department. She had four children and yet she looked so clean and put together. The second guilt trip was brought on by Candace’s invitation to Barbie’s birthday party. I had no invitations with which to reciprocate. I was also quite sure that her party would outshine anything I could ever hope to put on for Adam. I heard Anjoli’s voice in my head: Release guilt. Guilt leads to punishment. Punishment leads to suffering. Suffering leads to . . . “Okay, what time?” I asked.
Mary asked the mothers to please return any books they borrowed from her nursing library. “Remember next month’s topic is keeping the romance alive in a marriage with young children. We’ll have some super ideas to share right in time for Valentine’s Day,” she said with excitement. I looked around the plain white room with its circle of folding chairs, and everyone else seemed tickled by this topic as well. Afraid to be exposed as the imposter I was, I blurted an uncomfortable, “Right on to that!” When will I learn to just keep quiet?
Chapter 16
It was with mixed emotions that I drove Anjoli back to the city after her week with us. Sure, she can cause drama and lunacy in our home, but the benefit of her visiting is that she can cause drama and lunacy in our home. As she stepped out of the car, Anjoli blew a kiss to sleeping Adam in his car seat and reminded me that Kimmy’s wedding was in just three weeks. “How much weight do you plan to lose by then?” she asked.
It was hard enough for me to look at my post-pregnancy body. Knowing that it was also disappointing to my mother was sinking. “Mary says nine months on, nine months off.”
“Is that the Leche woman who’s breastfeeding her three-year-old?” Anjoli asked.
“No, that’s Candace. Mary has the two-year-old.”
“My point, darling, is that your friend Mary isn’t exactly a model of discipline, is she?”
“Good-bye, Mother,” I blew a kiss at her body bent at the passenger window. “You’re sure you don’t want help with your bags?” As if on cue, two guys in formfitting jewel colored sweaters descended the front stairs of the building, overjoyed to see her. The air-kissing began and muscles flexed as the guys lifted my mother’s arsenal of clothing and cosmetics. As they turned their backs, I heard laughter and snippets of their conversation. Catch-up party sounded like a suggestion that went over well. Then, if an exaggerated eye roll had a voice, it would have been the one Anjoli used as she muttered the words New Jersey.
I decided to spend the day in the city with Zoe, who I hadn’t spoken to in weeks. I suppose that’s normal in the first few weeks of being a mother, but I missed chatting with her about the mundane little things that fill our days. For me, it seemed I’d been out of touch with the outside world for years, but for someone like Mary, my few weeks of solitude probably seemed hurried. She suggested I take a “babymoon” with Adam, which is essentially spending the entire day in bed sleeping and gazing at him. Don’t get me wrong, there were times I’d stop dead in my tracks and watch his sleeping little mouth phantom nursing, his tiny lips pulsing in and out. I loved the way one of his little cheeks fattened when it pressed into the mattress. I melted at the sight of his wrinkly fingers balled into fists. I knew I’d have to break myself of the habit of shrieking “Look at that little acorn penis!” whenever I changed his diaper. My adoration of him was constant. The desire to sit and stare at him lasted about ten minutes. I tried the babymoon because it sounded like a sweet idea. It seemed like what good and virtuous mothers would naturally want to do. But after about an hour and a half, I couldn’t help getting up and making a list of things we needed at Costco.
“Hey, girlfriend,” I said into my cell phone. “I’m about to very gladly pay forty dollars for a parking spot for our play date. Y’ready?”
“Our w
hat?” Zoe asked.
“Play date,” I said. “It’s jargon. Picked it up at a La Leche League meeting. Whaddya think ?”
“The milk league?” Zoe asked. “Hey, how’s your face?!” she switched gears.
“Judge for yourself!” I said, thrilled that the Bell’s palsy had gone away. I still felt a difference and people who knew me well could still see traces of it, but for the most part, my face was back to normal.
I decided when we went to lunch I’d drop the new mommy vocabulary. I recalled Zoe telling me that she was terrified that I’d become absorbed into the land of the children once Adam was born. She’d seen it happen before, she said. One moment she had a friend who could talk politics, books, and fashion. The next minute it was all Diaper Genie, car seats, and Baby Einstein videos. I remember laughing at the absurdity of the idea of buying a videotape of geometric shapes floating to classical music in hopes of boosting a baby’s IQ. Now, I wondered if there might be something to it. I mean, if there was no harm in it, maybe I should get one of these. If every other mother was amping up her baby’s brainpower with this magic video, would Adam be at a disadvantage if I turned my nose up at it?
At first I felt guilty for being so competitive, but after Zoe and my excursion to the puppet show, I realized I was an amateur. On the ticket line for the show, Zoe shot me a terrified look as we heard clips of mothers’ conversations comparing how old their kids were when they first spoke, potty trained, and split an atom. Of course, it was all done very politely, under the guise of exchanging information, but the subtext was clear. Mothering was an Olympic sport. I thought it was pretty cool that I was exposing Adam to live theatre at three weeks, but I was strictly a bronze medal mom for this. There was a pregnant woman sitting alone in the theatre, who I thought I saw holding her cell phone to her belly after the show so Daddy-to-Be could have a discussion with his future Ben Brantley.
Tales From the Crib Page 10
