“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Fine. I mean, it’s coming out of me.” I’m still wearing the hospital-provided disposable one-size-fits-all mesh panties. I’ve moved on to my own stash of maxi pads. Thank God I have hundreds and hundreds of them.
I call the fiancé, who is still in bed. “You’d better come get me now. They’re kicking me out. And I can’t leave with the baby until they see the car seat.”
The fiancé arrives within fifteen minutes. Together we change Baby Rowan’s diaper.
We’re handed pamphlets on postpartum depression, with emergency phone numbers in case I feel suicidal or can’t stop crying once I get home.
“I’d better not get that,” I tell the fiancé as we’re packing me up. It’s a bitch. I packed way too much.
“I know. I know.”
“But if the last nine months are any indication, I probably will. I’m a crier.”
“I know. I know. I was there, remember, when you had prepartum depression for, oh, I don’t know, nine months?”
“Ha ha. Right now, though, I feel amazing about life.”
“I’ll keep the pamphlets handy, though. Just in case,” the fiancé says.
“Let’s dress Baby Rowan. What are we going to put her in? We have to put her in the outfit my mother knitted for her or else her feelings will be hurt. She spent a long time knitting that, and it’s pretty damn adorable.”
“But we also have to put her in the pink and white striped thing my mother bought her or else her feelings will be hurt,” the fiancé says.
Baby Rowan leaves the hospital wearing the pink and white striped sleeper the fiancé’s parents bought under the rainbow-colored sweater and hat set my mother knit. Baby Rowan does not match. She looks a little ridiculous, actually, as though she’s dressed for a dogsled ride in the Arctic. But nothing can get me down right now. I feel like I’m on some sort of amazing high. They should bottle this feeling.
Of course, I’m still wearing men’s sweatpants, which is disturbing. But, hey, I had a baby three days ago. Cut me some slack.
AT HOME
I’m a Mother. I’m Still Fat!
THINGS I DID NOT KNOW ABOUT
POST-PREGNANCY
I will have “flow” for up to six weeks.
It takes six weeks for my uterus to get back to normal size.
I will still look five to six months pregnant after giving birth and for who knows how long.
There will be a dark line from my chest down to my pubic area—totally normal, but it will take about a month to disappear.
You cannot eat four Big Macs a week, french fries every day, and as much junk food as your heart desires and not work out at all for nine months and still expect to fit back into your size 6 jeans again. Ever, maybe.
Everyone will ask for pictures. (Note to self: Learn how to e-mail photos from digital camera immediately.)
The cravings and the heartburn do go away, almost instantly.
You cannot have sex for six weeks after a C-section.
You cannot work out for six weeks after a C-section.
OCTOBER 20
The nanny arrives at eight o’clock this morning for her first day at work. The fiancé has decided to take the week off work. My mother is still in town. I feel as though the fiancé and I haven’t had any alone time in weeks and weeks, though in reality it has been only days. Our families are always around.
So far Baby Rowan is an angel. She passes out for hours after we feed her. We have decided not to breastfeed, which, so far, is working out brilliantly. I do not feel guilty about this at all. I turned out okay and I wasn’t breastfed, and so did the fiancé, who wasn’t breastfed either.
The doorman at the fiancé’s condo has been buzzing us nonstop. We have received dozens of gifts, gift baskets, and bouquets of flowers. I feel like I’ve just won an Academy Award. People do care. They do! Heather, Lena, Vivian, Shannon, Marci, Sara, and Dana all called, too, and listened to me talk about Baby Rowan and the C-section for as long as I wanted.
OCTOBER 21
“Should I get the number? Should I get the number?”
I’m crying. Shit. The fiancé thinks I’m having a postpartum meltdown. Maybe I am?
“Seriously. Do you think this is the postpartum depression thing?” he continues, concerned.
I have called the fiancé on his cellphone from the washroom in his condo, where I have gone to cry and be alone. He was with the baby and my mother and his parents and the nanny in the living room.
“C-c-can you c-c-come s-see me?” I cried to the fiancé from my cellphone.
“Where are you?”
“In the w-w-washroom in the bedroom.”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that everyone is always around,” I sob when he comes in. “And everyone is holding my baby more than me. And she’s my baby!”
Ever since we arrived home, the fiancé’s parents, my mother, and the nanny have been here constantly, picking up my baby. I feel as though I’ve barely touched her.
“They’re super excited too, Beck. And, trust me, next week your mother will be gone and then my parents won’t be hanging around so much, and you’ll be wishing they were here to help.”
“You think?”
“Yes. They just really love her and want to hold her. But she is your baby. You can pick her up whenever you want.”
“Okay. I’m going to, then. I’m going to pick her up right now.”
“So you’re okay now?”
“Yes.”
“So you don’t have postpartum depression?”
“I don’t think so. At least not yet.”
OCTOBER 22
Still wearing men’s sweatpants. I still look six months pregnant. When is this belly going to go away?
“Beck, it’s going to take longer than a week. It’s going to take months.”
“NO! It has to be gone by December 31st.”
“What? Why? Why December 31st?”
“Um, I have a bet going with Heather. I bet her $500 that I could lose the weight by December 31st.”
“You are crazy,” the fiancé says. “You had nine months of pure gluttony. You ate everything and anything you wanted. It’s going to take a while.”
“I know. I know. You don’t have to remind me. My big ass is reminder enough.”
OCTOBER 23
3:00 p.m.
I have not had one carbohydrate all week. I am eating only protein, fruits, and vegetables. Surprisingly, I do not miss Big Macs or french fries. I think I overdosed on McDonald’s. I will never eat there again.
“Oh, you’ll eat there again,” Ronnie told me when I told her how good I’ve been with my post-pregnancy diet.
“No I won’t. I’m done with McDonald’s.”
“When your baby can eat solid food, you’ll be there at least once a week. Trust me.”
I don’t see it happening. It was a good relationship while it lasted, but I had to ditch Ronald eventually. He’s not really my type of guy.
8:00 p.m.
My mother has left. So, too, has the video camera. Thank God. The fiancé and I are alone. Finally. It feels great, but still weird knowing there’s a third human at home with us. I can’t stop staring at Baby Rowan. This is the most rewarding thing I have ever done.
Gaa! Did that really come out of my mouth? Were all those people who kept telling me that this will be the most rewarding thing I have ever done actually right? Baby Rowan is my yummy angel.
Midnight
Baby Rowan is wailing. Do not freak. Check diaper. Hold her. Feed her. She goes back to sleep.
2:00 a.m.
Baby Rowan is screaming. Do not freak. Somehow get myself out of bed. Hold her. Change her. Feed her. Phew.
3:56 a.m.
Baby Rowan is wailing. Gaaa!! Am so tired, cannot get out of bed. Is the fiancé asleep, or just pretending to be asleep? How can he sleep through this? Get out of bed. Feed her. Change her. Rock
her back to sleep.
5:00 a.m.
WAAA! Baby Rowan is the devil! The sound of a newborn wailing is an awful, awful sound. It’s a much worse sound than the alarm clock going off after a sleepless night. Oh man, it’s so much worse than that.
6:00 a.m.
Finally, Baby Rowan is asleep. Please let me sleep, Baby Rowan. Please let me sleep.
OCTOBER 24
6:45 a.m.
ARGH!!!!! What’s my name? Where am I? Who’s screaming?
“Wake up!”
“I’m up. I’ve been up all night,” the fiancé says. “I’m a wreck, I’m so tired.”
“Your turn. I haven’t been to sleep yet,” I tell the fiancé. “I thought you were sleeping. Didn’t you hear me get up all those times?”
“I did. Of course I did. I have to work today. I can’t believe I have to work on one hour of sleep.”
“I have such a bad headache,” I tell the fiancé.
“Go take some Advil. That will help.”
Right! I can now take Advil without fearing that my baby will have two heads. I pop three.
8:00 a.m.
The nanny arrives. Baby Rowan is sleeping like an angel. She does not wake up until noon. I spend my morning talking on the phone to friends and my mother.
“You know what you have to do?” Ronnie says. “You have to get her on a schedule. Every night do the same thing. Bathe her and feed her at the same time, so she knows it’s bedtime.”
“You know what you have to do?” my mother says. “Make sure she’s in a dark, quiet room.” Sheesh. Does my mother really think I have been blasting AC/DC and putting on a light show while trying to put Baby Rowan to sleep?
“You know what I’ve read?” says Heather. “That babies like those swing things. Maybe you should buy her a swing.”
“Maybe it’s her formula,” suggests Vivian.
Argh. Pregnancy does end. But apparently the unsolicited advice does not.
5:00 p.m.
Cute Single Man sent me an e-mail congratulating me on Baby Rowan after reading the paper. I had written a story about Baby Rowan coming into this world by C-section—the wave of the future, I’m convinced, especially since Vogue published an article about the same topic. Once it’s in Vogue, it’s like the law. And having a C-section really wasn’t that bad. I would recommend it to any woman. I’m still walking quite slowly and I have to sit down and get up a little more carefully, but each day it gets easier and easier. Except when I sneeze. When I sneeze and my whole body shakes (I sneeze passionately), it hurts. But, hey, I don’t sneeze all that often. I still can’t carry anything heavy. (Thank God my baby is not even 8 pounds. Plus, I don’t like carrying heavy items anyway. Who does?)
I wrote another feature about designer baby wear and how it is also possible to spend more on a stroller than on a used car. It is also possible to still have a career, I think, at least with a nanny around. Having a baby will be good for my career. At least, it provides me with a ton of story ideas. (Next article? “How to Survive on Three Minutes of Sleep.”) Sexy Young Intern had a piece in the paper today, too, about a new bar in town that features waitresses who dance on the bar counter, like at Coyote Ugly in New York. I didn’t finish her story, which was featured prominently in the Life section. I have a baby now, and bar hopping seems, well, not so important to me anymore. She can have my old job, I think. I barely have time to read the newspaper anyway.
I send Cute Single Man an e-mail back, thanking him. I have a pang of regret. I still miss him.
OCTOBER 25
9:45 p.m.
“I’m so excited to go to bed,” the fiancé tells me as he’s about to brush his teeth. “I’m beat.”
“Me too. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired,” I respond. I’m already in my pajamas. “It’s not even ten o’clock. I guess this is what people meant when they said a baby changes everything.” I now understand why Ronnie never picks up her phone after 8:30. She is a mother, after all. I get it now.
“Yep. Isn’t it rewarding?” the fiancé jokes.
“I want to have sex. I want very, very badly to have sex,” I tell him. It’s back. My mojo is back. Thank God. The fiancé has never looked so attractive.
“How many more weeks?”
“Three,” I tell the fiancé.
Note to self: Buy condoms.
OCTOBER 26
It was a good night last night. I slept three hours straight. Sara’s husband just called. She had her baby two weeks early. Her baby girl arrived last night after her water broke and he rushed her to the hospital for her C-section. He gave me the room number at the hospital.
“Congratulations!” I scream into the phone. “Baby Rowan’s first girlfriend has arrived.”
“Hey. Thanks so much. You’re so sweet,” Sara says sleepily into the phone. “She came early. Can you believe it? I didn’t even have a chance to get my manicure and pedicure and haircut. I was scheduled to get it all done tomorrow.”
“Oh, who cares? You have a baby girl! You’re going to love it. It’s going to be the most rewarding thing, you’ll see. But just remember to get up and get walking ASAP. That will help you get over the C-section so much faster.”
Shit. I’ve turned into one of the people I hate, the type that gives unsolicited advice to new parents. Well, I am a parent who has been through a C-section. Don’t I know how it’s done? Shouldn’t I pass on my knowledge? Oh God. I’ve gone over to the dark side.
OCTOBER 27
“You know what’s weird?” I ask the fiancé while Baby Rowan is sleeping. We are wolfing down dinner (no carbs for me) for fear Baby Rowan will interrupt us before we finish.
“What?”
“Lately my parents haven’t asked me about when we’re going to get married. In fact, no one has asked. Has anyone asked you?”
“No. It’s all about Baby Rowan now. No one cares about us anymore.”
It’s true. When my parents call or the fiancé’s parents call, they don’t ask how we are. They only ask how Baby Rowan is. It’s like we don’t exist.
“I still can’t believe we have a child, can you?” I say to the fiancé. “It’s still all so surreal.”
“I know. It’s like—” WAAAA!! Baby Rowan is awake again.
“Can you believe it now?” the fiancé yells over the wails. “I’m going to start calling her The Dictator. Because she always gets what she wants.”
OCTOBER 28
It is time to try to start losing what has now been dubbed my Baby Rowan Behind, or the Baby Rowan Rump. I walk on a treadmill for twenty minutes. Losing this ass is going to take forever. My breasts are slowly starting to get back to my pre-pregnancy size. That is unfortunate.
OCTOBER 29
The towel fits around my body again, I realize, stepping out of the shower. THE TOWEL FITS AROUND MY BODY AGAIN! I still have a good twenty-seven pounds to lose, however. What if it never goes away? What if I never see my old pre-pregnant body again?
“You’re not planning on going back to your pre-pregnancy weight, are you?” Shannon asked me this morning when I called to say hi.
“I do plan on it. Why?”
“It’s just that you were so skinny before.”
Crap. Am I not allowed to have a good body and be a mother? Am I not allowed to be vain anymore?
OCTOBER 30
“I have The Fear,” Lena says into the phone. She met a guy last night at a new bar in town, got drunk, and somehow they ended up kissing in the men’s washroom. She doesn’t remember how she got home. I laugh along with her tale. Some things never change.
Tonight I have made plans with Casey, a girl my age who is friends with the fiancé. It’s time to get back out there and try to begin making a life for myself here, after bringing a new life into the world. First step, make friends.
Casey and I are going to a bar. I will have my first alcoholic drink in what seems like forever. I will not order Perrier. The nanny is sleeping over. I can’t imagine waking up
with a hangover and having to take care of a screaming baby. Maybe it is possible to have my old life mixed in with my new life. Who knows?
OCTOBER 31
11:00 a.m.
I’ve booked a ticket to come back to my hometown for a visit, with Baby Rowan. I will now be one of those people travelers moan about when they see them get on the plane with a baby. I will be a pre-boarder. Oh well. I’ll be praying along with them that Baby Rowan doesn’t wail the entire flight. I’m excited to see my friends and my apartment. I plan on spending at least half my new life at my apartment with Baby Rowan.
I call Heather first to make sure she keeps the first Saturday night I’m in town open for me. “My mother will babysit Baby Rowan that night,” I tell her, “so we can go out and party. I don’t think I can stay out super late, though.”
“Right,” she says. “You have to plan your nights out now. You have to worry about finding babysitters.”
Right.
I call Ronnie next.
“So are you ready to have another yet?” she asks. Is she joking? Please tell me she’s joking. She’s got to be joking.
“No way. Never again. I love Baby Rowan to death, but I can’t see myself pregnant again. Ever.”
“Oh, you say that now. But you’ll see. You’re going to want another. Trust me on this. Wait until she smiles at you for the first time—you’ll forget all about the sleepless nights and you’ll want another baby.”
“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “But, please, next time I tell you I’m going out drinking, remind me to stop at two drinks. I’m serious. Two drinks is my limit. I don’t want to have another love child.”
“I don’t think you’ll be going out nearly as much. You’re going to enjoy staying home more. You’ll get tired at ten o’clock,” Ronnie tells me, knowingly. “You won’t ever want to drink that much again. You’ll have other worries now.”
Is she right? I do have other worries. My life has changed. I haven’t figured out how to use the Diaper Genie yet, and the humidifier we bought for the baby room doesn’t seem to work. My mother is bugging me to send pictures of the baby and she sounds jealous that the fiancé’s parents get to spend so much time with the baby. I think Baby Rowan is catching her first cold, and is that baby acne on her face or a rash of some sort? When do I start training Baby Rowan to sleep through the night, and does she have enough warm clothes? How exactly do you bathe a newborn? The fiancé is also angry with me after I asked him one too many times this morning if my ass is still fat and if my hair looks thinner. I still don’t fit into any of my pre-pregnancy clothes. Maybe I should join a mother’s group to make some friends in this city? I also worry that I’ll have to work harder than ever at work, and at my friendships, to prove to everyone that nothing has changed because I’m now a mother. Will I bore my friends with talk of Baby Rowan? Why don’t they ask about Baby Rowan? Is the nanny enjoying her job? Am I spending enough time with Baby Rowan? Is her head supposed to be that floppy? And I still don’t know where the second, third, and fourth little piggies went and if that damn itsy-bitsy spider went up or down.
Knocked Up Page 25
