Mama's Got a Brand New Job

by Janis Powers

  This woman sounded like a total control freak. Then I remembered that I had been a slave to the NYC Baby Prep Schedule of Activities binder, to my own nursing schedule, to Henry’s sleeping schedule. Wait a second . . . what had happened to me?

  “Well, we know that children—and parents—thrive on structure,” observed Blythe, as if she had read my mind. “What are some other ideas?”

  “My son has been huge since he was a baby,” offered Mom #2. “He was over ten and a half pounds at birth, so he eats a lot. We’d do what you did,” and she gestured to the first mom, “but it just didn’t work. Barry would wake up screaming about four hours in. He was starving. So, we decided to be proactive and wake him up right before we went to bed for a big feeding. That seemed to work for us.”

  “So does he sleep through the night now?” asked Blythe.

  “Sometimes. He still wakes up about half the time for a feeding.”

  “And how old is he?” asked another woman.

  Mom #2 hesitated. “He’s 18 months old.” The room fell silent. Blythe, without a suggestion of her own, shifted around in her chair probably hoping that someone would come forward with a solution. Nobody did.

  “Well,” concluded Blythe. “Would anyone else like to share an experience?”

  Angela raised her hand and blurted out, “How long is his nap?”

  “Me?” asked Mom #2, surprised.

  “Yeah. Your kid’s nap. How long is it?”

  “He sleeps between three and four hours.” Considerable murmuring arose. Mom #2 looked around the circle feverishly. “Is that a long time?”

  Several ladies spiritedly concluded that transferring Baby #2’s napping hours to nighttime sleeping hours would result in improved relaxation for the entire #2 Family.

  “That was very insightful,” complimented Blythe as she smiled at Angela. Angela blushed with pride.

  The scenarios continued at a dizzying pace. Henry, too, seemed overwhelmed by the stimulation, and he started to cry in his car seat. I rocked him aggressively, which did nothing except make my wrist sore.

  Angela whispered, “Why don’t you pick him up?” I looked around and realized that half the moms were out of their chairs, doing exactly what I should be doing with Henry. And some of the children were actually walking around. No one seemed to care. Even more astonishing was the fact that I hadn’t even noticed.

  I removed Henry from his car seat, plunked him on my shoulder and shimmied around the room. Apart from Henry’s continuous need to grab my hair, it was actually very sweet to have him up and about. Social interaction had to be good for him, even if he couldn’t understand the significance of the noises around him.

  One mother was verbally flogged for habitually using Benadryl to get her child to sleep. Another was exalted for bringing her child into her and her husband’s bed for the same purpose. That concept seemed totally contradictory to the point of the discussion; maybe the baby would sleep, but what about the parents? My perspective was shared by Angela, whose eyes bulged out of her head as she mouthed the words, “Never do that.”

  Blythe raised her hands and flapped them a few times excitedly. “Does anyone know about the Ferber Method?” She said it like a fifth grader who had just found out that one of the girls in her class had started her period.

  The room fell silent. The word “ferber” sounded like a weird stuffed toy. Maybe Blythe used a “ferber” for bedtime role play and puppet shows?

  Angela broke the silence. “I used the Ferber Method with my first born and I’ll swear by it.”

  “You did?” gushed one of the moms. “Isn’t it cruel? How could you do it?”

  “It’s all about short-term pain for long-term gain,” said Angela.

  “What is the Ferber Method?” I asked, this being my first contribution to the group.

  Blythe responded. “It takes a lot of will power, but you basically let your child cry him- or herself to sleep.” The words sunk in. That did seem cruel.

  “But how do you know that there’s not something wrong? Maybe the baby’s hungry or has a dirty diaper,” I said, much to the concurrence of the group.

  “You only do it after your child has actually slept for six or seven hours straight through the night,” said Angela. “That way you know they can do it. And you should be able to tell a difference in your child’s cries—the dirty diaper one sounds different than the tired cry, which is different than the hungry cry.”

  Really? Was there an app for that? Because I had never heard of such a thing.

  “How long did you let your son cry?” asked another mom.

  “The first night was about three hours.” There was a collective gasp in the room, but Angela and Blythe shared a simpatico glance. “The second night was about the same amount of time. But by the third night, he only cried for 30 minutes. And that was it.”

  And with a few more exchanges in the group, that was it for the meeting, too. Everyone seemed dutifully edified, and Blythe wrapped up the session to a round of applause. I made my way over to her and introduced myself as Paola’s friend. I then asked her for some advice about finding schools for kids. She referred me to her blog.

  Fortunately, Angela was waiting for me near the exit of the basement. She adjusted the faux fur collar on her gold-toned quilted down coat and said, “So, d’ you ask her out on a date?”

  “How very P.C. of you,” I said, “especially for an H.R. rep.” I smiled as I slid my trench coat over my arms.

  She gave me a wry smile back and said, “Oh, please. You should hear the crap I have to listen to. I work in the construction industry for God’s sake.”

  “Really?” I said, not surprised.

  Angela picked up her car seat. “It’s practically a friggin’ miracle if I can get one of those bozos to sign their name on a piece of paper. Half of ‘em call their union rep to see if it’s O.K. just to go to the bathroom. And it’s holy hell if I have to terminate one of ‘em.” Angela’s tough pragmatism seemed perfectly suited to performing such a miserable function. I guess everyone had their calling.

  I held the door open for her as we walked out of the school. “Well, I gotta head back to start dinner.” She smiled approvingly at me. “You should come to the next meeting.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll probably be back at work by then. I don’t know if I’ll have time on the weekends to break away.”

  “You will if you want to,” she advised. “It’s all about choices.”

  25

  There was no doubt that Nancy Lallyberry was annoying. But her role as office sycophant did make her knowledgeable on the status of everything in the office, from the number of times her admin returned late from lunch (an average of 2.1 times a week) to the partner with the highest number of frequent flier miles (Harry McCale). Since I hadn’t received any major updates about HKI in weeks, she was my most dependable resource to find out what had unfolded during my absence.

  If I hadn’t known her so well, I would have thought she was the nicest, most considerate person. She was curious about the baby, wondering why I was bothering to check email at all, and confident that I would get right back into the swing of things. She was like my own little cheerleader.

  Nancy was kind enough to communicate that HKI had expanded in scope. Not only were Deirdre Morgan and Paul Black on the team, but Harry McCale had also joined. My initial reaction was excitement; I could get great exposure as a team lead working for the three key partners of the firm. But the more Nancy and I communicated, the more concerned I became. From what I could surmise, she had somehow elevated herself from her former role as a team lead to, basically, Deirdre’s deputy.

  This was bad in so many dimensions.

  The entire organizational structure of the project must have changed. Had Jeffry Hsu magically developed amazing writing skills and taken over my role on a permanent basis? Had Nancy assumed my title as Most Likely to Make Partner? It was excruciating to sit at home, knowing that while I was gone, my role on HKI
, and potentially at McCale altogether, was fading. I had to get back to work soon.

  And so, at the height of panic, my mother called. She and my dad had agreed to stay late after a matinée of Der Rosenkavalier to watch Henry so Dale and I could go on a date. I said a quick prayer that she wasn’t going to cancel on me and answered the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

  “How’s Henry?” I was used to this; I may have been the one talking, but I was just a surrogate to provide updates about my mother’s grandson.

  I looked over at Henry, who was examining a stuffed black cat in his playpen. He smiled at me and I reached to pick him up. I did so without dropping the phone, a skill I had mastered while home over the past few weeks. “He is excellent.” He gurgled in response, punching me in the shoulder.

  “Oh, I can hear him! I can’t wait to see him! I’m telling you, if this opera is a bust I am leaving at intermission to come over there so I can see more of that beautiful little boy.”

  “You’re more than welcome to come whenever you want, Mom.” But that would never happen. As the crow flies, my parents only lived 20 miles away, but the commute made an impromptu visit to Manhattan prohibitive. The next time Paola complained that her mother was five minutes late to watch her kids because she got stuck in midtown traffic, I’d have to stop myself from gagging.

  I then provided my mother with what she really wanted: an update on Henry’s two-month pediatric exam. Henry was trending well and had grown and gained weight to keep him in the 85th percentile of national infant height and weight metrics. He was ahead of selected milestones. I was able to track his progress against the handy NYC Baby Prep Developmental Gantt Chart poster in Henry’s room; the pediatrician provided confirmation.

  Regardless of the chart or the doctor, I knew that Henry was doing great because he was happy, responsive and engaging. Truth be told, I had expected that by now, I would have morphed into a hyper-competitive mother, comparing Henry’s attributes to those of every other infant. That, in turn, would validate Henry’s position as an exceptional child, and mine as a superlative mother.

  Instead, I got my validation from my one-on-one interactions with Henry. Since I hung out with him practically 24/7, I observed the minute changes in his behavior that collectively indicated great health. I didn’t need a medical degree to notice that Henry could raise his head a bit higher, or tug on my hair a bit harder with each passing day. And I could certainly tell he was gaining weight as he had already moved into an entirely new set of clothes.

  Dale noticed none of this. I chalked it up to his Y chromosome. In reality, I knew that his work schedule precluded him from collecting all the data that I could; he just wasn’t around. And very soon, I would become as ignorant as my husband was about the intimate developmental progress of our son.

  Paola had tried to assuage my growing guilt on this issue. She had informed me that the pace of Henry’s infantile development would slow considerably over the next year. In lockstep, my heavy conscience would become progressively unburdened. Even better, as Henry approached 18 months, I would welcome the chance to spend a good portion of my day away from him. Paola’s daughter was around that age, and she described Amanda as something akin to a one-woman wrecking crew with spontaneous bouts of tearful hysteria. But Henry couldn’t even sit up; what if I missed him achieve this feat because I was at work taking orders from Deirdre?

  I wasn’t the first one to deal with this situation, and I wouldn’t be the last. I’d have to follow Henry’s lead and make a little progress each day, while trying to figure out how to incorporate him into my life. He’d grow into a toddler, and I would perfect professional motherhood. Hopefully, by the time he turned 18, I’d have the whole work-life balance thing figured out.

  With my maternity leave almost up, I decided to visit the office. I needed to prep it for my return, and that meant dropping off the duplicate breast pump, shields and bottles that had been purchased specifically for office use. I could only imagine Caine’s reaction if we were to share an elevator ride on my first day back to work, and I had the pump strapped to my shoulder. He’d probably think it was a bomb.

  When I stepped off the elevator, I was surprised that the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was a combination odor of industrialized floor tile carpet and reams of copy paper. I had an impulse to sit at my desk and start working. But when I got to my office, it became clear that I’d have no chance to satisfy that urge.

  I didn’t even have to open the door; standing in the hallway, looking through the glass walls, the space was unrecognizable. Boxes were piled from floor to ceiling covering practically every inch of the floor. I couldn’t even see the back wall. Upon closer inspection, it seemed as if my office was being used as some sort of staging area for the mailroom.

  I went in. I discovered that all of my personal items had been removed and neatly stored in a box under my desk. The box was taped and labeled, “Maxine Pedersen. Maternity Leave.” At least it didn’t say, “Maxine Pedersen. Staff Reduction Candidate.” Was office space really that tight? Or was this supposed to be some subtle message about my future at the firm?

  I allowed my blood pressure to subside before taking action. I left a friendly but direct message with the office manager requesting that my office be emptied and professionally cleaned within 48 hours. I also updated Joy on the situation, letting her know that I would be making periodic trips to the office in preparation for my return. Then I went home and had a vodka tonic.

  Timing for the cocktail was excellent. I had instructed Dale to bottle feed Henry while I was gone. Dale had done a pretty good job, I had to believe, since both father and son seemed content, sitting on the couch watching golf on TV. I pumped the milk I would have used for Henry’s feeding. I did a Milkscreen test on it, which it failed, so I chucked the freshly squeezed beverage. No loss, though; I had about 100 ounces of it stored in the freezer already.

  During my last week home, I enlisted Olga to work half-time. This worked out great for her, since she started to earn money sooner. It was also a perfect transition for me and Henry. I was able to share Henry’s likes and dislikes, and he was able to get acquainted with Olga in an unstressed environment. After some initial protests, which were heart-breaking to hear, Henry seemed to take a liking to his new companion. She seemed adequately relaxed and competent.

  With the nanny on board, I had to make sure the nanny monitoring system was functioning. Up until this point, all I had done to get it up and running was to take possession of the system’s instructional binder, which I had ignored.

  Reading through a bunch of blathery jargon was the last thing I wanted to do. But I told myself to pretend it was legal research and that reviewing it would be a good refresher for my seamless transition back to McCale. I had to tell myself something. Nobody likes reading instructional manuals.

  After pouring over the book for about an hour, I learned how the surveillance data was stored. I set up passcodes so I could review all the historical files at my leisure. Alternatively, I could log in and view the apartment live, through either camera.

  I decided I should put the latter capability to the test while Olga was watching Henry. I took my laptop to the neighborhood Starbuck’s and logged in to the system. As the image of my apartment filled the screen, my hands started to sweat. It was absolutely surreal to watch my son being handled by another person. Henry and Olga looked like they were starring in some sort of B-movie horror film, given the lack of sound and the hazy picture quality.

  The very nature of this voyeuristic act implied that I did not trust Olga. But I was less concerned about what she thought about me than I was about the safety of Henry. I assured myself that with all of Olga’s nanny experience, she was probably used to the situation. In fact, she had probably already identified the location of the cameras in the apartment.

  All I needed to see, though, was Henry’s smiling face. It was such a relief to see him content and happy. I watched as Olga put him on the floor with his
back facing the camera. I couldn’t see his face anymore, but I could see his arms jerking up and down. That usually meant he was smiling. Olga’s face lit up as he flailed around, and she handed him his plastic keys. He handed them back to her and I could tell that she laughed. I smiled, too.

  I shut my laptop. Henry was in good hands. I sipped my decaf Chai tea and felt confident that everything was in place for my resumption of activities as a senior associate at McCale, Morgan & Black.

  26

  I woke up. I checked on Henry. I showered. I brushed my hair. I applied my make-up. I put on the clothes I had laid out the night before. I grabbed my phone, the Baby Boppy and Henry, and did my motherly duty while checking email and voice mail. I burped Henry, answered the door, let Olga in, and handed him over.

  I looked at my watch. Only 49 minutes. Under an hour. Good.

  It was a crisp, clear February morning. Without a diaper bag, stroller and baby, I felt unusually spry, darting through the rush hour crowd in Grand Central Station. Nonetheless, I didn’t stop to get coffee; I’d drink whatever was in the break room. I had a Clif Bar and a banana in my bag, and I would eat breakfast at my desk.

  I cruised into the McCale office. To my disappointment, there was a surprising lack of fanfare over my return. One or two admins hugged me in the lobby, but otherwise, I just received a few smiles from the staff. My life-changing event hadn’t changed anything inside the walls of McCale, Morgan & Black. Maybe that was a good thing.

  Joy was the one exception. She was particularly interested in the story about Dale and the police escort and gushed over the pictures of Henry. I think she could have listened to me talk for the entire day. By 11:30, all of the chit-chat and return to the office administrivia had limited my billable hours to a mere 90 minutes.