Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  I tried to ignore David, but once we made eye contact I felt compelled to greet him. “Hey David, glad you could make it.” I’m such a phony.

  “Hi, Jennifer, congratulations!” He’s a phony, too. “If you’re still happy that is. Are you?”

  “No, you want another kid?”

  David froze. “No, but there’s always adoption.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you know what you can get for a healthy white baby on the black market?”

  “No, what?”

  Hmm. Kind of a rhetorical question. “I’d get a good twenty grand, twenty-five if it’s blond.”

  My secretary, Karen, no doubt taking pity on me, interrupted to congratulate me. David walked off. After eating, I took it upon myself to get the show on the road by initiating the gift opening.

  My first gift was a “Hooter Hider,” to cover my boobs when I breast-feed in public. It was then that I realized these gifts were going to be even worse than I anticipated. Clearly karma was kicking my ass for the gifts I got my friends when they registered for their weddings. For my friends’ weddings, I bought them an absurd combination of stupid stuff out of their registry until I reach one hundred dollars. For example, one washcloth, one pillow case, a fork, a wine glass and a napkin ring. I know this is obnoxious, but so is registering for a fork when you’re approaching thirty. A wedding is the one opportunity where it’s socially acceptable to ask for what you want and I didn’t intend to use it for a napkin ring if I ever got married.

  On the other hand, at least I could use a napkin ring once or twice in my life, but I was at a loss for an alternate use of a Hooter Hider. I checked in the box for a gift receipt: Babies “R” Us. Shitty.

  I opened my next gift. Diapers. I’ll hang onto these, I’m sure I’ll be incontinent in sixty years and will be too embarrassed to purchase diapers for myself.

  Baby bottles. This could work as a water bottle on a bike. I’ll see if it fits the water bottle cage.

  Swaddlers. Looks like a good rag to clean a bike.

  Breast pump. That does not look comfortable.

  Baby bathing center. That looked like an improvement to squeezing the kid into a sink.

  Neutral-colored pastel onesies, bibs, socks, shirts, pants etc. All could work as bike rags, though the snaps on the onesies could be dangerous to the paint job. I’ll have to cut the snaps out.

  A box of lip gloss, eye shadow, blush, mascara, moisturizer, and eye-liner? What the fuck! It’s from Jackie, the partner I worked for before David. Jackie’s dedication to the firm is similar to my own, though she made partner so I suspect she worked hard once upon a time. Jackie spends a lot of her time at work shopping online. It doesn’t bother me that she’s a material girl or that she procrastinates. I didn’t even mind that her hands-off approach to mentoring allowed me to be an attorney for two years and learn absolutely nothing. But, I was a bit offended by her not so subtle hint that I should start wearing makeup to work. I’d wear makeup if there were any eye candy in the office. Couldn’t she have just contributed to the group gift? I made a mental note to get her hair dye that was not platinum-blonde for Christmas. Two could play this game.

  Stuffed animals. Sonny would love these, though it was too bad none of them had squeakers.

  The granddaddy of them all: a stroller that turns into a car seat. This seemed like a big ticket item. Please tell me this was from Target. I checked the gift receipt: Babies “R” Us. Damn.

  The firm’s maintenance man helped me put the gifts in my car. Once I went down to my car, I didn’t have it in me to walk back up to the office, so I went home. I didn’t take the crap out of my car when I got home. I didn’t know what to do with it, but taking it into my house was out of the question. I could be a good person and donate it to charity, but the stuff was valuable and I was going to need cash on the road. I thought of eBay, but that was time consuming and never gave full value. The other alternative was to return it all and have a gift card to spend at Babies “R” Us in the future. That would tide me over for the next five or six baby showers, probably only a few months given the alarming rate at which my friends procreated. The only problem with this idea was that I have a tendency to lose gift cards very easily. This pisses me off with a twenty dollar Starbucks card, so I didn’t really want to test my luck with a six hundred dollar Babies “R” Us card.

  I decided to ride my bike into Babies “R” Us and cruise around to see if there was anything good. It’s a huge store and I’m immature, so I was sure I could knock out a few hundred bucks easy. I enjoy riding my bike into stores. When a punk kid with a BMX bike walks into a store, he gets kicked out. When a twenty-eight-year-old woman on a $5,000 bike rides her bike up and down the aisles, there’s generally no precedent for how to react. By the time an employee thinks to ask me to get off the bike, I’m onto the next aisle.

  The first aisle I cruised through was full of “Baby Einstein” gear. None of it looked very challenging. As I looped around to the next aisle, I noticed a sign by the cash register that said Babies “R” Us accepts Toys “R” Us gift certificates and vice versa. This excited me more than it should excite a woman approaching thirty.

  When I was in elementary school, I watched a show called Double Dare on Nickelodeon. The winners received a shopping spree at Toys “R” Us where they could take home whatever they could fit in their shopping cart in sixty seconds. The kid always just grabbed whatever was closest, often knocking six of the same toy off the shelf and into the cart. I always planned to do a reconnaissance of the store prior to winning Double Dare so that I would know where to find the good stuff.

  I rode my bike home from Babies “R” Us to get my car. I decided to bring Sonny with me to Toys “R” Us. Sonny gets excited for the leash, but when I pull out the therapy dog cape, he gets out of control; howling and wagging his whole body instead of just his tail. I bought him the cape so he could accompany me places that don’t permit dogs. I know it’s an abuse of the system, but Sonny likes stores and most shoppers like him regardless of his behavior, which includes dragging me all over the store sniffing and occasionally howling at nothing.

  Our first stop was a return to Babies “R” Us. I grabbed a cart, put all of my stuff in it and walked to the returns counter. Sonny jumped up on the counter looking for Milk-Bones. “Down boy, we’re not at the vet.” The cashier leaned forward to pet Sonny, who wagged his tail like crazy and jumped up to lick her. He is very therapeutic.

  I started unloading the cart.

  “Reason for your return?” the cashier asked.

  “I don’t need the stroller and breast pump because I’m not pregnant, and the clothes don’t fit me,” I said, holding the onsie up to my chest to demonstrate. This answer was sufficient and the cashier started ringing up my returns. I received a $487 gift card to be used at Babies “R” Us or Toys “R” Us.

  I drove over to Toys “R” Us. As Sonny and I walked into the store, a remote control car drove right in front of us. Sonny howled and chased it. This was better than fetch, so I decided that I would definitely be buying a remote control car. The problem was, I had no idea where to find remote control cars, or anything else for that matter. I could see the problem on Double Dare. I started walking up and down the aisles. Barbies, action figures, dolls, blah. Where were the fun toys? I walked to the outdoor section. Bingo. Trampolines, Slip ’N Slides, electric cars. I could still remember which kid in my neighborhood had each of these toys. I skipped over the Slip ’N Slide, because as I learned from my next door neighbor growing up, you could just unroll a bunch of plastic garbage bags, run a hose on it and call it a Slip ’N Slide. I moved onto the trampoline section and was dismayed to learn that trampolines had evolved to include guard rails. Fucking lawyers; you haven’t lived until you’ve broken your arm being popcorned off a trampoline.

  At the checkout, I unloaded my trove: a remote control car for sixty-five dollars, trampoline for one hundred and eighty dollars, and a supersoaker for thirty dollars. I ha
d about two-hundred dollars left. I grabbed the capsules that grow into sponges when placed in water. Now I had about one hundred and ninety-nine left. Bubble gum tape and bubble gum toothpaste for Jason who likes anything that rots his teeth. Down to one hundred and ninety-five dollars. I checked out the battery operated electric Barbie car that I always wanted as a child. It was designed to fit one four-year-old kid in it, so I had to contort myself to sit inside. I pressed the gas pedal and moved forward at a half mile an hour. Must be a low battery. Sonny started howling at me so I began to try to force my way out of the car. It was quite a struggle. As I freed myself, I accidentally hit the gas pedal with my hand. It took off. I guess the battery worked so long as a 110-pound adult wasn’t weighing it down. I looked at the box; eighty-pound weight limit. That was a no go. I went down the “entertainment” aisle and got iPod Karaoke Theater. The next aisle had bathtub crayons. That’s gotta be four hundred and eighty seven dollars. It was actually four hundred and eighty-nine. I paid the difference and arranged for the trampoline to be delivered later that night.

  When I arrived home, my mom was sitting in her car in my driveway. I had to get rid of her before the trampoline arrived. She had been begging me to reupholster my couch and buy new clothes for work for six months. She would freak if she knew I’d purchased child’s toys instead and I couldn’t exactly explain the circumstances.

  My Mom was listening to an audio book in my driveway. I walked up and said, “Hi Mom, what are you doing here?”

  “We had a half-day at school. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Had a doctor’s appointment,” I said.

  “Me too,” Mom said as she got out of her car. “What did you go to the doctor for?” she asked.

  Hmm. Probably shouldn’t say fake obstetrician appointment. “Dermatologist.” I said. “He said I shouldn’t be in the sun so much.”

  “I’m sure he did with your tan lines. Will you listen to him?” my mom asked.

  “I wear a ton of sunscreen.”

  “You’re still really dark,” Mom said. “Other than where you’re white as a ghost, that is. Anyway, I was down here for the appointment and I’m having dinner near here tonight with Dad. I figured I would hang out here until dinner time rather than driving back home. I was just about to call you to make sure it was okay.”

  “Great. Want to go get a movie?”

  “We could,” she said. “But since you’re here we should really clean out your closets. You have so much stuff you don’t wear and you really should give it to charity.”

  Fuck. This idea sucked on so many levels. First, it was time- consuming and boring. Second, every time I throw something in the charity pile, my mom tells me how much she spent on it in relation to how few times I’ve worn it, laying on the guilt pretty thick. Then, she tries to take the stuff I wear all the time and get rid of it, saying it’s old and worn. Finally, and most importantly, I have a closet full of Jessica’s maternity wear, which would probably raise an eyebrow. “Come on Mom, not now. I’ll do it later.”

  “You always say that and you never do it. Let’s just do it while I’m here, it will go twice as fast and I’ll be able to sleep at night because I know it will be done. People need the clothes you’re not wearing.”

  I swallowed hard. “Let’s go shopping instead.”

  Mom’s eyes lit up. The only thing she likes more than reorganizing and cleaning out a closet is shopping. Having her daughter willingly shop with her has been a dream of hers since my birth. I haven’t shopped with her since we looked for my homecoming dress in tenth grade. Then, I’d looked around and found three that I liked, none of which were my size. Mom found sixteen dresses, all on sale and all in my size. She’s quite gifted. I tried on all sixteen and bought four so I could avoid the same shopping trip for my junior and senior homecoming dances and senior prom. Getting the dress wasn’t the end of it though. I spent the next four hours visiting every store in the mall with Mom. Every rack had at least seven items that Mom was iffy about and my opinion was the swing vote. Like Pavlov’s dog, it did not take me very long to realize that every time I said I liked something, the next step was that Mom would try it on. So, I stopped approving everything. After a few rejections, she started ignoring my opinion and resumed trying on everything in sight while I sat on the chairs with the husbands.

  My offer worked. I averted the disaster of cleaning out my closet and embarked on the disaster of shopping with my mom. On the plus side, the mall was only open for another five hours and Mom would probably have to leave earlier than that to meet Dad for dinner. This trip would be four hours, tops. I left a note for the trampoline delivery boy.

  We went to Westshore Mall. I tried pushing for the outlet malls because they are located forty-five minutes away, thus reducing the chance I would run into someone from work un-pregnant. Mom didn’t want to drive that far, so, I shopped in a state of alertness, ready to duck behind Mom if I saw anyone from work.

  I tried to be a good little shopper; acting interested in which Ann Taylor shirt and cardigan go best with the pants from Ann Taylor Loft, but I was busy stressing over how many more stores Ann Taylor could possibly have to screw up my day. Nine stores later, we were in Cache when I gave up, sat on the comfortable chair and tried to sleep.

  I heard “Jenna,” and opened my eyes. Sarah-Mother-Fucking-Smith. “You’re not pregnant,” she said.

  I couldn’t tell if she was asking me or telling me that I wasn’t pregnant. My heart was pounding. I thought of bribing her, but decided to start with denial. “No, you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Oh, sorry. You look just like this woman at my office, except she’s pregnant. You look identical.” She started sizing me up, not sure whether to believe the impossible. “You’re her long lost twin if you’re not Jenna.”

  As I stammered, Mom came up behind me and said, “Jenna, let’s go honey.”

  “Did she call you, Jenna?”

  “No, Hannah. Bye.” I could tell by Sarah’s face that this conversation was not over.

  “Where now?” I asked Mom.

  “Brookstone, Limited, Bandolino, lots of stuff.”

  We got back to my house at eight p.m. Because it was dark, Mom pulled out of my driveway without noticing the huge box on my doorstep. I dragged the box into the house without even opening it. Assembling a trampoline would definitely be a Danny assignment. Fifteen minutes later, I was in bed asleep. Is it possible that shopping is more tiring than riding 100 miles on a bicycle?

  Chapter Nine

  The good news, I was into June already, so I only had a little over a month to go. The bad news, it was the first Monday of June. On the first Monday of each month, the attorneys and paralegals of the subrogation department have an obligatory hour-long meeting beginning at 8:00 a.m. Each month, a different associate leads the meeting, discussing a different topic of subrogation law.

  David brings a laugh track to these meetings. There is no other way to explain the outbreak of laughter after each statement he makes. A lot of his lines are predictable. For instance, this month we have a new associate in our office, which means he’s going to use his “fight song” joke. Other obligatory jokes are the “naming the wrong presenter” joke and the “Geico” joke, none of which I get. In addition to his jokes, David likes to ask everyone if we did anything interesting over the weekend. He uses this question as a segue to inform us what he and his family did over the weekend. At the end of each meeting, David asks if any of us have any interesting cases. He uses this question as a segue to inform all of us about his interesting cases. These jokes and discussions are to a subrogation meeting as the YMCA and Electric Slide are to a wedding; you hope it’s not coming, but you know it is.

  The meeting started a little late because Sam, June’s subrogation speaker, brought donuts to the meeting. Sam is easily the biggest kiss-ass of the department, not only because he weighs 500 pounds, but also because his perfect day would be to hang ou
t and discuss subrogation waivers with David. He is so big, the carpet beneath the chair in his office has disintegrated and all that’s left is concrete and a few strings of carpet attached to the wheels of his chair. I’d feel bad for him if he wasn’t so annoying.

  While I was trying to discreetly stab a donut to determine if it was filled with white cream or lemon cream before committing, David began his set. “While you are all eating, I’d like to introduce our newest associate, Scott, to any of you that haven’t met him yet. Scott went to FSU, booooooo, go Gators!” David paused so that everyone could laugh and shout out their favorite college sports team. They didn’t disappoint.

  Next, David turned to Scott and said, “Are you ready to sing the Johnson Smith fight song?” Once again, hilarity ensued until David said, “Just kidding, we don’t have a fight song.” Since this exchange with the new associate happens at least every other month as a result of the turnover at our firm, I quickly calculated that in my three-plus years at the firm, I had probably heard the fight song joke at least ten to twenty times, including the time it was directed at me at my first subrogation meeting.

  I sat down with my chocolate-covered white cream donut as David said, “So Jenna, are you ready to give the presentation?” This is the part of the meeting where I’m supposed to freak out until David reassures me that it’s actually Sam’s month to present.

  I gave David a blank stare, which he mistook for fear, then said, “Just kidding, it’s Sam’s week.”

  “Oh,” I said, “is that why he brought donuts and a PowerPoint presentation?”

  David glared at me. I interpreted it as a laugh-or-lose-your-job-glare, so I compromised and smiled. I felt like a complete sell-out.

  Once David confirmed that he was hilarious, he moved on. “Did anyone do anything fun this weekend? I took Joseph to his painting competition. Scott, you’re new, but Joseph is my thirteen-year-old son. He is an extremely talented artist, also a swimmer and the most popular kid in his school. Anyway, he won first prize and one hundred dollars for his painting of Mesa Verde, which is where our family went on vacation last year. Have you ever been to Mesa Verde, Scott?”