I take the first pill. I wait for it to work.
That evening the Fiancé and I have a long discussion about my depression. He feels horrible. He doesn’t know what to do. He feels like it’s his fault.
“Maybe these pills will help me,” I suggest. I feel awful for making him think that I’m so miserable. I don’t really have anything to be miserable about, and yet I am. I have a healthy baby, a wonderful fiancé, parents and in-laws who care about me. I have more than most people could ever hope for.
The Fiancé thinks I should book a trip back to my city to visit my friends and family. He thinks I should rent an office, outside our condo, to write in so I have someplace to go each day and something to do aside from sitting around at home all day obsessing over my life, or lack of life, and calling him asking what time he’ll be home. He suggests renting a place, too, for two months, somewhere warm and cheerful. He’ll do anything to see me happy, and I love him for it. But even knowing that he loves me doesn’t make me feel better.
December 22
The Fiancé has been walking on eggshells around me. I have booked an airline ticket home to visit my friends and family in January. I can’t wait. I’ve called everyone to let them know I’m coming back for a visit. Vivian is organizing a baby party for our friends, so she and I can show off our babies at the same time. I’m going to go out with Lena and Heather and Sara because my parents have offered to babysit whenever I want them to. I’m going to get drunkity-drunk-drunk! The Fiancé has also rented a condo, in Maui, for two months for the baby and me. He thinks the sun will help my depression and that it will be easier to take care of a baby in warm weather. For the first time since being pregnant, I feel like there are things to look forward to. But I’m still depressed. I try to hide it because seeing me sad makes the Fiancé miserable and that depresses me even more.
December 23
Tonight, although I don’t feel like it, we’re meeting two of the Fiancé’s friends for dinner at a “family restaurant,” which means they serve pop in super-size plastic cups and the menu is as big as a road map. The wife, Tammy, is seven months pregnant. I force myself to try to be happy about going out. Everyone keeps telling me that I should keep busy and that going out will keep my mind off being depressed. I’d rather just stay home and mope and do nothing.
The baby is coming along.
“Should we take the diaper bag?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Should we?”
I hate carrying the diaper bag around. It’s heavy and I can never find anything in it. “Well, she just shat like an hour ago,” I say.
“And we won’t be very long,” says the Fiancé.
“Screw it, let’s go,” I say. Just as we’re heading out the door, I change my mind. “No, we better take it. I know she’ll end up shitting just because we were too lazy to take it with us. We’re unlucky that way,” I tell the Fiancé. “And I think I’ll just go to the washroom again.”
We enter the restaurant and see our friends, who are already seated. They coo over the baby, and it brings a smile to my face. I’m proud of her. Even though she doesn’t do anything yet but lie there and look cute, I’m still proud to be her mother. Then I’m not smiling. Because I recognize the look that’s just appeared on my child’s face. It’s a look of relief and joy, which is not really a look of relief and joy. It’s the “I’m shitting” look.
“Um,” I say to the Fiancé, “we have a situation.”
“Okay, well, I guess you’ll have to go change her,” he says. (Damn restaurants that only have changing tables in the women’s washrooms!)
“I will, but can I have the diaper bag, please?” I ask.
“I don’t have the diaper bag. I thought you brought it,” he says.
“No, I thought you brought it,” I say.
“You said that we should bring it.”
“I know I said that, but I thought you were going to get it when I went to the washroom.”
“I thought you were getting it,” he says.
“What’s going on?” asks Tammy.
“We didn’t bring the diaper bag,” I admit, feeling like the stupidest mother in the world. What kind of mother leaves the house without a diaper bag? Obviously, the Fiancé and I were having communication issues. Why would he have assumed that I took it? Just because I said “No, we should bring it” doesn’t mean that I’m the one who has to bring it. He has arms. Am I responsible for everything?
“Okay, there’s a drugstore across the street. I’ll be back in a second,” the Fiancé says, jumping up from the table. “It’s no problem.”
Five minutes later, the Fiancé walks in with a jumbo-size package of diapers, a large container of wipes, and a mammoth jar of Vaseline. He arrives just in time, because I don’t think I can last a moment longer with the stench that is coming from the baby. It is embarrassing actually. I am pretty positive the baby is ruining many, many meals around us.
“Wow!” I say. “That’s a lot of supplies. Why did you buy ninety-nine diapers?”
“This is all they had. It was this or nothing.”
I head to the washroom. I’m not going to ask why the only washrooms with changing tables are the women’s.
8:15 P.M.
We’re driving home.
“Did you see the look on Bob’s face?” I ask, laughing about Tammy’s husband.
“I know, he looked mortified,” agrees the Fiancé.
“I know. He probably thinks we’re the worst parents ever.”
After the diaper debacle, the baby had dropped her pacifier on the floor during dinner and I had picked it up, put it in a glass of ice water, swished it around, and shoved it back into her mouth. You learn, after the millionth dropped soother, that not sanitizing it doesn’t really matter. Your baby will not die, as you may have been led to believe, by sucking on a pacifier that was dropped on the floor.
“They’ll see,” he says. It’s true. I, too, may have once looked mortified upon seeing a mother place into her child’s mouth something that has fallen on the floor in a public venue.
As we’re driving home, the Fiancé tells me a story about one of his colleagues whose live-in girlfriend had gotten pregnant and had the baby, much to the colleague’s dismay. This guy was forty, a toxic bachelor, or at least lived like one, out at bars until 3 A.M. each night. “I just feel so bad for him,” the Fiancé says.
“Why?”
“Because his girlfriend refuses to get any help, so now when he comes home after working all day, she hands him the baby and says, ‘It’s your turn. I’ve been with him all day.’ And then she’ll go to a movie with her sister or friends.”
I’m torn over this story. Yes, I have full-time help, and yet I’m still exhausted from even spending three hours alone with the baby. Having a baby is like a full-time job. I understand how hard it is to be a mother of a newborn. At the same time, I understand that his friend has been at the office all day and has also worked and is probably pretty tired at the end of the day. I find it sad that babies have the ability to turn relationships sour. I find it sad to hear about a mother handing over a baby to her partner and saying, “It’s your turn.”
“Well, I guess they’ll work it out,” I say. I can’t help but add, “At least I’m not like that.”
“That’s true,” the Fiancé says.
“See, you’re lucky to have me,” I say.
“I am.”
Though I am depressed, I’ve never once said to the Fiancé, “It’s your turn.”
We put the Dictator to bed and we have sex. We do it very quickly. The baby could sleep for hours or she could sleep for two minutes. You just never know. We have quick sex because we have learned our lesson. We almost had sex a couple of nights ago. We were just getting into it when the baby started to wail. Nothing like a wailing baby to, um, kill the mood.
By the time I had come back to bed, the Fiancé was like, “You still want to?”
I was like, “Um, no thanks.”
December 29
Every parent must do the office visit. I tell Nanny Mimi that I want to take the baby to visit the Fiancé at his office. Nanny Mimi bundles the baby up with so many layers, she looks about 150 pounds heavier. It’s very cold outside, and the ground is covered in snow. But I’m going to walk over since I have basically given up on exercising at the gym. I’ve been too tired and too blue.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask the Fiancé. “I mean, won’t people look at me like I’m weird for bringing the baby to your office?”
“No, it’s fine. Come over!” The truth is, he’s been asking me to bring the baby to his office for a while.
“Am I fat?” I ask. “What if everyone looks at me and all they think is, ‘My God, she’s still fat and it’s been months since she’s given birth’?”
“I think they’ll be too busy looking at the baby to look at you,” he says.
“Thanks. You’re too kind. Do you think I’m fat?”
“I’ll see you in an hour, okay?”
It’s not an easy walk. First of all, strollers are hard to push over snow—even our stroller, the BMW of all strollers (it only cost one thousand dollars). Second, every time we have to cross the street, not only do I have to lift the stroller over the snow-banks, but I also realize that drivers are friggin’ crazy. I no longer run across the street, dodging cars like I used to. I watch all cars driving close to us, making sure they see me and the stroller and that they’re going to slow down. God forbid one of them hits my baby!
I’m slightly pissed that the baby has fallen asleep on our walk over. She can’t be all cute if she’s asleep. What was the point of me dressing her in such a cute outfit so I could show her off, now that she’s asleep and I probably won’t even take her out of her jacket?
The Fiancé beams as his law partners gather in his office to see our child. At home, the Fiancé is always grumpy and moaning about the baby. But now, while all his colleagues and friends, most of whom are already fathers, come in and ooohh and ahhh, he looks proud.
I smile. God, I love the Fiancé. I’m even turned on a bit. There is nothing sexier, I think, than a man who proudly shows off his baby to his colleagues.
January 2
10 A.M.
The mother-in-law has been on our backs to look at schools for the baby.
“But she’s not even twelve weeks old!” I’ve told her a million times. In fact, I think I remember saying, when the baby was still in my womb and the mother-in-law was asking about schools, “She’s not even born yet!”
“Well, I read this article about how competitive getting your children in to school is,” she had said.
Of course she had read an article. Argh!
“You have to call the school today,” I tell the Fiancé.
“Okay, I will.”
“Also, what time are you coming home? Hello?”
An hour later the Fiancé calls me back.
“Well, I called the school,” he says.
“And?”
“They laughed at me.”
“What?”
“They asked how old my child was, and I said almost three months. Then they laughed at me and told me to call back in two years.” Apparently, not all schools are all that competitive to get in to.
“Oh. Well, at least we did it. At least your mother can stop asking us about it now.”
3 A.M.
The Fiancé has only one rule, which is that the baby is never to sleep in our bed. He is convinced that if we even once have her sleep in our bed with us, she’ll get used to it and never want to sleep in her crib again. Plus, he has friends whose babies have slept with them for, like, five years because they have gotten so used to sleeping with their parents. I wonder how those couples have sex. Anyway. Because this is the Fiancé’s only rule, I let him have it. Plus, it’s not easy sleeping with a baby. I know, because I’ve been trying to sleep with her on the couch. Babies make cute but strange noises constantly. She kicks. She moans while sucking on her bottle.
But by 2:30 A.M. I’ve had enough. I just want to crawl into our king-size bed. I make it another half hour debating, then pick up the baby and head for the big matrimonial bed. Who says the Fiancé owns the bed? It’s my bed too. He’s not the boss of me.
The Fiancé, amazingly, has fallen asleep. How did he do that? I suppose it’s the same as a boyfriend falling asleep after a wicked fight. While a fight could keep a girlfriend up all night, the guy can easily fall asleep. It kind of pisses me off that the Fiancé has learned to sleep through the baby’s wails. If I even hear her moan, I’m suddenly wide awake.
“Is everything okay?” the Fiancé asks groggily, hearing me climbing back into bed with the baby.
“Yup, fine. Go back to sleep.” He does, of course.
Praying silently that the baby doesn’t make any noise, I lie down, with her on my chest.
Next thing I know, the Fiancé is talking to me. I look at the alarm. It’s 7 A.M. “How long has she been in here?” he asks.
“Oh, only, like, ten minutes,” I answer.
“Oh, I didn’t even hear you bring her in here.”
Ha ha! Tricked him! Loser!
Maybe I can get away with her sleeping on me in the big bed every night.
January 6
“Okay, don’t forget that she needs to wear socks on the plane,” the mother-in-law is saying. “And bring diapers.”
God, it reminds me of my father, who whenever I said I was going on a trip somewhere warm, would say, “You didn’t forget to pack your bathing suit, did you?” Um, I’m going to Jamaica. Why would I forget my bathing suit?
Why does everyone assume I don’t want what’s best for my baby? Does the mother-in-law really think I’d let my two-and-a-half-month-old baby’s feet freeze on the plane? Does she really think that I’d forget to bring diapers? I may not win any mother of the year awards, but I’m not that clueless. I’m sort of offended that she thinks she has to remind me to bring diapers!
I’m slightly nervous, I’ll admit. Okay, I’m terrified to go on the plane with the baby. It’s the first time that not only will I be traveling with her but I’ll be with her alone for a week. I won’t have the Fiancé. I won’t have Nanny Mimi. It’s just the baby and me. I can do this. I can do this, I tell myself. Mothers everywhere, every day, do it.
What I can’t do is carry everything. My God, who knew that a nine-pound baby needs so much stuff for the airplane? The diaper bag weighs more than a piano. Seriously, if the plane had to make an emergency landing on a desert island, we could last for three months. I’ve packed eighteen diapers, four sets of sleepers and onesies, twelve cans of formula, seven bottles, and four pacifiers.
Thanks to a seat sale, the Fiancé and I decided to buy two seats, one for me and another for the baby, who will remain in her car seat—hopefully sleeping—next to me.
We check in super-early, in order to be prepared. The Fiancé came with us to the airport. At the check-in, there’s a family in front of us with four young kids. They have ten pieces of luggage, I’m not kidding.
“Can you imagine traveling with four kids?” I whisper to the Fiancé. “Look at how much stuff they have!” They look like they’re moving, not just visiting family or going on a vacation.
“That’s a nightmare,” he agrees.
Just before we go through security, the Fiancé and I have to say good-bye.
“Are you going to miss me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to miss the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m going to miss you too.”
It’s true. I am. I haven’t been apart from him since the baby arrived. But this is what I want, or thought I wanted. Going back to the city I grew up in, to see my friends and family, will remind me that I’m still me, that I have a life. I’m still a fabulous person, I just have a baby. That’s all. Going back to my hometown will make me feel like a human again, and not just a baby maker. Is it possib
le to be lifesick, like being homesick and missing your home? I am lifesick. I miss my old life.
“This is a boarding call for flight 123,” comes the voice over the loudspeaker. “We invite all those who need extra time getting seated and those with young children to board at this time.”
The baby is sleeping and I’m flipping through an Us Weekly. Oh! Wait! Right! That’s me. I’m now one of those fliers who have young children and need extra time. “This is kind of nice,” I think, “not having to line up as I walk to the gate.” I push the stroller to the doors, hold the car seat, which weighs, like, a thousand pounds, in one arm, and the diaper bag, which weighs, like, two thousand pounds, and my purse in the other arm. I can barely squeeze through the aisle. I somehow make it to my seat. I’m sweating. I think I may have pulled a muscle in my shoulder. I’ve definitely bruised my legs.
The baby wakes up—crap!—and I give her a bottle, while the other passengers board. I can see them looking at us as they walk down the aisle. I know what they’re thinking: “Please, don’t let me have the seat next to that baby!” I was once one of those people. I used to think the same way when I traveled. But now these looks kind of piss me off. How dare they wonder if they have to sit beside us? My baby is fabulous. They’d be lucky to sit next to her.
Amazingly, the flight is not full, which means we have all three seats to ourselves. Okay, maybe this four-hour flight isn’t going to be bad at all.
The plane takes off, and the sound of the engines immediately puts the baby to sleep again.
I go back to reading my Us Weekly. I still have not picked up a book since I gave birth. I used to read two novels a week. But now, well, a book just has too many words for my brain. Plus, now I’m addicted to the celebrity-and-their-babies photographs. Is Coco, Courteney Cox’s baby, cuter than mine? How does Courteney manage to look so skinny? And why does Ryder, Kate Hudson’s baby, who is younger than my baby, have more hair than my baby?
Two hours later
A baby is screaming somewhere, and the sound is pulling me out of a deep slumber. Whose baby is that? Why won’t the mother calm it down? I blink my eyes open and remember that I’m on a plane. I look down beside me. Crap! That’s my baby who’s crying. I’m jolted wide awake. How long has she been crying for? I look around at the other passengers. Do they look annoyed? Not really. I pick up the baby and cuddle her. She needs a diaper change. My heart is pounding. I don’t want to go in the mini-washroom to change her. Even without a baby, I’ve always hated plane washrooms. “Screw it,” I think. She hasn’t gone number two. I put her down on the empty seat and change her diaper, only for a second thinking how rude this is. But I don’t really care.
Wiped! Page 7
