We land.
I can’t let my parents, who are picking us up at the airport, see the baby looking like this. Now I understand why, when I was growing up, my mother was so crazy adamant about me looking good when we’d go visit my grandparents. When the Fiancé used to pick me up at the airport, when I’d go visit him during our long-distance relationship, I always made sure I’d brushed my hair, put on deodorant, and rubbed some fresh-smelling lotion on my hands before letting him see me. Now I don’t care what I look like, or if I smell of airplane. But I do care that the baby looks and smells good. I want my parents to be impressed. I want them to see that I’m a good mother and that my baby is not just alive but alive and thriving. Alive, thriving, and clean, that is.
The baby has somehow managed to get super-dirty, just by drinking formula. And she doesn’t smell so, um, fresh. She smells like airplane. In the airport washroom, I change her into one of the many sleepers I packed in the carry-on and put some baby lotion on her face. Perfect. I know my parents love their grandchild unconditionally, but I know they’ll love her even more unconditionally when she looks super-cute and smells super-clean.
January 8
3 P.M.
The baby is sleeping at my parents’ house for two glorious nights. I have only one plan. I’m going out to get drunk with friends. I know my parents raised four kids, but I can’t help but worry about leaving the baby with them. Do they know what the hell they’re doing with a newborn? Do they remember what they did three decades ago when they raised my brothers and me? Sometimes it takes my parents a really long time to jot down a phone number I’m giving them. Will this affect them taking care of my baby?
My dad comes to pick her up at my apartment, which I have continued to rent, even though I moved in with the Fiancé right before I gave birth. I’ll give this apartment up one day, I’m sure. But not yet.
Although the baby is only sleeping at my parents’ for two nights, I’ve again packed enough clothes and supplies to last her at least a week.
“So, she just ate, but she’ll be hungry again in a couple of hours,” I tell my dad.
“Okay.”
“And she likes to sleep with this animal,” I say, showing him the white stuffed sheep.
“Okay. Don’t worry!”
“And make sure you sterilize the bottles, and the directions to making the formula are right on the label. Read it carefully.”
“Okay.”
“And you have to wash her bum really well if she shits and put on a lot of Vaseline so she doesn’t get a diaper rash.”
“Hey! What kind of language is that?” my dad asks.
I ignore the question. My baby doesn’t understand English yet, let alone foul language.
“You have to be exact when you’re making the formula, or she’ll get sick,” I continue.
“Okay, and what’s this bag here?” my father asks, pointing to a garbage bag.
“Oh, that’s her laundry. And some of mine. Do you mind?”
Just because I’m a mother now doesn’t mean I’m not still a kid myself. At least I’m still my parents’ kid. They should be happy I still need them—not only to babysit but also to do my laundry.
3:10 P.M.
They’re gone. Yippee! Freedom!
3:11 P.M.
Wow. It sure is quiet in my apartment without the baby. What should I do first? Should I take a nap? Should I take a long, hot shower? Should I go get some food and watch some television while eating, a meal I know won’t get interrupted with a screaming baby? God, I could do anything now that the baby is gone. The world is my oyster. This is what freedom feels like.
3:12 P.M.
Okay, I’m bored.
3:13 P.M.
Maybe I’ll just look at some photographs of the baby. Even though I brought the real thing—the baby—I still packed three rolls of photographs of her.
3:20 P.M.
I’ve looked at the three rolls of pictures that I’ve brought of the baby. Twice. I’m bored. It’s just too quiet here. I miss my baby. It’s so quiet. I have so much time to kill before going out. I’m not used to spare time. I have no idea what to do. I miss my baby.
3:30 P.M.
I call my mother. “Is she there yet?” I ask.
“Not yet. They should be arriving any minute.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll call back later.”
“Don’t worry. Just go out and have some fun. Take a nap.”
“I will, but I miss her.”
“You’ll see her in two days, and she’ll be fine.”
I hang up. I don’t feel so fine.
8 P.M.
What is wrong with me? I’ve wanted to go out and party with my friends for months now. I had one plan for tonight—to drink! And now the time is here and I just want to stay in. Even though I had a short nap, I’m exhausted and I could really use more sleep. Still, I force myself to shower and get dressed, and for the first time since I gave birth, I actually try to look good. I straighten my hair and everything. I wear black, because black is slimming and I know my friends will be checking to see what my body looks like. No matter what anyone says, people are always checking out your body, especially after you have a baby.
9:15 P.M.
After calling my mother three more times to make sure the baby is still alive, I meet my single friends—Lena, Heather, and Stacy—at a bar. Sitting down, I go to pull out some lip gloss. Instead, I pull out a pacifier and it makes me miss my baby even more. Why am I here?
I tried to ask my friends if we could meet earlier, but they laughed. How is it possible that at one time I didn’t even leave the house to go out until 11 P.M., and now when friends ask me to meet at 9 P.M. I think that’s, like, unheard of? Who the hell can stay up and go out at 9 P.M?
11:30 P.M.
I’m back at home. I am not drunk. Something happened to me after I drank one glass of wine. I realized I didn’t really want to get drunk. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did want to get drunk, but I couldn’t fathom being hungover tomorrow. I may miss drinking, but I don’t miss hangovers. What has happened to me? I also didn’t bring any photographs of the baby with me. Not that I didn’t have a hundred of them in my house, but I thought that my single, nonmother friends would be bored if I handed out photos of my child. It’s such a stereotype of new mothers to show off photos. And I didn’t want to be one of those mothers who only talks about her baby and passes out photographs to people who pretend to be interested but aren’t really, like when people hand out photos of their vacations.
Of course, everyone wanted to see a picture of the baby. You just can’t win being a mother who’s trying to be cool. But I now think that the only thing worse than bringing pictures of your baby is not bringing pictures of your baby. I make a mental note to always keep at least one photograph of the baby in my bag.
It was fun to be with my friends but weird being at a bar. There really are a lot of single people in the world. I was happy that I wasn’t one of them, wanting to meet a man, to get into a potential relationship. It seems like a lot of work. But it also made me sad that I was too tired to continue on with them to another bar.
I know they were thinking that I’ve changed. I have. It bothers me too that I was too tired to continue the night out. But it bothers me more to know that they’re thinking that I’ve changed. If that makes sense.
January 9
5 P.M.
I’ve only called my mother seventeen times in the past twenty-four hours. Apparently, the baby is a “joy” and “having the time of her life.”
I call Heather. We have plans to meet for drinks later.
“So what time are we meeting?” she asks.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” I say.
“You’re not bailing, are you?” Heather asks.
“I have to. The baby has a fever! I can’t leave her.”
“I’m sorry. Is she okay?”
“I hope so,” I say, sounding worried.
/> “Well, okay. I guess I’ll speak to you later.” Heather only sounded slightly pissed. But what could I do? The baby had a fever!
Okay, there is no fever. The baby is just fine and not even with me. She’s still at my parents’ house. It’s just that I want to see the finale of this reality television show I’ve been glued to for weeks. And I am so tired. Again, I wonder what has happened to me. When did being by myself become more fun than going out to a bar with my friends?
January 10
1 P.M.
The baby should be back by now. My parents said they’d be dropping her off at one.
1:01 P.M.
Okay, where’s my baby?
1:04 P.M.
They said they’d drop her off at 1 P.M.! They are four minutes late! Where the hell are they? I miss my baby. I can’t wait to see her. I’m practically salivating at the thought of seeing the baby, who I haven’t seen in two days. It seems like two months since I last saw her.
1:10 P.M.
Where the fuck are they?
1:14 P.M.
They’re here! They’re here! My baby is here! I immediately pick up the baby, who is just waking up after falling asleep on the car ride.
“I missed you!” I say, kissing her all over her face, like, a thousand times. “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you! I’m never going to leave you again!”
1:35 P.M.
My parents are gone. What the hell am I supposed to do with the baby all afternoon? I miss Nanny Mimi. But at least my parents did my laundry. Maybe I should have asked them to bring her back later in the day.
1:40 P.M.
I know, shopping! My shopping habits have changed drastically since I had the baby. Because I haven’t lost all the baby weight, I refuse to buy anything for myself. I’ve decided that when I get back down to my normal weight, I’m going to buy myself a whole new wardrobe. So now, instead of shopping for myself, I shop until I drop—for the baby. It’s funny, but I get the same high shopping for her that I do when I shop for me.
At Baby Gap, a saleswoman wants to help me. “Oh, he’s so cute!” she coos.
“Well, he’s a she,” I tell her. I’m a little offended. Why couldn’t she tell my baby was a girl? She’s dressed head to toe in friggin’ pink!
“Oh, I’m so sorry. My sister had a baby, and she didn’t get hair until she was three years old.”
Three years old? No way. My baby was getting hair sooner than that!
January 11
9 A.M.
The baby wakes up and I realize I’m nearly out of formula. I have to go out and buy some. Luckily, there’s a grocery store within walking distance. I put her in her stroller. She wails. I get her a bottle. She calms down. I put a blanket on her. She wails. I get her pacifier and stick it into her mouth. I put a hat on her head. She wails. I grab a doll and put it in her arms. She calms down. I race into my room and grab a coat and put it on over my pajamas. I give her a toy. She wails. She’s finished her formula, and I make her another bottle with the remaining few ounces. Finally, I get out the door. Preparation time to leave house to go buy formula: twenty-eight minutes. Time to get to the store and back: fifteen minutes.
11 A.M.
I’m going to meet Sara and her baby for lunch at their house. Maybe this is what everyone calls a playdate? Of course, my baby doesn’t really move, and neither does Sara’s baby, so…well, I just know there isn’t going to be much playing going on.
A lady stops me in my lobby on our way out.
“What a cute little boy you have. How old is he?”
“Actually,” I say, “she’s a she. And she’s fourteen weeks old.”
“Oh, sorry!”
Again, my baby is dressed head to toe in pink. She has a pink blanket on her, and pink booties. Do people actually think that I would dress a baby boy in head-to-toe pink?
Much to my dismay, my baby is bald, bald, bald. Even I can’t help but admit she kind of does look like a boy. Which is why I always dress her in head-to-toe pink!
4 P.M.
I need to take a shower, which is something I hadn’t thought of before. Not the taking-a-shower part, but how exactly I am supposed to take a shower when I’m alone with the baby. I have just gotten used to showering when Nanny Mimi is around. The baby is sound asleep in her crib, and I don’t want to wake her. What if she wakes up while I’m in the middle of shampooing my hair? Then again, what if she doesn’t? I’m going to take a shower. I need to take a shower because tonight Vivian is hosting the baby party. I figure the odds of the baby not waking up—50 percent—are pretty good. I make sure all the doors and windows are locked, in case some crazy freak tries to kidnap the baby while I’m showering. I check on her one more time.
I jump into the shower before the water even has a chance to get hot. I soap my body in about fifteen seconds. Just as I put the shampoo into my hair, I swear I hear the baby wailing. I stick my head out of the shower curtain. Silence. Great, now I’m hearing baby screams even when she’s sound asleep. I put conditioner in my hair before I even rinse out all the shampoo. Total shower time: four minutes, twelve seconds. I can’t even enjoy a shower anymore for fear that she’ll wake up and I won’t get to her within thirty seconds. The Fiancé is right. The baby is a dictator.
6 P.M.
My friend Lena has stopped by to visit the baby before we head over to Vivian’s, where a dozen or so of our friends are gathering for our baby party. Is it awful of me to wonder whose baby will be cuter, Vivian’s or mine? It is, I know. I force myself to stop thinking that.
“I’ve brought her a gift,” Lena says, handing over a six-pack of chocolate pudding when she walks into my apartment.
“Um, thanks,” I say. “But you do know the only thing she eats is formula? Babies don’t eat solids until they are, like, six months, and even then I’m not sure if they eat chocolate pudding.”
“Oh.” Of course Lena wouldn’t know this. She is not a mother.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll eat them. Don’t worry. I love pudding,” I tell her.
I ask Lena which shirt makes me look less fat. She picks out the green one.
Lena won’t admit that I’m chunky. She’s nice that way. Sometimes friends shouldn’t tell you the truth, even when you try to force them to.
Vivian’s party is super-fun. My baby is passed around like a joint, everyone taking turns holding her. I feel proud. While some of my friends are holding my baby, I head outside for a cigarette. I don’t really smoke anymore, but a few friends are going out for a butt and I want to be with them and I really think I missed smoking. I smoke quickly and get dizzy, since I’m no longer used to it. Great. Just another thing that’s changed. I’m no longer a smoker. Okay, this is a good thing.
I head back inside and hear my baby crying. I feel awful. I went out for a cigarette, and now my baby is crying. And I reek of smoke. What kind of mother am I?
Still, the party has proved, at least to me, that you can still have fun with your friends at a perfectly reasonable hour, you know, before nine o’clock at night. The only bad thing is that Vivian, who had her baby only weeks before me, is already back into her pre-pregnancy jeans. In fact, she looks skinnier that she did before she even got pregnant. And that makes me feel bad. And what I mean by feeling bad is feeling fat.
January 12
2 P.M.
Ronnie has left her kids with her nanny and stops by my place to see my baby. We decide to go out for a walk.
“Is she crossed-eyed?” she asks me, holding the baby.
“What?”
“She looks a bit crossed-eyed. I have the name of a really good doctor if you want to check it out.”
I hadn’t noticed that my baby was cross-eyed. But Ronnie has always been super-paranoid about everything. If she gets a cold, she thinks she has the West Nile virus. But, still, now I’m worried that not only does my baby girl look like a boy but that she has crossed eyes!
I tell Ronnie that I’m on antidepressants. I tell her a
bout my crying fits and everything. She tells me the motherhood thing gets easier. “I promise it gets easier. I’ve been there. I know. It does get easier,” she says.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s telling the truth, like all those people who kept telling me how rewarding a baby would be. Were they telling the truth? Or is every parent a liar?
January 13
1 P.M.
We’re on the plane home and the ride is uneventful, which is great. I’ve started to realize that uneventful is a good thing. I think I remember being single, going to parties, and if nothing ever happened, I’d be disappointed. Uneventful used to be bad.
“What a cute little boy,” says the flight attendant when we take our seats.
“Actually, she’s a girl.” I say. Again, head to toe in pink, and people still think she’s a boy. What is wrong with the world?
While I’m waiting for the luggage another elderly lady tells me what a cute son I have. The Fiancé, who has met us by the baggage claim, rolls his eyes. I’ve been telling him every time someone tells me what a cute son I have, which is about three times a day now.
“Thank you,” I say to the woman. “He is cute, isn’t he?” I’m sick of telling people SHE’S A GIRL!
I don’t know. Maybe I should just be happy that people think she’s cute, period. Even if people think she’s a he.
January 15
Wiped! Page 8
