I know I’m going to have to get used to going in Pee Pools now. What choice do I have? It’s not like my baby can go in the pool alone. She’d drown. In any case, she has already peed on me. A little pee never killed anyone. I don’t think. But the Pee Pool is not just about having pee in the pool. After I took the baby out of the pool, and got her out of her swimmers and regular diaper, which, filled with water, weighed about a hundred pounds, I saw that she had also pooed while we were in the Pee Pool. Take it from me, if you don’t have kids, stay away from baby pools. Pee is the least of your worries.
February 11
On our last night here in Maui before the Fiancé returns home, we decide to take the baby out for dinner. On paper it was a good plan, and the baby was sound asleep in her car seat when we arrived at the restaurant. But, now that we’ve been seated, the Fiancé and I are more than slightly disturbed while overhearing a conversation at the table next to us.
I’ve always been an eavesdropper—I love listening in on other people’s conversations. It’s especially fun when you know that the couple at the table next to you are on a first date. You get to guess if the date is going well or not and if they’re going to end up having sex later that night.
But, unfortunately, we are not seated next to a couple out on a first date. We are seated next to a family of four. This is the conversation we overhear, between the parents and their two kids, who looked about age four and six.
“So, let’s go through the highlights and lowlights of our day,” says the father, in the same serious tone I remember my teachers using when I was in high school. “I’ll go first. My highlight was getting a good checkup from my doctor. My lowlight was not being able to finish the garden like I had hoped to.”
“My turn, my turn!” says the four-year-old boy. “My highlight is going for dinner. My lowlight was school.”
“Are you listening to this?” I ask the Fiancé quietly. He looks cranky. Which means, yes, he’s been listening.
“My turn now,” says the six-year-old girl. “My highlight of the day was going over to Katie’s house. My lowlight was not having a long recess.”
Is this what happens when you become parents? Your conversations with your children become truly and utterly boring? Is there some sort of book on the New York Times bestseller list that advises parents to ask their children what the “highlights” and “lowlights” of their day were?
I leave the restaurant feeling full but depressed. I wonder if Julie Aigner-Clark has such boring conversations with her children when they eat dinner. Does Reese Witherspoon talk to her kids like that? I mean, isn’t there anything more interesting to talk about with your children than taking turns announcing the highlights and lowlights of your day? It just seems, so, well, so not spontaneous, so rehearsed.
After putting the baby to bed, the Fiancé and I, because he’s leaving tomorrow, have good-bye sex. Afterward, when we’re lying together intimately, I ask him, as a joke, “So, what was your highlight of the day?”
“This,” he says, grabbing my breast.
“And your lowlight?”
“That awful conversation we had to listen to over dinner. Please, never ever ask me again what the highlight and lowlight of my day was.”
“You won’t have to ask me twice.”
February 12
The Fiancé has left and I’m already a little lonely. I cried saying good-bye to him. The baby just doesn’t have the same conversational skills as the Fiancé. She has no conversational skills.
I take the baby for a walk on a path along the beach, where I run into a woman holding a baby who looks about the same age as my daughter. “Oh, he’s so cute,” I say to the woman. “How old is he?” Now whenever I see another mother with a baby, I always ask how old her baby is. Now I understand what it’s like to be in some sort of Mommy Club. Because we all have at least one thing in common—babies. When I’m with my baby, I can’t pass another mother with a baby anymore without looking at her and her baby, or having her look at me and ask me about my baby. (Okay, I admit, I also check out whose baby is cuter. My baby always wins, hands down.)
“He’s four months,” the woman answers.
“I love his outfit,” I say, even though it’s not really anything special. It’s just that there’s only so much you can say to a mother you’ve just meet, after asking how old her child is and what its name is. I know her baby is a boy because he’s wearing blue socks. When you have a bald baby girl who is always mistaken for a “little man,” you learn to look for the telling signs of a baby’s gender. It usually always comes down to socks. Pink socks = girl. Blue socks = boy. Always, always look at the socks.
“Oh, my husband dressed him today. I hate when my husband dresses him because he doesn’t know how to match clothing,” the woman moans.
“Oh,” I say, though I haven’t noticed that her baby doesn’t match. In fact, I think he matches just fine. When did blue and beige stop matching? And why does this mother care so much that her four-month-old baby doesn’t match?
I barely dressed my baby. She is wearing only a onesie, because I was too lazy to throw anything else on top. What would be the point? She’s just a baby. She should be comfortable. I can only imagine what this woman is thinking about my baby’s outfit, or, rather, her non-outfit.
“So, how old is your son?” the woman asks me. Now I want to hurt her. I do not like this woman.
“She’s a girl,” I say pointedly. I know this stranger is thinking, “Thank God my son has hair.” I just know it.
At least I’m not the kind of mother who complains about how her husband dresses their baby. I never want to be that kind of mother. Or the kind of mother who asks her child what “the highlight and lowlight” of her day was. Or the kind of mother who…There are so many kinds of mothers I don’t want to be. I just have to figure out what kind of mother I do want to be.
February 13
Heather calls on my cell phone, while the baby is napping and I’m sitting by the pool under an umbrella. I’m happy to hear from her because lately I’ve realized I haven’t heard from very many of my single friends, who are obviously too busy trying to meet men, working, and feeling like productive members of society.
Many of my friends think it’s strange that I could take the baby and be apart from the Fiancé for so long.
“So doesn’t he miss the baby?” Heather asks.
“Of course!” I answer. I’ve grown to hate this question. I hate when people assume that I’m being a bad person because I’m not spending all my time with the Fiancé and have also taken the baby away from him. But I’m not sure if it’s entirely true that he misses the baby. Yes, the Fiancé’s back at work, which must suck. But he gets the condo all to himself, he can go out with friends, and he doesn’t have me around asking, “When are you going to be home?” and “Does my hair look thinner?” and “Does my ass look fat?” He doesn’t have to worry about getting woken up at 3:30 A.M. to give the baby a bottle. He doesn’t have to change any diapers. He can go out, drink up, and have a hangover without worrying about waking up to take care of a baby. From my view, he has it pretty good being apart from us.
And the truth is, babies at four months are kind of boring, like they are at three months, and two months, and one month, and one week.
Sure, babies are cute. But they don’t do much. They eat, sleep, pee, and poo. You feed them, you watch them sleep, you dress them, you bathe them, and you change their diapers. It’s not like babies can play chess with you or talk about current events. It’s not like babies can discuss politics or tell you they like your hair better in a bun. Of course, I don’t tell people that babies are boring. No one wants to hear that babies are boring, even though they are.
Plus, I’m the one who had to carry the baby around for nine months. Don’t I deserve a vacation, albeit a vacation with a baby, which is not exactly a vacation per se? And it was really boring being back at home, in the cold weather. Sometimes back home the weather w
as so bitterly cold that we couldn’t even leave the house. (A positive of living in Canada is a long maternity leave. The negative is very long, cold winters.) It was like we were being held hostage. At least now I don’t have to spend eight hours bundling her up before we can go outside. It’s so much easier throwing her into a sundress than putting on pants, a onesie, a shirt, a jacket, hat, and mittens. Getting the baby dressed in Maui takes two minutes. And she can spend most of her time nearly naked, save for her diaper. After the peeing-on-Mommy incident, I don’t let her go diaperless for more than one minute.
February 14
I take the baby for a walk. I cover her legs with a blanket and make sure the top of the stroller is all the way down, covering her face, so not one millimeter of sun can touch her body. The heat tires her out, and just like I do back at home, I make up destinations for us so we can kill time. We go to Blockbuster and rent movies (for me). We go to bookstores and buy books (for me). We go grocery shopping. If I have a craving for a slurpie, that turns into an afternoon destination. The most menial tasks—hey, I think we need garbage bags, and one day I’ll need more toilet paper—can turn into a whole-afternoon time killer.
A day with a baby can be very long if you don’t make plans. I now understand why my friend Sara, who gave birth just weeks after me, is busier than she ever was when she was working. She makes daily plans nonstop for her and her child, just to keep busy and kill the time.
6 P.M.
Come six o’clock each and every night, I become really energized. Mostly, this is because I know the day is coming to an end. I count down the minutes until I can put the baby to sleep. Because she’s always in so much fresh air here in Maui and spends a lot of time splashing in the pool, she’s exhausted by the end of the day and sleeps soundly and—yippee!—through the night. I know that come 7:30 P.M. when I put her in her crib, my “work” for the day is done. Did I once count down to getting out of the office like this? I don’t think so. Or maybe I did. I don’t remember what it’s like to work anymore. I do know that I really enjoy those two hours by myself, watching television or reading a book in peace, once the baby is put down. By the way, I really hate the phrase “put down” when it refers to putting kids to sleep. It reminds me of “putting a dog down.” And you know what that means. But it just comes out.
February 21
My parents were in Maui for a week and just left. Along with visiting parents comes a shitload of cameras. They even brought a video camera to take “action shots” of the baby. Which is kind of ridiculous. Because the baby’s only “actions” are rolling over and sitting up. I’m not exactly sure when she began sitting up by herself. Mostly all I remember of the week with my parents is them saying, “Pose with the baby!” or “Take a picture of me with the baby!” I also remember a lot of “Maybe she needs a diaper change,” “Maybe she needs to eat,” “Maybe you should put a jacket on her.”
It’s hard for me to get mad at my parents, who clearly care so much about their first grandchild. That’s not to say they didn’t get on my nerves with all their “constructive criticisms.” At least I know it’s not just the in-laws who have the power to bug me. But, on the other hand, it was nice to have two extra sets of hands to help out with the baby.
I also noticed that my parents spoil my baby rotten. I don’t care about people spoiling babies. Hey, you’re supposed to spoil babies. It makes you feel good. It’s just that my parents never spoiled me when I was growing up, so it’s weird for me to see them shelling out money for toys and puzzles and clothes for my daughter, without thinking twice about what they’re spending. Why weren’t they so generous to me when I was a child? I’ve heard that some grandparents love their grandchildren more than their own children; probably this is because they don’t have to deal with them 24/7. I can’t help but feel, sometimes, that this is true in my case. If Baby Rowan even looked longingly at a stuffed animal, they’d buy it for her, even though she already has 253 stuffed toys.
I was sad to see my parents go. Mostly because now I’m alone with the baby again, which means hours and hours a day of making up stuff to do, and no more adult conversation. I’m happy, however, that when my parents left, so did the video camera. I’m just not ready to be seen on film quite yet. I don’t want any lasting memories of these fat months.
February 23
Nanny Mimi arrived yesterday. Yay! Adult conversation again! I’m getting more comfortable with Nanny Mimi, and I hope she’s getting more comfortable with me. And, truth be told, it is a hell of a lot easier having Nanny Mimi around than being alone. She wanted to share a room with the baby, and there was no argument from me. In fact, since Nanny Mimi arrived, I’ve gotten to sleep in. When I get up, Baby Rowan is already dressed and ready to go. (When looking for a nanny, always ask if they are morning people.) Nanny Mimi will take her for long walks, and I’ll be left on my own. I get to work out, take naps, read books, and lie in the sun.
It’s weird having Nanny Mimi as a roommate. I mean, she sees me in my pajamas and I see her in hers. I kind of like it. It brings me back to the days of university. Of course, I’m paying Nanny Mimi, and I never paid any of my university roommates. But at least Nanny Mimi can partake in conversation. And that’s a refreshing break from my usual one-sided talk with the baby, which goes something like “Are you hungry? Do you need a diaper change?” and “You’re cute.” I get no response from the baby.
March 2
The time has come for Nanny Mimi to leave. She’s happy to be leaving. This is not because she doesn’t love the baby or Maui, a place she’d never been to before, or because she hates me. She’s happy to be leaving because she confided to me she has a serious boyfriend. She loves him, and they hate spending time apart. Who knew? I had no idea that Nanny Mimi had a love life. Which is ridiculous of me. Of course she has her own life outside of our home. Of course she should have a boyfriend. Why shouldn’t she? She’s an attractive, kind, grown woman. A woman I know once told me that it’s always better to get a nanny who doesn’t have many friends or a boyfriend, because then you know they’ll always be available when you need them. But I’m happy to learn Nanny Mimi has a boyfriend. Now I have another woman in my life to complain to about relationships.
March 4
The Fiancé, thanks to one of his friends who once spent time in Maui with his children, found a nanny service in Maui. He had been bothering me about getting a part-time nanny once Nanny Mimi and my parents left, even if only for a couple of hours a day. He didn’t think I could handle being with the baby 24/7, day after day after day. I was a little offended when he suggested this to me. I know he was worried about my depression. But I told him of course I could manage to be with my own baby by myself for a few weeks. Stay-at-home mothers do it all the time. Who did he think I was? Some bad mother who was incapable of taking care of a baby? Did he think that I couldn’t handle hanging out with my own baby? I love my baby.
Okay, he was kind of right. Being alone with a baby, for days on end, can be exhausting. And boring, especially with no friends around. I mean, there are only so many trips you can make to Blockbuster before you realize you’ve seen all the movies you’ve wanted to see and some you don’t.
Also, when I’m alone with the baby, I can’t work out. For some reason, she doesn’t find it fun to sit in her car seat while watching me run on a treadmill. Go figure. I can’t work out when she’s asleep because I’m always too worried that as soon as I start, she’ll wake up. Which always seems to happen. She could be sound asleep in her car seat, and I will have just put on my workout clothes and running shoes, and that’s exactly when she’ll wake up. It’s like Murphy’s law or something. I certainly don’t feel comfortable with her sleeping while I do laps in the pool. What if she starts screaming and I’m underwater?
So I give in and call the number of the highly recommended nanny service and tell them that I’m looking for a nanny for three hours every morning. I tell them I want someone outgoing, because Nanny Mimi is
very outgoing and the more happier, noncynical people the baby is around, the better.
I can work out, attend spin classes at a nearby gym, and do some water-aerobic classes too. The nanny starts tomorrow.
I know I am fully capable of taking care of my baby. But there’s nothing wrong with some alone time either, is there? That’s what I’m telling myself.
March 5
A very sweet older woman shows up at my door at 8 A.M. exactly, introduces herself, and immediately picks up the baby. The agency has done background checks on all the nannies they employ. This nanny tells me she’s raised two kids and has two grandchildren, whom she often takes care of. I take this as a good sign. If she’s a mother and a grandmother, then she knows how this whole keeping-a-baby-alive thing works. But I feel awful leaving the baby for the first time with this woman I’ve just met. How much do I really know about her? I explain what the baby needs to eat and when. I show her where the diapers and supplies are. I leave her my cell phone number in case of an emergency. What’s the worst that can happen? The baby could scream for three hours, I suppose. Or she could sleep for three hours. Who knows? Like I said, there’s no rhyme or reason to this kid.
All I know is that I have a spin class to get to. My ass isn’t getting any smaller while I sit around worrying about leaving my baby. After hiding out, spying on them from behind a tree through a window for a few minutes, I leave. I’m not the type of woman who would get a secret camera put in a doll to spy on a nanny, but I will hide out behind a tree for a few minutes. I’m only human after all.
Noon
When I get back, the baby is napping soundly in her crib. I find the sweet older nanny lying on the couch watching my Sex and the City DVDs. I’m not sure how I feel about this. She just looks so, um, comfortable in my condo, almost like a teenager lounging around after school. Of course, the baby is sleeping, so what else is this nanny supposed to do? But who knew that sixty-five-year-old nannies could appreciate the humor of Sex and the City? I’m just thankful I didn’t find this woman in my washroom, taking a bubble bath and drinking a glass of wine. Could you imagine?
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