The instructor is very nice and plays instruments for the babies. We have to sing along with her. I feel stupid, because I don’t know any of the songs, while every other mother at the class does. I guess they are regular Mommy & Me music-class goers. The Dictator doesn’t cry at all. I take that to mean she is enjoying herself.
July 27
A week later, we’re Mommy & Me music-class dropouts. The baby was sleeping this morning and I had to make a decision. Do I wake her so she can go to class, or do I let her sleep? I let her sleep, because I wanted to sleep more too. Is it worse to be a beauty-school dropout or a Mommy & Me music-class dropout? Argh. Thank God my child’s memory is zilch. I mean, it’s not like she’s going to wake up and say, “Mommy, you didn’t wake me and we missed music class today. Thanks a lot!”
I make a promise to myself to at least put on a CD and dance around the condo with her later.
August 1
The baby has started to eat real food. Though “real food” might be an exaggeration. She now eats mashed peas, mashed corn, mashed everything and anything. Nanny Mimi tells me she’s going to make homemade food for the baby, because it’s healthier. She makes it in the blender (I didn’t even know we had a blender. “I found it under the sink!” Nanny Mimi announced) and spoons the mashed food into ice-cube trays to freeze. Nanny Mimi, who must think I’m an idiot, has labeled all the trays—peas, corn, and squash. All I have to do, she explains, is microwave a couple of cubes and feed them to her.
I thank her for making all the homemade food, thinking, “Seriously, is this Little House on the Prairie or something?”
5 P.M.
“Where are you?” the Fiancé asks, calling me on my cell phone.
“I’m at the grocery store with the baby,” I answer.
“What? Why?” he asks, as if I’ve just told him I was in space. Sure, I’m no cook—not that this is something I’m proud of—but boiling a pot of water to sterilize bottles was a big deal for me. So is going to the grocery store. In fact, I go very rarely, which is why the Fiancé sounds so stunned when I tell him where I am.
“So, why exactly are you there?” he asks.
“I’m here because there’s no way I’m going to be making homemade baby food.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nanny Mimi made all this homemade baby food and she told me how to make it and I’m not going to do that. You know how I feel about blenders. They should only be used to make milkshakes. So I’m buying jars of baby food.” Even taking out frozen cubes of mashed food and putting them in the microwave seems like too much work, especially since all grocery stores offer organic everything now, including baby food. If jars of organic baby food are good enough for other babies, then they are certainly good enough for mine.
“Hey,” I say, “what time are you coming home?”
“I’ll be home when I get home.”
“So around what time?”
“As soon as I can get out of here,” he says.
He should at least be happy I’m no longer asking him if I’m fat. And yes, my hair has stopped falling out.
Now, like Ronnie warned me, I have ugly tufts of hair growing at my hairline. But at least it’s growing back in. Now, if only the Dictator’s hair will start to grow, I’ll be really happy.
7 P.M.
The Fiancé has arrived home.
“What are you doing?” he asks. I’m hiding the jars of baby food that I purchased at the grocery store in a back cupboard above the stove.
“I’m hiding the food because I don’t want Nanny Mimi to see that I’ve bought jars of baby food after she told me homemade food is better for babies and she spent so much time making it and explaining to me how to make it myself.”
“You’re ridiculous. Do you think she’ll really care?” he asks.
Maybe I am being ridiculous. But I don’t want to hurt Nanny Mimi’s feelings. I figure, on weekdays the baby will eat Nanny Mimi’s homemade food. But on weekends she’ll eat the jars of baby food. Nanny Mimi will be none the wiser.
August 15
Feeding the baby is the longest process in the world. I have little patience for feeding this baby. I’ve watched Nanny Mimi feed the baby, and sometimes they sit there for almost two hours. I don’t sit down anywhere for two hours, for any reason, except for American Idol specials. And the baby hates wearing bibs now. I’m sorry, but if you’re eating mashed blueberries and mashed squash and you’re eating it with your hands, you kind of need a bib.
The baby doesn’t understand this. So we get into battles every mealtime. But, just as she fought me over wearing sun hats in Maui, I’m still stronger than she is, and bigger too, so I always win the bib wars.
September 15
“Why is she being like that?”
“Teething!”
“Man, you’re really going to have to come up with something else soon,” the Fiancé says.
It’s true. My baby’s teeth are almost all in.
What will I blame her crankiness on next? I’ll have to come up with something.
September 17
The baby is no longer a baby. Or is she? She can walk on her own. She’s like a mini-person now. Sometimes I look at her and think, “How is it you came out of me?”
October 1
I tell the Fiancé we have to do something to celebrate the Dictator’s birthday in two weeks.
“Do we have to?” he asks. “It’s not like she understands what a birthday is.”
“I know. But it’s not really for her. It’s for your parents and our friends. I mean, we have to do something. That’s what parents do. They celebrate their kids’ birthdays and have parties.”
“Who would we invite?” he asks.
This is a good question. The baby doesn’t really have any friends. We made it to only two out of the eight Mommy & Me music classes, so, needless to say, I didn’t make any friends there and neither did the Dictator. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out,” I tell the Fiancé.
“I know what that means,” he says. “I know I’m going to have to end up doing everything.”
“Come on! It will be fun,” I say.
Or it might not be. But you have to have a birthday party. You just have to. That’s what parents do. You have a kid and you throw birthday parties for her. They’re like mini-weddings. You don’t do it necessarily for yourself. You have them to show off.
October 15
The baby is one year old today, and we’re having her birthday party. I can’t believe one year has gone by. It’s seems like the time went so fast but, at the same time, took, like, seven years.
We’re pretty sure, since she giggles looking at plants and stop signs, that she doesn’t understand what this day means. We’re pretty sure she has no idea she’s been with us for 365 days. But still. How could we pretend today is just any other day? I had made a list of people to invite. There was Tammy and Bob and their newborn. There’s my gym trainer, a single mother, who is bringing her two-year-old over (you know you’re really desperate to invite people with kids when you’re inviting your personal trainer and her kid to your daughter’s birthday party). And that’s about it for kids. (Mental note: I must make more friends with children.) We’ve also invited a number of the Fiancé’s colleagues and their wives. Basically, this one-year-old birthday party has turned into an adult cocktail party—with three kids on the invite list, one of them the birthday girl.
We hold the party at four o’clock, in hopes that people will leave by six. We’ve laid out plates of pâté and cheese and crackers.
At four o’clock the first guest arrives. It’s one of the Fiancé’s colleagues.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, opening the door for him and taking a box the size of a refrigerator he’s holding in front of him.
“It’s the baby’s birthday present,” he says, laughing, like I’m an idiot.
“No, I mean what exactly did you buy her?”
“You’ll se
e,” he says.
The Fiancé and I look at each other. It is possibly the biggest box in the world. And it’s heavy.
“What is it?” I ask again.
“Open it and you’ll see,” says the Fiancé’s colleague. I grab a knife and start ripping open the box. Inside there is a kitchen. Yes, a full-fledged plastic kitchen. My immediate thought is “Fuck, this is going to take three years to put together.” My second thought is “Where the hell are we going to put this thing?” My third thought is “Well, it is kind of cute.”
About twenty friends and relatives, plus the two kids, arrive to celebrate. As far as children’s birthday parties go, it is a success. Mostly because all the adults get tipsy. Well, at least it’s a successful cocktail party.
The three kids have a great time playing with the huge box the toy kitchen came in. We don’t even need the kitchen itself. The Fiancé’s colleague could have just bought the Dictator an empty box and she would’ve been just as happy. In fact, the Fiancé tries to convince his colleague to take the gift back. This kitchen set is bigger than the tent.
We put candles in the cake and take the absolutely must-have photo of the baby putting her hand in the cake. It has to be done. Most of the adults leave happy (that is, tipsy), and the Dictator got a crapload of gifts.
“This is great,” I tell the Fiancé once everyone has gone. “We won’t have to buy her another toy for like a year.” This is why, I’m convinced, people have birthday parties for babies who don’t understand what birthday parties are. It’s all about the presents.
“You just like the idea of presents,” the Fiancé says.
“So?”
“I’m going to kill him,” the Fiancé says of his colleague who bought the mammoth toy kitchen. “Look how big this thing is.”
“Well, the baby seems to love it,” I tell him. It’s true. After the party, the Fiancé’s father and Nanny Mimi put the new kitchen together. It takes two and a half hours.
The Fiancé sits staring at the toy kitchen with a look on his face that says, “The world is against me.”
October 16
“This is not how people live!” the Fiancé complains, walking around the condo and shaking his head. “It’s like Gymboree in here!” (I had no idea he even knew what Gymboree was. I’m impressed.)
It doesn’t bother me so much that our condo is now overrun with a mammoth toy kitchen and tents and puzzles and children’s books and swings and stuffed toy ponies and diapers and wipes. But the Fiancé is freaking out about how messy our place has become. I decide to be helpful and do some organizing.
An hour later he finds me hovering over a black duffel bag that has been sitting in our hallway for months.
“What’s that bag?” he asks.
“It’s the duffel bag from when I went to the hospital when I gave birth. I never unpacked it,” I tell him.
I can’t believe what is in the duffel bag when I ruffle through it. There are three pairs of pajamas, dozens of pairs of socks and underwear, and a hardcover book that hasn’t been cracked open. What had I been thinking, packing all that stuff? It looks like I packed to go on a vacation instead of to the hospital to have a C-section. Was I really so naïve that I thought I could read a book in the hospital right after giving birth? “I can’t believe I brought a book. What was I thinking?” I say to the Fiancé.
“We really had no idea,” the Fiancé says. “Did we?”
“No idea,” I say.
I stop looking through the bag and head to the living room to watch some television. It’s only been twelve months since I gave birth. What’s the hurry to unpack now?
October 17
The Fiancé has tripped on a jumbo-puzzle piece in the hallway.
“I can’t stand this anymore!” he yells. “We have to move!”
Our entire condo is now a playroom. The dark, masculine shades of the bachelor condo have been replaced by bright-colored toys, the ExerSaucer, the play kitchen, baby blankets, toy cars, balls of all shapes and sizes. Oh, and how could I forget? The tent. The damn tent! No longer is this place a bachelor pad. It’s Romper Room. It seems that every time I take a step, my feet land on some battery-operated toy that makes a noise. Living like this is starting to drive me crazy too.
The Dictator has really, really taken over. She’s not only taken over our lives, she’s taken over our home.
“We have to move,” the Fiancé says again. “I can’t stand it. I’m losing my mind. I’m going to start looking at houses tomorrow.”
“Yes, we have to move,” I finally agree. “Hey, if we move into a house, can I get a dog?” I love dogs.
He walks away muttering something under his breath. I think he said, “Yeah, that’s all we need.”
Sheesh. You’d think I’d just asked him if we could have another baby or something.
Ten Mommy Moments People “Forget” to Mention
1. Your baby will have a better wardrobe than you.
2. You will find Cheerios in your underwear.
3. You will still feel clueless about mothering.
4. A portable DVD player is one heck of a great invention.
5. There are professional male babyproofers. Who are hot.
6. You will be guilted into babyproofing your entire house, including your bath mat.
7. Strollers will break.
8. You will not like when others dress your baby like a mini Britney Spears.
9. Reading a newspaper will become a painful experience.
10. Your baby will hurt herself falling on her face. Or be just fine.
December 15
6 P.M.
“Where are you going?” asks the Fiancé.
“We’re going to see Santa,” I say, holding the cell to my ear while driving.
“Beck! Didn’t you just go see Santa yesterday?” the Fiancé asks.
“Yes. But you saw the photo.”
“And?”
“Well, you could practically see the snot coming out of the Dictator’s nose she was crying so hard.”
“And?”
“Well, it was a bad picture! I don’t want a picture of my child—our child—sitting on Santa’s lap with snot on her face. Do you?”
I drove to the mall only yesterday to have the baby’s photograph taken with Santa because (a) Santa can be found in an indoor mall and it’s freezing outside, and (b) getting a photo taken with Santa is something to do with the baby.
I have started to find the hours between 4 P.M. and 9 P.M., the time from when Nanny Mimi goes home to when the baby goes to bed, very l-o-n-g.
Now that the baby is actually more like a human being—she can walk, she’s starting to talk—she gets bored. She’s no longer happy playing on the bed while I watch Oprah and reruns of Friends. She needs to be moving, all the time, and I like tiring her out, because she falls asleep so much faster when she’s had an action-packed day.
I know it’s pathetic that we’re visiting Santa again, especially since we’re Jewish. But I want a picture of my child sitting smiling on Santa’s lap. Every mother needs to have her child sit on Santa’s lap, and get a photo of the experience, at least once. Plus, Santa is nondenominational, isn’t he?
The line to sit on Santa’s lap, once again, is longer than any line for any ride at Disney World. I try to remain calm and think of the positive reasons we’re here for a second time. It’ll teach the baby patience, for one. You get free candy canes (that’s for me). And one day, Santa will teach the Dictator the difference between good and bad.
After fifty-five minutes, we reach Santa. The Dictator doesn’t cry when I plop her on his lap. Well, not immediately anyway. But just as the elf is about to shoot the photo, I see the baby’s face crunch up as she holds her hands out to me. I know what’s coming and I know what she wants. She wants me. She wants me to sit on Santa’s lap too, and if I refuse, she’ll start bawling. So I also sit on Santa’s lap. The elf photographer clicks. We are finished in fifteen seconds. I look like crap i
n the photograph. In fact, we both look grumpy. The Dictator has this evil look on her face, like “Why the fuck are we here again?” And the look on my face says, “How the hell did I wind up here again?”
No worries. We’ll just come back tomorrow and try again. I’m going to keep on dragging the Dictator back, until we get the shot I’m happy with. No, I’m not obsessive. Not at all.
This must be the reason Santa Claus hits the malls December 1. It’s not that there are so many children. It’s because all parents take their children to see Santa numerous times until they get the good photograph.
We get home at 7:30 P.M. I feed and bathe the baby, and it’s bedtime. See how time flies when you have a plan?
December 19
10 P.M.
“What is that?” whispers the Fiancé.
“What is what?” I ask, also whispering.
I’m sorting through the baby’s clothes. It’s hard to see what I’m looking at and what I’m packing. The only light in the room is from a dull Elmo night-light. A birthday candle would give off more light than this night-light.
As I continue to pack, I can’t help but ask myself, somewhat bitterly, how the baby got a larger wardrobe than mine. It doesn’t seem fair. I’ve found shirts and pants that the baby has worn only once. In fact, there are items in her closet—including a really cute pink raincoat and a beautiful white knitted sweater—that still have the price tags attached and are now way too small for her. She’s growing out of clothes before she even gets a chance to wear them!
The baby also has fourteen pairs of shoes. Seriously. When did that happen? How did I allow that to happen? If anyone in this family should have fourteen pairs of shoes, it should be me. It definitely should not be a one-year-old.
Wiped! Page 15
