I think it’s time for me to get new clothes and new shoes. The Fiancé is nattering away about something, so I can’t escape into my daydream about coming home with twelve bags of clothes and five shoe boxes.
“Hello? Earth to Beck! That thing over there. Are we taking it or not?” the Fiancé whispers again.
We are, if you haven’t figured out, in the baby’s room. The baby is sound asleep. We do not want the baby to wake up, because we want to go to bed ourselves soon. There is nothing worse than finally getting into bed, only to have the baby wake up. Nothing.
“You mean the Diaper Genie?” I whisper. “Of course we’re taking it.” Duh.
“Oh. Why are we taking it? Have we even used it yet?” he asks.
I look at him like he’s crazy, but I don’t think he can see my expression in the dark room. “No, we haven’t used it yet,” I whisper.
“So, why are we taking it, then?” he asks.
“Because we just are,” I say, slightly annoyed. I always get slightly irritated when I’m reminded of, or asked about, the Diaper Genie. That damn useless Diaper Genie I’ve become so attached to seeing.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll take it. If you insist.”
“I insist. We’re not going to have a garbage chute anymore, you know. We might need it,” I explain. “Or else we’ll be running out to the garage with the baby’s dirty diapers seventeen times a day.”
I’ve long given up trying to figure out how the stupid Diaper Genie works. But that doesn’t mean I want it out of my life entirely. The Diaper Genie has become something akin to a birthmark. You might have hated it growing up, but it becomes a defining part of you as you get older, so you don’t want to get rid of it. Plus, like I said, we’re not going to have a garbage chute at our new house.
“Okay, but it seems silly to take it with us if we haven’t used it and we’ve had it for more than a year,” the Fiancé says. “Are you sure?” God, he can be such a lawyer.
“I will figure out how to use it,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “I will.”
“Sure, Beck. Sure you will. And you’ll also start putting the cap back on the toothpaste and stop leaving wet towels on the bed.”
“I will!” I say loudly.
“Shh! You don’t want to—”
“I know, I know, wake the baby.”
“Let’s go to bed. We’ve done enough, I think. Ah, thank God, the Dictator is still asleep,” he says. We’ve been calling the baby “the Dictator” more and more often, because as she gets older, she gets more and more demanding. Yes, it’s all about her. We are her slaves.
I am very tired. It’s been a long day.
But we’re finally moving. We found a house that both the Fiancé and I could agree on. Meaning the architecture is modern (which the Fiancé wanted) and I got good vibes from walking around the house when the real estate agent showed it to us. Which surprised even me after we found out why the owners were selling the beautiful house, and wanted it to sell quickly. They were going through a nasty divorce, according to our real estate agent. They wanted to split the money from the sale of the house and get it over with, the quicker the better. (I also try not to think that the Fiancé and I are a lot like Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Pitt was all about the aesthetics of their house, and Jen just wanted a comfortable couch to sit on. And we all know how that marriage turned out, don’t we?)
But the Fiancé and I will not turn out to be just another Brad and Jennifer. So what if another couple ended their marriage in this house? We’re not even married yet.
Our new house has four bedrooms, four washrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a finished basement with a fifth washroom/shower and bedroom. It’s definitely a house you could raise more than one child in.
I did not mention this little fact to the Fiancé during the buying process. I know the suggestion that we might want to make our family bigger isn’t something the Fiancé would like to hear.
It’s because of the Dictator—and all her crap—that we had to move to a bigger place in the first place. The Fiancé could have happily lived in his very male-decorated condo for the rest of his life, if it weren’t for the Dictator.
Another great thing about this house, aside from the fact we can now throw all of the Dictator’s toys into the basement, so they’re out of sight and out of mind, is the fact that the Dictator will not be in the room beside us, separated only by a glass door, as she has been since she was born. Sure, being separated by only a glass door means we have easy access to her. But it also means that if she even turns over in her sleep, sneezes, or moans, we can hear her. Needless to say, the Fiancé and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in, um, well, since the baby was born a year and three months ago. Not that I’m counting or anything.
In our new home, there are three doors separating her bedroom from ours. Yippee! Of course, the Fiancé and I will never close any of those doors, because we do need to hear the baby crying out at night. We’re not that cruel. It’s just nice knowing we have the option. It’s like having the option to do all your banking online. You might not feel comfortable doing it, but it’s nice knowing that if you want to, you could.
After two months of renovations—making the kitchen area a little larger, getting new marble countertops, new wooden floors, upstairs carpeting, and new appliances—we are now ready to actually move in to the house, which we tell ourselves will never look like Romper Room, the way our condo had begun to look, because we have so much more room.
We hired a decorator, who did a fabulous job. She had wonderful ideas, which were sometimes very extravagant. I said, “Uh, thanks but no thanks!” to the chandelier she suggested for the Dictator’s room. It was a beautiful chandelier, no doubt about it. It was also eight thousand dollars. No doubt about it, there was no way we were going to shell out eight thousand dollars for a chandelier…especially for the baby’s room. The Fiancé agreed 100 percent. What kind of one-year-old, who loves putting two fingers in her nostrils as a joke, needs an eight-thousand-dollar chandelier in her bedroom? We are definitely not a royal family, though the Fiancé has started to call the baby “Princess” as a term of affection. (I am only slightly miffed that he has started to use this pet name for the Dictator. He had been calling me “Princess” forever. I just don’t think there is any non-psychotic way I can bring it up. What could I say? “You used to call only me ‘Princess,’ but it seems you call everyone you know ‘Princess’ now”? I’ve even heard him call his mother “Princess.”)
Anyway, we have now spent an incredibly long day packing. For us, that means throwing a lot of clothes and books into garbage bags. Hey, whatever works, right? The movers will do the rest.
I hear the Fiancé brushing his teeth and getting into bed as I check on the baby one more time, to make sure she’s still breathing, a habit that I haven’t broken yet. I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad habit, like smoking, which I have, mostly, quit. The baby looks so peaceful when she sleeps. It almost erases any of the bad thoughts I had about her while I was trying to get her to sleep only hours ago. I leave her room with a warm feeling in my heart. Sleeping babies have that effect on you. You love them a lot when they’re sleeping.
I wash my face and brush my teeth. The lights are still on when I walk into our bedroom and sit on the bed. The Fiancé is already under the covers. First I take off my grungy packing clothes, starting with my army pants and ratty T-shirt. Then I take off my bra and underwear.
I once was so embarrassed for the Fiancé to see me getting undressed. It’s funny how things change. Maybe it’s because the Fiancé has now seen me at my very worst (with the catheter bag hanging from me after my C-section, never a pleasant sight).
I’ve noticed that he’s definitely more used to doing things he once considered private in front of me. Yesterday, for example, he clipped his toenails in bed. I wasn’t as grossed out as I thought I would—and should—be. It actually felt kind of nice, realizing he now felt that relaxe
d around me. Unless clipping his toenails in front of me means he really no longer cares what I think about him. Argh!
I will not be paranoid.
“Nice,” the Fiancé says, laughing. I turn to look at him and see he’s gawking at my ass. It’s all right by me for him to gawk at my ass and say “Nice.” But it’s most certainly not all right for him to gawk at my ass, say “Nice,” and then break into laughter.
“What? Please don’t make fun of my ass,” I moan to him. I’m in no mood for any stupid ass comments or jokes—or any discussion about my ass for any reason whatsoever. I don’t want to go on and on about my ass, but it still isn’t the same as it was pre-pregnancy, when I used to participate in at least three spin classes a week.
Nowadays my butt is much closer to looking like a pancake than melons. I should really, really start getting back into spin classes. It’s just that I’m always so tired. I’m starting to think that my friend who had said my ass would never be the same after having a baby was right.
The Fiancé won’t stop laughing.
“What is so funny about my ass? Tell me!” I demand.
“You have two Cheerios stuck to your left cheek,” he says, and hoots, as if this is funnier than any movie starring Vince Vaughn.
“What? Where?” I ask, reaching my hand around to feel my butt. He’s right. I peel off two Cheerios and look at them with awe.
It’s astonishing where baby food ends up.
How did two Cheerios get from the baby’s high-chair tray into the back of my underwear, sticking to my ass the entire day? I only remember the baby eating Cheerios at breakfast.
And that’s not the only thing.
Yesterday I found a sticker on my left boob when I got undressed for bed.
Earlier in the evening the Dictator and I were playing sticker book, where she points to a sticker and I give her the sticker and she puts it in a book. But how did a sticker of a balloon manage to get stuck on my boob, which not only was under my bra but under a shirt too? It’s just so odd.
“Come on! It’s pretty funny, Beck,” says the Fiancé, chortling as one can only chortle when one is not the one with Cheerios stuck to one’s butt. In principle, since the Fiancé has way hairier butt cheeks, the Cheerios should be sticking to his ass, not mine. My ass is really smooth (the one thing it has going for it these days).
“Shut up!” I say.
I like Cheerios. And I am already in bed. What else am I supposed to do with them? I pop them into my mouth.
“You didn’t seriously eat them, did you?” the Fiancé asks.
“Yup!”
There’s nothing wrong with eating a food that you find on your own behind. That’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.
December 23
9 P.M.
When I think about it, I realize that a lot has changed very quickly over the past couple of months. Not only did we find a new house, but the baby has learned to walk. She is still slightly unsteady, but she’s definitely walking. While I don’t always walk beside her, I’m definitely always going, “OW, OOH, EEE, watch it!” whenever I’m around her. She falls often. I try not to make a big deal out of it when she falls, but sometimes I think she’s very close to giving me a heart attack. It’s almost enough for me to wish for the days when all she knew how to do was sit. But I do kind of like that I don’t have to hold her every minute of the day.
Babies are more durable than I’d ever imagined. Sometimes, when she falls and hits her head, I expect her to scream and cry so loud that social services will hear her and come take her away. But even though the bang on her head echoes throughout the house, I swear, she actually giggles. She can smack her head on the corner of a glass table and not cry one tear. Then the tiniest bump into the wall can make her wail like Ozzy Osbourne in his heyday. Once again, there’s no rhyme or reason to this baby of mine.
One thing that has definitely not changed in our lives, however, is the baby’s bottles. She’s still using the same bottles and nipples we bought for her before she was born, during our whirlwind “let’s-get-everything-we-could-possibly-ever-need-for-the-baby-so-we-don’t-have-to-come-back-to-this-store-ever-again” shopping sprees. Which I thought was fine. But then tonight we met Tammy, her husband, and their baby, Zack, who is five months younger than the Dictator, for dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant. “What nipple is she on?” Tammy asked, out of the blue. I’ve realized that mothers can ask you anything, like “So is she breastfeeding?” or “What nipple is she on?” as easily and breezily as if they were asking you to pass the salt. No question is too personal when you’re a mother talking to another mother.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What number nipple is she using for her bottle?” Tammy asked.
“There are different-number nipples?” the Fiancé asked Tammy. Thank God, he asked exactly what I was thinking.
“Yes! Of course there are! Zack’s on nipple number three,” Tammy said. “Let me see her bottle,” she said, grabbing the Dictator’s bottle and looking at the nipple.
“Oh my God.” She laughed. “There’s only one hole in this nipple. You’re still on number one! Zack’s on number three already, and he’s five months younger!”
I grabbed Zack’s bottle and looked at the nipple, and sure enough, there were three tiny holes, as opposed to the one tiny hole in the Dictator’s nipple.
How was I supposed to know that there were different stages of nipples for bottles? Had we been starving the Dictator? No wonder it took her, like, three days to finish one bottle. I was disappointed in myself. I couldn’t figure out how to use the stupid Diaper Genie, I had postpartum depression, and I’d had no idea there were different nipples. I was clueless when it came to this mothering thing.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get some this weekend,” the Fiancé said to me quietly, sensing my distress.
“Okay,” I said, knowing that this would be one more thing we would never get around to doing. We’d just write “Buy new nipples” on our Things to Do list, which I’ll one day start.
How is it that Tammy knew about the different nipples, and I didn’t? When it comes to being a new mother, I always feel like the last person to get in on a secret.
December 24
2 P.M.
Not that I didn’t have to go shopping for things. When you’re a mother, shopping takes on a whole new meaning. Shopping—gasp!—becomes a chore.
The Fiancé and I are Jewish, so we don’t celebrate Christmas. We barely celebrate Chanukah either. But we do have to buy one very, very special Christmas present for Nanny Mimi, who is Catholic. Christmas is a big deal to her. But buying her a gift is harder than it would seem.
Nanny Mimi is definitely one of the most important people in our lives. How could she not be, when she takes care of the most important person in our lives? And, to a certain extent, we have to show our appreciation by what we buy her for Christmas. It’s not like some other kinds of jobs, where a boss can give you a better title to placate you. Unless we call her Executive Nanny. No, I don’t think that would make her any happier. She needs gifts.
The Fiancé and I had the following conversation late last night.
“So what should we get her?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither.”
“Okay. I’ll leave it up to you,” he said.
“Well, we definitely have to give her a Christmas bonus like last year.”
“Right. Do you remember how much we gave her?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Was it a thousand?” I had asked.
“I think it was $750.”
“Wait. I think it was $850, because I remember talking about it and how we thought $1,000 was too much but $750 too little,” I told him.
“Right. So how much should we give her this year, $850 again?” the Fiancé said.
“Don’t we have to give her a bit more this year?”
“Do we?”
“I don’t know. We should also get her something from the Dictator,” I said.
“So, how much should we give her if we also get her a present from the Dictator?”
“Maybe we should give her a thousand.”
“Why?”
“Because she works so hard, she’s never asked for a day off, she’s never been sick, and I trust her entirely to take care of the Dictator.”
“Right. Okay. A thousand it is.”
“Or do you think that’s too much?”
And on and on it went. Really, we spent less time talking about the car I got than we did talking about Nanny Mimi’s Christmas bonus. I wish I knew more about the etiquette of Christmas presents for nannies.
But here I am at the mall, on the worst shopping day of the year, to buy a present for a holiday we don’t even celebrate. I rush around the department store like crazy, picking out clothes I’d like for me.
I don’t want to suggest that Nanny Mimi is like Jennifer Jason Leigh in the movie Single White Female (we’re not single roommates; she’s Filipino), but I’ve noticed that her fashion has changed since she first began working for us. When I first met her, she was wearing jean overalls, very strong perfume, and her hair was in ponytails. Let’s just say that when I bought a puffy winter coat, she then bought a puffy winter coat. I started wearing my boots over my jeans, and then so did she. I had highlights. She got them too. It kind of makes me feel good though. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say. I just never imagined that it would be a nanny who imitated me. But it does make last-minute shopping a heck of a lot easier, that’s for sure. I know that whatever I like, she’ll like.
I get home exhausted.
“So, I’m just writing out Mimi’s bonus check,” the Fiancé says. His office closed early today. “What did we decide to give her again?”
“I don’t know!”
Argh!
January 4
3 P.M.
I call and tell my mother about the greatest invention since tampons and individual-size warm lava chocolate dessert cakes: the portable DVD player. It really has changed my life for the better, especially since Nanny Mimi had taken some time off (stupid Christmas holiday and all).
Wiped! Page 16
