We first saw another couple with a portable DVD player at a restaurant. Their toddler was actually sitting quietly watching a DVD and—gasp!—the couple was doing the impossible. They were eating! We knew that we had to get one. We like to eat when we go to out to, um, eat. So we bought one and have since taken the portable DVD player to many, many restaurants and plopped it on tables. The Fiancé and I have actually had real uninterrupted conversations at restaurants while the Dictator sucks on a sippy cup or a bottle and watches her DVDs. In fact, last night, the Fiancé, the Dictator, and I met Tammy, her husband, and Baby Zack for dinner. Zack watched his Bob the Builder DVD on his own portable DVD player and Rowan watched Dora the Explorer on her portable DVD player. It’s kind of like having a babysitter for forty-five minutes, without having to pay anything.
Other parents who see us eating always come up and ask us about the DVD player, where we got it, and then profess it’s such a great idea that they’re going to get one. Young waiters and senior citizens stop by our table and ask what the portable DVD player is. I am so pleased with the results of the portable DVD player (not only can we have conversations, but the Dictator is too distracted watching DVDs to pour all the salt and pepper out of their shakers onto the table) that I want to spread the news about them, like juicy gossip.
“You should get one for Michael!” I say excitedly to my mother. Michael is my older brother, who lives in Israel. He’s planning to visit my parents with his baby and wife soon. (Hey, it’s only a twelve-hour flight. They’re not going to need to distract their baby at all! Yes, I’m being sarcastic.)
“I told him about them. But he doesn’t believe in them,” my mother tells me.
“Doesn’t believe in them! What’s not to believe in?” I ask, shocked. “So what, then? He believes he’s going to read books to his baby for twelve hours? That’s so ridiculous,” I scoff.
“He refuses to even let me buy one for him as a present,” my mother says.
I mean, not believing in God or right-wing politicians is one thing. But how could somebody not believe in portable DVD players? I feel like I don’t know my brother at all.
I should really know by now that you can never, ever, assume what people believe in, and what they don’t, when it comes to how they want to raise their children.
January 6
11 A.M.
I have to keep reminding myself that our new home, which we have finally entirely moved in to, is a grown-up house. I tell myself I will not allow the Dictator to put stickers on the fridge in the new house like I let her at the old condo. Another thing I have to remind myself of is that we now have two flights of stairs. It’s not a lot of stairs for us. But it’s definitely a lot of stairs for the Dictator, who, after all, only recently learned to walk and hasn’t ever been around stairs before.
“We need to get this place babyproofed,” I tell the Fiancé. He’s at the stove making us eggs. He’s still on winter vacation. The Dictator is snacking on Cheerios and watermelon slices, watching her portable DVD player.
We didn’t have any trouble with the Dictator during our first night at our new house. She fell asleep quickly, as if she’d always lived here. I took that to be a good sign.
“Do we really need to?” the Fiancé asks, almost whining. Then he mentions some friends of his who have two toddlers and have never babyproofed their house.
“I know they didn’t, but we’re not them,” I say, sounding much too mature, and much too much like an overbearing mother, than I want to sound. In fact, I am one step away from actually saying, “Just because your friends didn’t babyproof doesn’t mean you don’t have to. If your friends tried crack cocaine, would you?” Argh!
The Fiancé is very much into decorating and art, which means he very much cares about the aesthetics of our house. To ruin this newly renovated, modern house with safely gates would destroy the whole “mood” and “feel” of the house, in the Fiancé’s opinion.
“Listen,” I say, like I’m explaining the benefits of brushing your teeth, “we have two flights of stairs now. She’s never lived with stairs before. Do you want her to tumble down them and break a bone? And she could lean over the railing upstairs and fall over and kill herself. Then you’ll regret not babyproofing. Plus, the gates won’t be here forever.”
I think the whole “The Baby could kill herself” argument changes his mind. It’s really hard to argue with that, even when you are a lawyer.
January 7
Obviously, we need a professional to help us babyproof. We couldn’t put the damn Diaper Genie together, and it took us four weeks to assemble the stroller, after all. Both of us together can barely change a lightbulb. There’s no way we could put up gates and do any other babyproofing that needs to be done. (Hey, we’re talking about the woman who had no idea you were supposed to switch bottle nipples as babies get older.) Luckily, Tammy, who owns an art gallery, is also very into the home aesthetics and didn’t like the idea of ruining the look of her house by babyproofing either. She told me about a professional babyproofer who comes to your home, tells you what you need done, and comes back and does it all for you. And supposedly the baby gates aren’t white and ugly; they’re black or silver and almost cool-looking. All we have to do is call the babyproofer, get him over here, and sign the check.
“He’s also so hot! He’s a god, that’s how good-looking he is,” Tammy said when I called to get the babyproofer’s number, like she was talking about Jake Gyllenhaal or Johnny Depp. (I didn’t mention this part to the Fiancé. I just told him I found a very highly recommended babyproofer.)
I called and made an appointment for this supposedly gorgeous babyproofer to come over.
Who knew there was such a career as a professional babyproofer? Who knew there were men who were super-hot who were professional babyproofers? How much does a professional babyproofer make a year? How did he become a professional babyproofer? A hot male professional babyproofer is kind of fascinating, when you think about it. Have you ever met one at a cocktail party? It’s really one of those careers you only realize exist after you have a baby.
January 10
10 A.M.
Three days later, the male oh-so-hot professional babyproofer arrives at our house. The Fiancé, although he usually goes to the gym on Sunday mornings, decides to stay home for this appointment. (Was he worried because the babyproofer was male? Is it now “in” to have an affair with your professional babyproofer, like it once was the stereotype to have an affair with your plumber or gardener?) As soon as I open the door, I realize Tammy was right on the mark.
This isn’t just any male professional babyproofer. This is the Calvin Klein underwear model of professional babyproofers.
The Fiancé and I follow him like lost puppies through the house, as he checks each and every room, and each and every nook, for places and things that should be babyproofed. The Dictator follows us from room to room, mostly wanting me to carry her, because she’s being shy. (Like most girls do in front of Calvin Klein model–type men, she’s acting all coy.) “I’d definitely get a gate here, and here, and here, and here,” the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer says, looking at our stairways.
When we enter the Dictator’s room, I plop the Dictator down on the floor. She’s not as light as she once was. Or am I not as strong as I once was? I make a mental note to call the trainer and ask her to make me work on my biceps. You hear how new mothers’ arms are so strong and buff because they’re always carrying their babies and strollers. This hasn’t happened to my arms, just like my hair never got shiny during pregnancy, just like a lot of things never happened that people said would.
“And this window here,” continues the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer, turning his attention to the floor-to-ceiling window, which opens at the floor with a knob and looks out onto a large concrete patio in our backyard. “I’d get a lock on this window, because she’ll be able to turn the knob and open it. And if she opens it, then she’ll be able to push through the
screen, and you don’t want her to fall out the window and land on the concrete,” the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer says.
“Oh, I don’t think we need that,” I say. “She doesn’t even know there’s a window in her room. She’s never even touched the window, let alone the knob.”
The oh-so-hot professional babyproofer walks over to the window and kneels down on the floor. He tries turning the knob, which opens the window. “This knob is very easy to turn,” he says.
At this point, I start to kind of, maybe, think that this oh-so-hot professional babyproofer is trying to scare us into giving him more money. Now I’m kind of expecting him to tell us to babyproof her washcloths. After all, the entire baby industry, I have realized over the past two years, is based on taking advantage of a parent’s fears. That’s why there are video baby monitors, a million types of lotions for babies’ skin, and hundreds of books that should be titled “How Not to Kill Your Baby in Week Number 20.” (You’ve got to wonder, if a baby born in a hut in a Third World country can live without a video baby monitor and special baby creams, is it possible your baby can too?)
Just as I finish saying that we don’t need to babyproof the window, the Dictator crawls up to where the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer is kneeling and starts playing with the knob! Doh!
If the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer hadn’t pointed it out, I’m sure she would still be oblivious to the knob and window in her bedroom! Thanks to the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer, the Dictator now knows all about the stupid knob that opens the window! Thanks a lot, Buster!
“Oops! Sorry!” the oh-so-hot babyproofer says. Sure you are. Right. Whatever.
I’m starting to think that this is what an oh-so-hot professional babyproofer does. He comes into your home and basically shows babies all the things that could hurt them, so the parents are forced to babyproof everything. I was on to this oh-so-hot professional babyproofer! Yes, I’m on to you, Buster!
Still, what can I do? The Dictator now knows about the knob, and I am now paranoid that she’ll fall out the window onto the concrete patio below.
I write him a large check to babyproof almost everything in our house, including the windows. I don’t ever want to think, “I should have listened to the oh-so-hot professional babyproofer!” about anything.
Plus, how often do you get a Calvin Klein underwear model coming over to your house? He says he can come back tomorrow to set it all up. Too bad I won’t be around. I’ll be at my office working. Nanny Mimi will just have to be the one to enjoy looking at him as he works.
January 11
10 A.M.
I’ve been back at work full-time for a while now. And I’m back with a vengeance. Or at least I’d like to be. I’ve been trying. I’m still depressed, not so much on the outside, but sometimes I can feel “it”—the sadness—pulling at me, tugging at me, like a pesky younger brother you’re trying to shake off so you can go play with your friends.
I try not to think of the depression and that it seems to be lasting longer than I thought it would. I know if I keep my mind occupied, there’s a greater chance I won’t be sucked in, at least not to the great depths of despair I used to feel.
I have not told any of my bosses that I’m suffering from postpartum depression. Any kind of depression, no matter how widely discussed in the media, is a hard thing to admit to and explain, especially to work people. I am pretty sure no one at my job would understand what I’m going through, and I’m pretty sure I can’t explain it to people as clearly as I want to.
It’s not completely fair to say my bosses wouldn’t and couldn’t understand. I guess I don’t know how they would react. But I don’t plan on telling them. I feel that admitting I’m suffering from postpartum depression will make them believe I’m not up to working hard, which is not exactly the case. Though I am often depressed, thankfully I can still get out of bed most days (though it is sometimes hard). I can still drive to my office and work. Keeping busy helps keep my mind off the sadness. So I especially want to keep busy at my job. In my industry (or is it the case in most industries?) there’s always someone ready to take over your job in a second, which is why most career women who have babies can’t stand being away on maternity leave. There’s this paranoia that even though the law protects women on maternity leave, their job won’t be there for them when they get back. I want to work hard. I want to work this PPD right out of my hair.
It’s difficult though, because even though I want to work hard, it almost seems to me that because I’m a mother, my bosses won’t let me work as hard as I once did. Am I being paranoid?
I try not to feel paranoid, not to feel as if suddenly my editors think that I’m no longer as valuable as I once was because I had a baby. The problem is, I don’t think I’m being entirely paranoid. Some of them, I’m convinced, are treating me differently. And not in a good way. Suddenly, I no longer get calls to do the good stories, or stories that would require travel out of town (not that I would necessarily take those assignments, but it would be nice to be asked. You know, the whole isn’t-it-better-to-be-asked-on-bad-dates-than-on-no-dates-at-all thing?). It’s almost like I’m starting back on square one at work. Although I don’t have to prove I’m worthy because all the editors know me, I feel I do have to prove I’m still worthy since I’ve become a mother.
Some days I want to shake some of my editors and scream, “There are laws! You can’t treat me differently! There are laws!” Why is it people believe that just because you’ve had a baby, all your attention is now on the baby and that’s all?
But then I also start to think that maybe my paranoia is all because of my postpartum depression. My thoughts go round and round in a vicious circle.
Why hasn’t having this beautiful baby made me prioritize what’s important in my life? I know the Dictator is more important than anything. She is definitely more important than work. So why am I not thinking, “Well, who cares how things are going at work right now? I have a beautiful baby”? Why am I thinking, “I am still the same person I was—skinnier even—before I gave birth”? And “I am still that same hardworking, overly ambitious writer who always got her work in by deadline”? And “Why does the baby being the most important mean work issues should be unimportant?”
I have discussed these feelings endlessly with the Fiancé. I rant. And rave. And rant and rave some more. And then some more. And then even more. “Can you believe in this day and age women are still treated like second-class citizens when they come back from maternity leave? It’s because most of the editors are male and the women I have to work with never had children, so no one understands!” I’ll cry. Or “Why aren’t there more women with babies who work in newspapers?” The Fiancé tries to tell me that I’ve always been self-sufficient and that I’ll make them remember how good and hardworking I am and that maybe I should take more initiative on my own. Maybe he’s right. He usually is.
So I decide to pitch some story ideas, which go something like this:
1. Yoga classes for babies: There are so many of these classes now, and so many stores have yoga clothes for babies. Why it’s important, what type of women go, and how much does dressing your baby for yoga cost?
2. Sign language classes for kids: Apparently, you can teach your kid to sign, “I want a boob. I’m hungry!” Debra Messing, of Will & Grace, taught her little boy to sign.
3. Designer jeans for babies: They can cost up to $250 a pop. Now four-year-olds know what Seven jeans are. What this means for modern mothers.
My story ideas, I realize, are so different from the ones I used to pitch. In fact, all I want to do is write about mothering and babies. Babies and mothering are really all I’m interested in now. While I used to want to be up to date on all the latest designer jeans, now all I want to do is be up to date on all the designer children’s jeans. I’m pretty excited about my pitches, until I get an e-mail back from an editor at the paper.
“We already did that story a couple of months
ago,” this editor writes about the yoga classes for babies. The e-mail feels like it was shot out of a gun, it seems so terse. I’ve been in this business for a long time. I know this editor must be thinking, “You haven’t been reading the paper! It’s your job, being in the newspaper business, to read the newspapers!”
“I guess I was on maternity leave when it was published,” I shoot back in an e-mail. “Sorry!”
The truth is, I find it nearly impossible to read newspapers now, even though they are my bread and butter. It’s just that newspapers are always filled with horrific stories. There are bad mothers out there, who leave their two-year-olds alone for five days so they can party with boyfriends. There are fathers kidnapping their children during awful child-custody battles. There are children born with severe deformities and others dying at age fourteen, in gym class, for no apparent reason. There are house fires that kill children while their mother is out of town. There are twelve-year-old gang members, and teachers sleeping with students. I never noticed how many awful stories about children there were until I had a baby. Now my eyes are drawn only to these stories. I can’t control it. The only thing I can control is whether I pick up the paper at all, or at least whether I look at the news pages. So that’s what I do now.
Now when I read the newspaper, I try to only read movie and book reviews, which do not make me feel bad, sad, and worried about the Dictator’s future and house fires. I really don’t know how parents can deal if their children die before them. I wonder about these parents who are mourning these terrible tragedies. I don’t know them. But their stories make me really, really sad. I can’t help but feel so relieved that nothing like the terrible stories in the newspapers has happened to the Dictator. I also don’t want to be reminded that bad things could happen, that one day she could join a gang, or be kidnapped. It makes me sick to think about it.
Wiped! Page 17
