It’s not just that we both spend our days at offices and then have another full-time job when we get home now (the Dictator). It’s because the Dictator, and I also hate to admit this, is again not sleeping through the night. One of us has to go into the Dictator’s room, sometimes three times throughout the night, to give her a bottle of milk. We’re both exhausted all the time. I know we’re supposed to train her, by not giving her a bottle when she screams in the middle of the night. It just really is easier to go get one and hand it to her than it is to listen to her scream.
I’ve talked to my friend Vivian about this. Her baby, who is a couple of months older than mine, is also not a very good sleeper. She too has many sleepless nights. But Sara’s baby is a good sleeper, as is Tammy’s.
“We put Zack to bed at eight, and he sleeps right through to seven A.M.,” she told me the other day when I moaned about another bad night. Why couldn’t I have had a baby like hers or Sara’s, who sleeps twelve hours a night? Too bad you couldn’t custom-make your baby like you can custom-make a suit.
March 1
11 P.M.
Oh God. Did I really promise—rather, make an appointment with—the Fiancé yesterday to have sex with him tonight? I’m so tired. I’m just so tired. But a date is a date.
11:30 P.M.
We did it. I feel closer to the Fiancé. I must remember this feeling the next time I think I’m too tired.
Ten Mommy Moments People “Forget” to Mention
1. You will want another baby.
2. Your friends who don’t have children will piss you off.
3. You will have to go on vacation without your child.
4. You will forget important milestones of your baby’s life.
5. You will shop more for the baby than for yourself.
6. You will learn new mommy vocabulary.
7. When you leave your baby for longer than a couple of days, you will miss her more than you ever thought possible.
8. When you see your baby for the first time after a long time, you will never be happier.
9. Babies change at an alarming pace.
10. You will miss the days when your baby didn’t move or talk.
March 15
9 P.M.
I never wanted to have a baby. Ever. Well, I really didn’t want to until I turned twenty-eight. It was like I had been slapped in the face—except not with a hand but a craving. I simply woke up one morning and had the somewhat desperate thought that I wanted a baby, even needed to have a baby, like a late-night craving for french fries after drinking too many gin and tonics. Even though, for most of my life, I had professed I never wanted that kind of responsibility and had never really imagined having a baby or being someone’s mother.
I kept my baby craving under wraps, until I accidentally got knocked up, at my engagement party. The Fiancé and I, after all, hadn’t even talked about having children. I had no idea if he was even interested in having children.
Well, it turns out, virtually the same thing happens when your first child is about eighteen months old. Though you hated the nine long months being pregnant, and though taking care of only one child, even with a nanny, exhausts you, and your sex life isn’t hot anymore, and you would cut off your right arm for a solid eight hours of sleep, and you virtually have no social life, and you suffer from postpartum depression, suddenly you begin to think about getting knocked up again. Not only that, but getting knocked up again seems like a brilliant idea.
Why does this happen? Do all women feel this craving for another child when their first child is eighteen months old? Some scientist out there, I believe, should look into this.
A couple of days ago, I just started to think, “God, I kind of miss having a tiny little baby to hold.” And “It really wasn’t that bad being pregnant and having to stay up all night with a newborn,” even though, yes, it was that bad.
And everywhere I look these days there are cute newborns in car seats at restaurants, being pushed in strollers and carted around in Baby Björns, just like when I was pregnant and noticed how many other pregnant women were walking the streets. I miss that time when the Dictator was so small and so cute and didn’t require me to follow her around all the time because she may run into a wall or eat dishwashing detergent. I miss the time when the Dictator didn’t refuse to get her shitty diaper changed. I miss the time I ruled the Dictator, the time before she really started ruling me. I now completely understand why people have more than one baby. The mind is an interesting thing. It represses the bad, and you only remember the good, like the first time your baby grabbed your finger and the first time your baby smiled. I now also completely understand why women never tell you the bad things about being pregnant, like how hard it is to walk around with that extra weight, how uncomfortable it is to sleep, and how difficult it is to deal with the sudden life changes. It’s because time really does heal all wounds, including pregnancy.
Even I, who really did hate being pregnant, now find myself thinking, “Was it really that bad, or was I just being a big baby?” And “Surely now that I know what to expect, being pregnant will be easier the second time around.” I even think that maybe planning to have a baby, instead of unexpectedly expecting, might be easier and more romantic and, hey, wouldn’t it be nice to actually plan on getting pregnant? I have to force myself to remember the bad. Because right now I’m only remembering the good, like how people smiled at me when I was pregnant, and how I could eat anything I wanted, and the joy of seeing the Dictator for the very first time.
“I think I want another baby,” I say to the Fiancé.
I know the Fiancé very well, and I know there is no good way of bringing this topic up. So, instead of hinting about it, I just throw it out there. (It’s amazing, really. Sometimes I hint for two hours about a new purse I’d like him to buy me, but when it comes to something as major as having another baby, I just blurt it out.)
“What did you just say?” he asks. I see the color literally draining from his face. And he’s quite pale to begin with. I know he heard what I said just fine by the change of his color.
“I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about having a second child,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I just want another,” I say.
“No way,” he says. “I’m too old. I still want a life. I don’t want another baby.”
“Well, can you at least think about it? That’s all I’m asking. I just want you to think about it,” I tell him.
“No. Beck, we already need so much help with one. How will we deal with two?”
“Can you just think about it? Please? Just think about it,” I beg.
“No. I do not want another baby.”
“Well, I do,” I say.
“I don’t,” he says.
“It’s not fair! I just want you to think about it! You can’t just say you don’t want another without even thinking about it,” I argue, already on the verge of tears.
“Have you thought about why you want another?” he asks.
“Yes!”
“No you haven’t!”
“Can you please just think about it?”
“Fine. I will think about it, but I don’t want another child. How about a dog?” he asks.
Hmmm. Would it be so bad to get a dog as a consolation prize of sorts? I have been begging him for a dog for a while now. “So, you’ll think about it then?” I say.
“I said I would. But, Beck—”
“What?”
“I don’t want another baby.”
After a few more rounds of “Well, just think about it” from me, and a few more “I said I will but I don’t want another baby” from him, we go back to watching television. It may take some time to convince him about this second-baby idea, I realize. But at least he threw out the dog offer. And he has no idea who he’s dealing with. When I want something, I’ll do almost anything to get it.
Reasons to Have a Second Child
1. I have really great baby names. And they really shouldn’t go to waste.
March 16
2 A.M.
Is that all I can come up with? That I have really great baby names that I don’t want to go to waste? I lie awake and can’t really think of another reason. I thought it would be a great idea to come up with a list of reasons to have another child, like the Fiancé suggested. It’s just so hard to explain to the Fiancé, a male, that it’s just a gut feeling I have. I can’t explain a craving. You just have it. I can’t really explain my postpartum depression. It just is.
March 17
2 P.M.
“So, how are you?” Vivian asks. I’m at my office, halfheartedly working. My editor won’t call me back, though I’ve left three messages. This has nothing to do with the fact that I had a baby, I tell my still-paranoid self, and everything to do with the fact that all editors are overworked and can’t possibly return all the messages they have on their voice mail immediately. That’s what I tell myself.
“I’m good, good,” I tell her.
“So, what’s new?” she asks.
“Oh, not much. Nothing at all really. Just living my boring life as a boring mother. A lot of television. No, nothing new at all.” Then I blurt out, “I think I want another baby!”
“What? Did I just hear what I think you said?”
“I know! Who would have ever thought it, but it’s true. I want another baby!”
“That’s great. I think you should have another one. You should!” she says.
Of course Vivian thinks I should have another baby. Most women who have more than one child always want other mothers to hop on their multiple-child bandwagon. Being a mother, I’ve learned there’s definitely a mommy club and then another mommy club for those who have more than one child. Mommies with more than one child always wonder why parents with one child stopped at one, just like people with one child always wonder why childless people don’t have any.
Then Vivian asks me the question I dread but I know I will be asked anyway: What does the Fiancé thinks about this?
“Well, he’s going to take some working on to change his mind,” I admit.
“Well, you can always get him drunk,” she suggests.
“Um, yeah. I think accidentally getting pregnant while drunk only works once,” I say, and we laugh. “No, he’s way too careful about that now,” I tell her. It’s true. The Fiancé and I do not get drunk and do it anymore. We know all too well what can happen. “Unless I get him really, really, really drunk!” I joke to Vivian.
The other problem is that I don’t think either of us have gotten as drunk as we did at our engagement-party celebration—the conception party, as it’s now called, since the Dictator was conceived that night. Who has the energy to get drunk and then deal with the hangover when you also have to deal with a baby?
“Oh, he’ll probably change his mind,” Vivian says.
“I don’t think so,” I say, because I really don’t think so.
“No, he probably will,” she says. “How could he not?” Vivian’s an optimist. What can I say? She married a toxic bachelor who actually begged her to have a second child. In fact, Vivian’s husband probably wants her to have a third.
“No, I really, really don’t think so. I’m going to have to be really smart about this. I’m going to have to not say anything about wanting another baby for another three months. The more I press him, the angrier he’ll get and fight the idea. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to say anything. I’m going to be the best mother for three more months and be so nice to him. And then he’ll be so happy with me that the next time I bring up the whole second-child idea, he’ll be more willing and ready to listen,” I tell Vivian. I sound so convincing that I almost convince myself that this plan can work. And I don’t feel bad about tricking the Fiancé into wanting another child by being super-nice to him because there are women out there who simply stop taking their birth control pills without telling their partners and trick them into getting them pregnant. I’m not judging these women. I’m just saying that tricking your partner by being nice is way better than tricking him by throwing out your birth control pills.
March 17
8 P.M.
I, of course, don’t last three months not bringing up the subject of a second baby with the Fiancé. I think, however, I may have lasted more than three hours, which is pretty admirable. I mean, I am a girl. Much like wanting to get engaged, and screaming at boyfriends, “When are you going to propose already?” most women just don’t know when to drop subjects of such importance. Rather, we know but we just can’t. It’s out of our control. Like most women, I get something in my mind—this time, it’s having another baby—and I can’t stop thinking about it. Trying not to think about it only makes me think about it all the time. It’s kind of like seeing the most perfect pair of jeans that you know cost way too much money, so you don’t buy them, because they are way too much money and what is wrong with the world that a company can charge $450 for one pair of jeans? But then you can’t stop thinking about the jeans. You even have dreams about the jeans. Next thing you know, you’re back at the store, buying the jeans, because who were you kidding? You can either shell out the money and be happy with your jeans or make perhaps the greatest mistake of your life (not getting the best pair of jeans) and be miserable thinking about how you should have just bought them.
“How come you won’t even think about it?” I ask the Fiancé, only hours after telling Vivian I wouldn’t bring the baby idea up for three months.
“Beck. I don’t want to talk about this now,” he says. “We’re having a nice quiet night and I don’t want to get into it right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t,” he says.
“Fine,” I say.
“Don’t fine me,” he says.
“Fine.”
(Silence.)
“Great. Now you’ve put me in a bad mood.”
“And you’ve put me in a bad mood,” I tell him.
(Silence.)
“Don’t you love her?” I ask, about the Dictator. When all else fails, I figure, try guilt.
“Of course I do. But I also love our lives,” he says.
I’m not going to give up, I tell myself. But I can’t press this matter. I’m going to have to be smart about it, I remind myself again, and give him time to come around to the idea. Hey, I’m only thirty-one. I have a lot of time to get pregnant again. I have years, in fact, to have another baby. Didn’t some woman in her sixties get pregnant? Technically, with the advance of technology, I could have thirty more years to have a baby. Though I don’t think I want to be one of those women. Like finding that perfect pair of jeans, I want it now. I want to get pregnant now. I’m all about instant gratification.
March 18
10 A.M.
“I love you. You love me. We’re best friends as friends should be!” I sing to myself in the shower. What is that song? Where do I know that song?
Gaa! It’s Barney!
I’m not sure how that happened. Actually I do. I’ve watched all the Barney DVDs about seven hundred times each. Of course, I now know all the words to all the Barney songs. I also know all the words to the songs on Dora the Explorer. (“We did it! We did it!”) Maybe I do let the Dictator watch too much television. I know all the songs and I wasn’t even trying to learn them. In fact, I tried very hard not to learn them. But now they are stuck in my head. But, thanks to Dora the Explorer, I can also count to ten in Spanish now, which actually makes lifting weights a lot more fun.
March 19
4 P.M.
The stupid Fiancé wants to go to stupid Paris for a stupid romantic getaway. I know, I know. I should be thrilled. I’ve never been to Paris. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. The Fiancé’s cousin is getting married in Paris, and the Fiancé wants to know if I want to go. He suggested that we hang out in Paris, go to the wedding, and get some romance back into our relation
ship.
I do want to go.
I also don’t want to go.
“I don’t know,” I tell him, honestly.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? It’s Paris! You’ve never been. You’ve always said you wanted to go to Paris. It’s Paris!”
“Well, are we bringing the baby?” I ask. I know, even as I ask, that this is a stupid question.
“No. That will not be a fun trip to take the baby to Paris. It will be way too much with the time difference and walking around and staying in a hotel.”
“Right. Well, how long would we be gone for?” I ask.
“Beck! I’m asking if you want to go to Paris. If you don’t want to go, fine. But it’s Paris! It’s not a punishment.”
I do want to go. I just don’t want to leave my baby for so long. And let’s face it: if you’re going to Paris, you need to go for more than two days.
“Okay, I want to go!” I tell him.
“Do you?”
“Yes! Yes! I really want to go! It will be amazing. I’ve never been!”
“I’ll look into the tickets then,” he says.
“Great! This will be great!”
God, I don’t want to go to stupid Paris. How am I going to live without my baby? Sure, I’ve left her with my parents for a couple of nights in a row. But I’ve always been in the same city! I was only a phone call away.
Think happy thoughts, Beck. You’re going to Paris. How many women can say they get to go to Paris?
4:15 P.M.
God, I so don’t want to go. How can I leave my baby? Yes, she sometimes drives me bonkers, but I always forgive her. How can I get out of going to Paris without hurting the Fiancé’s feelings?
4:16 P.M.
Who am I kidding? I so want to go. It’s Paris!
4:17 P.M.
I feel sick to my stomach for leaving her for more than forty-eight hours. What kind of mother would I be if I left her for longer than that?
4:18 P.M.
Wiped! Page 21
