“So, let me get this straight. You have to work with Greg, as in your asshole ex-boyfriend who deserves to have his balls cut off and fed to his dog, on a golf outing?”
“Apparently, yes. He’s my new client.”
“I’m sure you were great, though. You probably look fabulous.”
“Something like that,” I said. I put my head down on my desk as I thought of my two mismatched shoes.
“Are you going to tell Jake?” Julie said.
“Of course. It’s not like he has anything to worry about.”
“Why is he the chair of a golf outing anyway?” Julie asked.
“He got roped into it or something. I don’t really know,” I said as I lifted my head up and noticed a streak of baby puke on my Miss Piggy black pants. Note to self: hire stylist when rich enough.
“Just don’t go drinking too many Natural Lights and then call him Dildohead again like you did junior year when you saw him out with his new girlfriend, OK?” Julie said, and laughed.
“I’ll try.” I ran my fingers through my frizzed hair.
God, I’m exhausted.
“This is why I never dated anyone seriously in college—too many opportunities for humiliation later in life,” Julie said.
“Thanks. But dated? Would you even call it that?” I said, and laughed.
“Funny. Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see you Saturday.”
I hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment, giving myself a mental pep talk on how I handled the meeting with Greg. I was pretty sure I kept my head straight and came off as professional and capable. I felt brave enough to pull my compact out of my purse and open it up.
Gah!
My appearance was not what I had hoped. I looked like I should be at a soup kitchen, standing in line and begging for an extra piece of bread.
Note to self: hire makeup artist when rich enough.
I got home later, ready to regale Jake with my tale of the Ex Who Won’t Die, but he and Sara were passed out on the couch, asleep, with an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 on softly in the background. My heart vibrated a little at the sight of the two of them, peacefully snoring away together. A frozen pizza, still in its box, was sitting on the coffee table, as though he meant to have dinner ready but sat down for “a few minutes” to rest. It was fine; I wasn’t really hungry anyway.
I gently picked Sara up off Jake’s chest and pressed her to me. She sighed as I carefully folded down onto the love seat and kicked off my two different shoes. I smelled the top of her soft curls, closed my eyes, and whispered, “We survived.”
Sara tried to lift her tiny head and look around, but I put my hand on her and rubbed her back. She relaxed and I snuggled down against her, amazed again at how such a tiny little being could flip my emotional switch so drastically.
“What? Sorry! What time is it?” Jake said as he bolted up and looked around, confused. He looked at his watch and then at the pizza box on the coffee table. “Oh. Sorry,” he said as he frowned. “I meant to have food ready for when you got home.” He shrugged.
I smiled. “It’s OK. I had a late lunch.” I patted Sara’s back as I closed my eyes.
“How was your day? Better than you thought?” Jake said hopefully.
“Mmmmhmmm,” I murmured. I didn’t want to think about anything but never leaving the couch.
“Can I get you anything?” I think I heard him say before the exhaustion set in. Within seconds, I was fast asleep, dreaming of a world where ex-boyfriends are rounded up and made to live on a desert island together and contemplate their romantic errors. Or at least, I’m not forced to take them on as new clients. But if I am, I can be twenty pounds thinner and wearing matching shoes with my Big Girl pants burning in effigy all around me.
I feel like I’m in a Jackie Collins novel. Or at least a bad Lifetime movie of the week. Like She Didn’t Want to Work with Him While Wearing Miss Piggy Pants: The Clare Finnegan Story.
Tuesday, March 11
My second day back at work. Only slightly fewer tears.
I told Jake this morning about working with Greg. True to male form, Jake downplayed and shrugged his shoulders a lot.
Apparently, Julie and I are the only people who think this is a big deal. But I guess it’s better than him getting all possessive on me like those boyfriends in after-school specials. And if this were a made-for-TV movie, he would’ve thrown me down a flight of stairs, I would’ve had to prostitute myself to support my gambling addiction, and my sorority sisters would’ve killed me in a hazing incident gone horribly wrong.
Or wait. I might be mentally combining a few.
Jake and I played the hot potato game again with Sara as we got ready this morning, which worked until I started freaking out about my flatiron going on strike. I was calmly (read: waving my hands around like an air traffic controller, flatiron and all) explaining to Jake why this is a problem when a deep belly laugh came from the tiny infant on the bed. I froze, hands in air, and looked at Sara. I waved my hands around again. Her face lit up, she flashed a gummy smile and cackled again.
“Get the video camera!” I shrieked to Jake as I bounced up and down like a mental patient.
“Woo-hoo!” Jake said as he jumped in the air in front of Sara. Her giggles turned into deep belly laughs.
“Keep doing it! She loves it!” I yelled, video camera in hand. “You think Daddy’s funny, huh? Do a cartwheel!” I commanded.
Jake stopped moving. “A what?” he said, looking confused. Sara started to cry.
“A cartwheel. You know—gymnastics stuff! She’ll love it,” I said impatiently. “She’s crying! Hurry up!”
Jake looked at Sara and shrugged his shoulders and started jumping up and down again. Cartwheel or not, Sara laughed like the first time I saw Jake try to sing karaoke. After ten minutes, we were both late for work and desperately wishing it was Saturday so we could spend the day waving random objects around to see what falls into the Things Sara Finds Awesome category.
Clare breaks flatiron; hilarity ensues.
The familiar white-hot pit of regret gnawed at my stomach on my way to day care. The actual dropping off part was only slightly less traumatic than yesterday, as I was pretty sure from my detective work yesterday that Sara wasn’t going to be sold into infant slavery. I kissed her and whispered into her tiny, soft ear, “I’d much rather spend the day with you.”
Although it was a little easier today, the exhaustion still all-consumed me, culminating in nearly spelling my name wrong in an e-mail this morning. My brain was swirling with visions of eight hours of sleep and mismatched shoes when an Outlook reminder popped up. Lunch with Reese.
Shit!
I completely forgot. The prevalence of Things Clare Forgot Due to Baby-Having was quickly becoming old.
I grabbed my purse, threw myself in my car, and sped over to the Belvidere Bistro. Thankfully, she wasn’t there yet, so I sat down and waited. As she walked in, four men jumped up to hold the door open for her. She smiled gratefully, her blond hair matted to her sweaty face and her blouse wrinkled, with a screaming Grace resting on her hip. Or what’s left of her nine-months-pregnant hip.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. We’re in the midst of a three-year-old temper tantrum,” she said as she leaned forward and kissed my cheek.
“No problem. I’m sure it’s a serious tragedy whatever it is,” I said, and tried to touch Grace’s arm, but she jerked away and buried her face and snotted into Reese’s beautiful silk shirt.
“They ran out of grape lollipops at the shoe store—a real crisis.” She pulled her hair off her neck and tried to fan her face. “I’m dying. It’s like I’m burning from the inside out. I forgot what it was like to be fat and pregnant.”
“Fortunately, I remember it quite well and those memories will serve as fabulous birth control anytime I might even consider another kid. And you’re not even close to fat.” I surveyed her tiny frame.
“You’ll so have more, don’t even say that.”
“Honey, this one wasn’t even planned. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the idea that I’m old enough to have a kid, let alone think about another one.” Grace started screaming again. I looked at Reese. “Exactly.”
“Did you see how many people ran to hold open the door for me when I walked in?” she said.
“I did.” I nodded.
“Well, in about a month, people will let the door hit me in the face before they’ll hold it open.” Reese pushed her hair off her face again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, people are anxious to help pregnant ladies. But a woman with a stroller and a screaming kid? She can fend for herself. I’m surprised you haven’t found that out yet.” She tapped me on the shoulder sympathetically.
“Probably because I never go out in public anymore.” I smiled at her.
After we sat down, Reese gave Grace some crayons as I stared at her enormous engagement ring and diamond-encrusted wedding band. “So, how’s everything going?”
She looked at me and cast her eyes quickly to her menu. “Oh, you know.”
“Reese, no, I really don’t. How’s everything at home?”
“Same. I hear their salads are really good.” She still wouldn’t look up.
“Screw the salad, how’s Matt?” My eyes bored into her skull, willing her to raise her head. Matt and Reese were married a few years back in a beautiful wedding, complete with champagne bar and glorious centerpieces. None of us knew at the time that their wedding would be the highlight of their marriage, rather than the start. Because perfect china and an oyster bar at a reception does not a good, faithful husband make.
She put her menu down, took a sip of water, and shrugged. “Like I said, same.”
“So he’s still sleeping in the guest room?”
“Yep.” She slowly twirled the glass around on the table.
“And you guys barely speak to each other?” I leaned forward as my voice became a whisper.
“Yep.” She shrugged and exhaled.
“Have you guys talked any more about a …” I almost said the D word but trailed off when I saw Grace watching me intently.
“Yep. Do you want to order an appetizer?” Reese picked up her menu again.
I sighed and nodded. Getting through a Reese Block is more improbable than being released from a mail-order music club contract.
Halfway through lunch, though, she put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
“I need to ask you for a favor.”
“Name it. You know you can ask me for anything,” I said.
“Sure about that?” Her finger absentmindedly twirled her engagement ring around.
“Pretty sure.” I smiled.
“Be my labor coach. I’m delivering at Chicago Memorial.” Her words fell around me like bricks.
“Wha?” I shook my head violently.
“Be with me in the delivery room when I have the baby.” Her blue eyes widened and she folded her arms across her huge stomach.
“Why? I mean, really?” I cleared my throat.
“Because I need someone there to support me and …” She stopped and we locked eyes. I knew she wanted me there because she couldn’t count on her asshole husband to emotionally support her. Bastard.
“Of course. I’m honored you asked.” I tried to appear excited, but the prospect of being present during labor and delivery was not something I’d put on my “Top 10 Things to Do This Year.” If Reese wants me to have more kids, asking me to watch another birth isn’t the best motivation.
“I know it doesn’t thrill you, but I need you there.” Her jaw set into a determined stance, but her eyes were soft.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there for you the entire way. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but you can count on me for whatever.” I silently added, And Matt better not piss me off or else I’ll find a fun place for one of those internal fetal monitors.
“God, twenty-nine and two kids. Can you believe it?” Reese shook her head and laughed thinly.
“No. Twenty-eight and one kid is freaky enough for me, thanks. Speaking of which, can you believe my new client?” I shook my head and widened my eyes. I had e-mailed Reese right after I got off the phone with Julie, not wanting to recount the story with Grace screaming in the background.
“I know. That’s crazy! Well, I’m sure it will be fine, though. He’s a nice enough guy,” Reese said as she handed Grace an orange crayon. I watched as Grace furiously scribbled on her children’s menu.
“Yeah, it’s just a little weird.”
Reese didn’t say anything else, even though I desperately wanted to analyze the situation from fifty different viewpoints. But I didn’t want to let on the true extent of my fixation and bewilderment, so I just asked her some more questions about my duties as labor coach.
As I drove back to my office after lunch, I alternated between inventing various medical instruments I could use in my Karate Match of Emotional Pain against Matt and horrific, bloody scenes of labor and delivery. The problem was that when I was pregnant with Sara, Jake banned me from watching any TV show about delivering babies, since invariably I would end up in tears, convinced that my child, too, would be born with a lobster claw for a hand or something. After I had Sara, the ban lifted and I wound up DVRing every episode, fascinated. So now I’m extremely well versed on every single complication that can arise when a baby is born. Should make for a fun-filled time in the delivery room.
I announced to Jake my very important title of Best and Most Awesome Labor and Delivery Coach Ever when I got home from work.
“Are you going to spout off the statistics of how many women die in childbirth each year to her like you do to me constantly?” he asked while changing Sara’s diaper.
“Jake, I only tell you those facts to make you realize how lucky you are I didn’t die while giving birth to our child.” I walked over to the changing table.
“Yeah, OK. I get it. But you didn’t. Your delivery was easy, just like I knew it would be.” He picked Sara up and patted her diapered butt a few times.
I reached for her and held her close, smelling the top of her soft head and kissing her chubby, Michelin Man arms. “It was uneventful, but I’d hardly call it easy.”
Jake leaned over and kissed her head and placed his hand on her back. “Relatively speaking, it was easy.”
“You have no idea. If men were the ones who had babies, they’d be on bed rest for all nine months, you would all gain like two hundred pounds while pregnant because all you’d do would be lay around, maternity leave would be like five years paid, and you’d invent a way to give birth painlessly and easily during halftime of a football game.”
He put his arm around my shoulders. “Probably.” He pulled me toward his broad chest, which smelled like a combination of fabric softener and pine. I rested my head against him, Sara in my arms. I let both of us lean against him, supporting us as he held both of our weight.
Our quiet family moment didn’t last long, as the phone rang, cutting through any contemplation. I picked it up and checked the caller ID. I held the phone out to him. “It’s your mother.”
“I’m busy. I need to throw this out.” He waved the dirty diaper around in the air and walked two feet away to the garbage can.
“I hate you,” I sighed, and answered the phone. “Hi, Marianne.”
“Oh, hello, dear. I thought I’d get Jake. I figured you’d still be at work since you’re such a career girl and all. How nice you’re home to spend time with your family for a while.”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, it’s just wonderful.”
“How’s my Sara adjusting to being taken to a day-care center?”
“She’s doing great.” I pantomimed shooting myself in the head to Jake. He laughed and took Sara from my arms.
“I saw a report on the news the other day about this day-care worker who beat an infant to death because he wouldn’t stop fussing. It made me sick to my stomach
, thinking about my precious granddaughter with god-knows-who….” She choked up and sobbed a little.
“Sara’s at the best day care in the city. Trust me, I’ll show you the monthly bill.”
“Oh, I’m sure, dear. You know what I always say, though, there’s no substitute for a mother’s love.”
I contemplated which extremely sharp object I wanted to stick in my eye.
Steak knife? Nah. I’d ruin my new set.
Stiletto heel? Just got the pair polished.
Sewing needle? Still in the package.
Corkscrew? Too important to risk.
“Do you want to talk to Jake?” I said.
“Sure, hon. Oh, before you go, I wanted to tell you that Natalie and Doug set a date for Ash Leigh’s first birthday party. It’s going to be June twenty-second. I’m sure it’s going to be great, since Natalie stays home and has so much time to plan the party.”
“I’m sure we don’t have any plans, since it’s like three months away, but I’ll mark our calendar. Here’s Jake.” I thrust the phone toward my husband.
“OK … Sure … Yeah … OK … Love you, too…. Bye” was all he said.
“Did you know that recently a day-care worker killed an infant?” I asked him when he hung up.
“Did you know that my mother wants me to talk to you about staying home?” he said as he put the phone back in the cradle.
“Did you know Natalie is throwing Ash Leigh the best birthday ever since she has time and stays home?” I said, and rolled my eyes.
“Did you know that I have no idea why my brother married her?” Jake asked with a laugh.
“Did you know that Natalie makes me want to physically abuse myself?” I pantomimed slitting my wrists.
Jake walked over and patted me on the head. “Yes, I did know that,” he answered.
Friday, March 21
It’s Friday! I’ve almost made it through my second official week as a working mom. To celebrate, I’m making chicken divan for dinner. I found the recipe while searching on the Food Network’s Web site last night. The chicken, coupled with some wine after Sara goes to bed, should be fabulous.
Having a glass of wine is one of the huge benefits to not nursing Sara anymore. I gave it a valiant effort for two months, and then she decided that eating every hour rocked. Oh, and she would take forty-five minutes to eat. What those worthless baby books don’t tell you is that the time between nursing sessions begins when you start feeding your kid. So, it would be 2:00 p.m., she’d eat until 2:45 p.m. and then want to eat around 3:00 p.m. again. Fifteen minutes barely gave me time to pee or check my e-mail. After much tears and frustration, and despite a serious case of guilt and remorse, I remembered that bottle-feeding isn’t the devil, and we haven’t looked back since. Besides, I feared Mule Face walking in on me while I was pumping at the office. No doubt with a camera.
Not Ready for Mom Jeans Page 3
