“Where the hell are the other nurses? We need help in here! What are they doing, sitting on their asses?” Dr. Clarke barked at the nurse. Two other nurses appeared. They started to wheel Reese out of the room and down the hallway.
“You can come in after we have her numbed up,” the nurse yelled to me over her shoulder.
Reese burst into tears as they wheeled her down the hallway. “Call Matt!” she shrieked.
My hands shaking, I snapped open my phone and dialed Matt one more time. Voice mail again. This time, I left a message: “Listen, asshole. Get your fucking piece of shit ass to the hospital right now. Your wife is having an emergency C-section, you prick!”
Do I regret it? Yes and no.
I had stood in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, waiting to be given scrubs, when a nurse appeared. “Are you with Reese?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Baby boy. Six pounds, two ounces. Born two minutes ago.”
“What?”
“He was just born. We didn’t have time for a spinal to kick in, so we had to put her totally out. She’s in Recovery and you can see her in a minute.”
“What? You mean she already had the baby?”
“Yep,” she said, and walked away.
I stood there by myself for a few moments until another nurse appeared and led me into Recovery and over to Reese.
“Oh my God! How are you?” I said, and threw my arms around her.
“In pain. My stomach hurts. What happened?” she slurred.
“You have a baby boy!” I said to her.
“What?” Her head flopped over to the right and she closed her eyes.
“A boy!” I said again, and shook her arm a little.
“Oh. Should I get a tattoo?” she mumbled.
“A tattoo?” I looked at the recovery room nurse, who shrugged.
“Over my C-section scar. I’m gonna get a tattoo of butterflies.” She smiled and nodded her head.
“Um, sure.” I patted her hand and shrugged at the nurse.
“What did I have again?” Reese mumbled. A tiny stream of drool fell down onto her white-and-blue-dotted hospital gown.
“A boy!” I shrieked.
“Oh. Good.” She fell asleep.
“Why don’t you let her get some rest, she’s pretty out of it from the morphine,” the recovery room nurse said as she checked the IV fluid.
“OK,” I said, and kissed the top of Reese’s head.
“Do you want to see the baby?” the nurse asked.
“Of course!” I said, and followed her out the door.
She led me into the nursery and over to one of those plastic bins, where Reese’s beautiful pink, squirmy, wriggly baby boy lay, looking very surprised and not quite sure what had happened. I picked him up and held him against my cheek, amazed at how different he felt from Sara. I couldn’t believe how much smaller he was. I felt a twinge in my stomach as I realized how big Sara was getting and, for a second, wished I could zap her back to when she was that little. A huge part of me wanted to book it straight out of that hospital and run home to scoop up my own little wriggly child.
The nurses finally pried him out of my hands, insisting he needed to go through some tests, and I went back to Reese.
Whoa. Reese has two kids. Jake and I are just two people with a kid. But Reese? She has a family.
When did we all get old enough to have children? Let alone multiple children?
“He’s beautiful!” I whispered to her.
“Grocery shopping,” she replied, her eyes closed.
Just then, Matt appeared, looking disheveled in his suit.
“Oh my God, is she OK?” he said as he raced over to her bed. His tie was askew and his shirt was rumpled.
“She’s fine. Sorry you couldn’t be here,” I said tightly. I crossed my arms over my chest and took a quick step backward.
“Yeah, sorry. I got hung up at work.” His eyes briefly met mine before shifting away quickly.
“Sure you did.” I curtly nodded and rubbed my forehead.
“Is the baby OK?” he asked as he looked around the room.
“He’s fine,” I said flatly.
“It’s a boy? Oh, wow. That’s amazing.” Matt’s voice carried so little inflection, it was as though I just told him that the Cubs won this afternoon.
“Listen, I’m going to go call her mom and then go home. I’ll be back later, OK?” I started toward the recovery room exit.
“Oh, right. Hey, do you think you could stay with her in the hospital tonight? I have a meeting I can’t miss,” Matt said nonchalantly.
I stared at him, hoping to convey my feelings of I-Wish-You-Would-Burn-in-Hell-and-Get-Your-Right-Arm-Painfully-Cut-Off-by-a-Rusty-Saw.
He just stared back.
“I’m not going to let her be alone,” I said. My eyes grew wide.
“Great. Thanks, you’re the best, Clare.”
So, here I am. At the hospital. Attempting to sleep in one of those chairs that semi-fold out into a very narrow twin bed while wondering how many ads I’d have to place on my blog to earn enough money to hire a hit man for Matt and buy Reese a new husband.
Friday, March 28
Ugh.
I’m dead from last night. I think I slept maybe an hour. I took the day off work, but I have Sara home with me.
Today reminds me of the days right after Sara was born and Jake and I operated in this half-awake, half-asleep state that allowed us to perform basic biological functions such as eat and pee but rendered us useless for much else. Not surprisingly, that is also the time when I found myself watching a lot of Full House reruns on television while feeding Sara. Anything else would’ve been futile, as my brain could not comprehend anything above Danny Tanner’s cleaning obsessions and Uncle Jesse’s mullet. I would definitely watch one today, yet I’m pretty sure I hit every episode by the second week of maternity leave.
Witnessing Reese’s train wreck of a marriage only fueled my desire to see Jake and Sara. I immediately threw my arms around Jake when he walked in the door from work this afternoon. Well, my one arm, since I had Sara resting on my hip.
“Hey,” he said. “Still tired from last night?” He leaned forward and kissed Sara on the cheek.
“Oh lord, don’t ask,” I said, and tried to disengage Sara’s fingers from my earring. “What do you feel like doing tonight?”
“Don’t you have to work on your column this weekend?”
Crap. I forgot.
My first column for The Daily Tribune is due on Monday. They ran a story about my blog last year and apparently it got a great response, so they offered me a guest columnist spot. For which I was thrilled, but now I actually have to produce something worth publishing in a newspaper. One that people read, not just one of those crappy free newspapers in the stand next to the auto magazines at Blockbuster. I’m supposed to write about being a new mom, which I think is hilarious, since a couple of months of having a child have left me with zero infinite wisdom or kernels of truth to pass along except for (1) Suck it up. It will get better. If you are lucky. (2) Start happy hour around noon. A few bottles of wine can make anything better. (3) Looking at your butt in the mirror will have dire consequences. Such as your retinas burning off.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for reminding me. What should I write about?” I asked, and followed him into the bedroom.
“How about why people should order off the Home Shopping Network when they’re drunk?” he said, and pointed to the open box on the floor.
“Whatever. Those scarves are cute.”
“We don’t need matching His and Hers scarves.”
“Er, yeah,” I said, and discreetly shoved the box of matching gloves under the bed with my foot. “Sara, what do you think I should write about?” I turned to her and asked. She smiled, cooed, and farted loudly. “I’ll take that into consideration.” I turned to Jake. “Let’s go out and grab dinner while she’s in a good mood. I can work on my column after she goes to bed.”
We got ready and lightly packed Sara’s diaper bag (meaning no less than four bottles, twelve diapers, two packs of wipes, two pacifiers, a jingly thing that she likes to look at, three burp cloths, gas drops, and a changing pad) and drove to Adobo Grill for dinner.
Jake and I glanced at each other before we walked in the restaurant, silently communicating our prayers for a quick, calm, peaceful dinner without any infant meltdowns.
Futile prayers, indeed. Sara took our request into consideration, weighed her options carefully, and chose option B: scream head off the second Jake and I order drinks, turn bright red so other diners believe we are choking her and/or injuring her in some way, stiffen up like a board so the only way to hold her is on our laps, with her standing, doing aforementioned screaming, resulting in profuse sweating, embarrassment, and general pissed-off mood inside the restaurant.
Before Jake and I had Sara, we vowed we would take Sara out in public as much as possible. We figured it would be so easy—just put her in the car seat, give her a paci, and Mommy and Daddy can drink margaritas, right?
Wrong again. We have become more like a highly trained SWAT team or on-call firefighters, ready at a moment’s notice to jump into action if she starts crying. Not exactly a relaxing evening out with our child.
As I carried her outside after our Meal O’ Shriek, I sadly noted all of the couples taking their time over glasses of wine, sharing appetizers, and generally enjoying themselves. I really wanted to hold Sara up in front of the couple who appeared to be on a date and remind them to use protection, but Jake wouldn’t let me.
When people said having a baby would change me, I figured they were right. I just didn’t expect that I could never go out to dinner again. I guess I should’ve enjoyed all those alcohol-soaked dinners in my twenties, because now it seems I’m going to be spending quite a large quantity of time indoors watching Jeopardy! and eating TV dinners.
The second I was ready to ship Sara off to Bali, she stopped screaming. The minute we walked inside, Sara quieted and smiled. She rested her head against my chest and relaxed. As she sighed and wrapped her teeny fingers around a strand of my hair, I whispered, “It’s a good thing you’re so cute. You just bought yourself more time.”
It’s amazing. She can take me to the brink of desperation, the edge of the cliff, and offer a little sigh or grin in return. And suddenly it’s OK. And I thought Sam had manipulation down pat.
After the Adobo Grill scream-a-thon, there was no way I was ready to write a column for the Tribune, so I posted more pictures of Sara on my blog.
“Hey, Jake,” I called from inside our bedroom. “Guess what? Wifey1025 just commented that she thinks Sara looks like a Gerber baby model. In fact, she knows someone at Gerber and would love to submit Sara’s picture if I could just meet her in the parking lot of Discount Cigarettes 4U at three a.m. tomorrow.”
Jake appeared at the doorjamb and leaned against it. “Just make sure to pack your Mace and collapsible billy club.”
“Funny,” I said as I closed the laptop and stretched my arms over my head. I noticed he was still standing in the doorjamb, smiling. “What?” I said as I retracted my arms.
“Well, I was going to tell you at dinner, but Sara made things too crazy.” He walked over to the bed and sat down next to me.
“What?” I said, my voice raised.
I hate surprises. But maybe it’s something good, like he won the lottery or something. Yeah, right, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen to us. He probably got laid off and I’ll have to—
“Clare, relax. It’s nothing bad,” he said, and laughed. His eyes sparkled a bit. He reached over and took my hand. “My boss called me into his office for a meeting with the VP today.”
My ears started ringing. I knew it. We’re screwed. Maybe Princess can get a job.
“A promotion, Clare. They’re giving me a new senior title and a big bump in base salary plus guaranteed bonuses.” Jake’s hand grew tighter on mine as I allowed his words to settle in the space around me. I stared at him, eyes wide. “Clare?” he said after a few silent moments.
A smile crept across my face, crinkling my eyes and flushing my cheeks. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said.
I threw myself toward his body and hugged him tight. “That’s so amazing! Holy crap! I’m so proud of you!” All of my words ran together as I squeezed him.
Yes! I knew things would get better soon! Maybe we can get a house now!
“Maybe you can stay home now,” Jake said into my ear.
I quickly released him and leaned back. “What?” I said as my brow furrowed.
Jake looked down at the bed quickly. “Stay home. With Sara. It’s what you want, right?”
“What? When did I say that?” I said, and scooted away from him a bit. “I’ve never said that.” And I hadn’t. Truth was, going back to work was always just simply a given, financial need or not.
“You … well … I guess … never.” Jake fumbled over his words, confusion twisting his features.
I nodded my head. “Working is hard, but you know how much I like my job and how hard I’ve worked to get to where I’m at.” I shrugged my shoulders and twisted my hands in my lap. “And besides, if I stopped working, we couldn’t ever move or take the next step in our lives. It would be like one step forward, two huge steps back.”
Jake’s arm extended forward as he grabbed my hand again. “We still could move. I think we could still swing it financially. Especially if we weren’t paying for day care anymore.”
“Even still, I’ve always planned on being a working mom, so that’s what I’m going to do. Like I said, it’s hard, but I’m sure it’ll get easier.” As I said the words, they sounded more like a prayer, a hope, rather than a real belief. I shook my head slightly, as if to clear any opposing thoughts.
“OK, if that’s what you want. It’s just an option that you’ll have if you want. I just want you to be happy,” Jake said. He pulled me toward him, against his chest. I hugged him again and tried to ignore the disappointment I thought I saw flash across his face.
Saturday, March 29
3:00 P.M.
I have spent most of today saying things like, “I love being able to run errands on my lunch hour!” and, “Remember how excited I was to land my first job in event planning?” Jake is looking at me like I’ve gone clinically insane. Truth is, I’m not sure if my proclamations are more for his benefit or mine.
Naturally, my Tribune article is still not done. It didn’t help that Jake and I disappeared into a black hole this afternoon, i.e., Costco.
Ordinarily, I would be too smart to even set foot inside Costco on a weekend, but my recent lack of sleep has rendered me malleable to nearly any suggestion, so I agreed. Not to mention, I thought it was a fabulous procrastination avenue and a wonderful distraction from any Serious Thinking.
If this is any indication of how it went, my blog entry today was titled: “This Day Needs to Come to Life So I Can Painfully Kill It.”
After I pumped Sara up in the car with so much formula Jake and I could’ve used her as an inflatable raft in case of a sudden flash flood, we set forth to the giant windowless building that houses things like five hundred empanadas in one box. As we walked through the parking lot, I snickered at the people around me trying to fit things like boxes of seven thousand Cheese Nips into their trunks until Jake reminded me that the last time we came here I bought a box of Pringles so large we had to strap it to the roof of our car.
We walked in the door and I futilely tried to distract Jake from the huge televisions displayed as we walked in the door.
“I think the diapers are over here.” I pointed to the left.
“Just one second,” he said, and wandered over to the electronic section.
I sighed and leaned my head forward, resting it on Sara’s car seat.
“Your daddy is going to drive me nuts here, isn’t he?” I asked her.
She grinned at me and sa
id, “A-Gee,” which I took to mean You can bet your ass, Mom.
After ten minutes, I steered the extra-large cart over to Jake.
“We have one of these giant TVs, remember? It makes me nauseous every time I watch it, since our place really isn’t big enough for a sixty-inch screen.”
Silence as he ignored me and continued to stare at the whopping electronic.
“You know, we should probably get a new television. Thanks to my promotion and all.” Jake walked forward and pretended to pet the large black thing. I have no idea what it was, possibly some kind of speaker.
“Jake?” He still didn’t move. “JAKE. I DON’T HAVE THE STRENGTH TO ARGUE WITH YOU ABOUT WHY WE DON’T NEED THIS. WE DON’T NEED EYEGLASSES, AN ENGAGEMENT RING, T-SHIRTS, OR RANDOM WEIRD BOOKS OR ANY OF THE OTHER CRAP THEY SELL HERE. CAN WE PLEASE JUST BUY DIAPERS? AND MAYBE SOME VALIUM?”
That did it.
“OK, sorry. I just wanted to see what deals they had. Costco kicks ass.”
We made it another ten feet before my husband wandered off again. A Siren, a.k.a. the free-sample-dispenser lady, enticed him to crash his boat into the rocky cliffs by waving around some spring rolls, and I knew I’d lost him. I watched as he jockeyed for position, trying to get a sample amidst all the people who stand in front of the displays for hours on end, jamming free food into their mouths.
He handed me a small cup. “Try it.”
He extended his arm, like Eve giving Adam the forbidden fruit. I gave in and tried the spring roll.
“So good!” I proclaimed, and 750 frozen spring rolls entered our cart.
Another five feet and Jake said, “Hey, look! Taquitos!”
This time, I resisted temptation. “Jake, fifteen hundred taquitos would slowly colonize in the freezer, become self-aware, and hypnotize Butterscotch into believing Zoltan is coming down from the cosmos to save him, so he should throw himself out the window to join the spaceship. And they will force me to get really, really fat,” I said. The free-sample lady shot me an evil grin as she turned to peddle her wares to a different customer.
“Fine.” Jake’s shoulders slumped as he pushed the cart away.
As we turned down the aisle with twenty-three thousand Band-Aids in one box, an elderly woman with a very large, silver beehive cooed “How cute! She’s adorable!” as she pointed at Sara.
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