Baby Proof (4 page)

In any event, I decide it’s time to confide in Jess.

So the next day we meet for lunch at a deli halfway between our respective offices. We order sandwiches at the counter, then pick up bags of Baked Lay’s and bottles of Evian and sit at an open table by a window. There are five construction workers sitting behind us, and after one gets up to go, Jess remarks that he has “the perfect ass.” She reminds me of a guy in her unabashed commentary on body parts of the opposite sex. I check out his Levi’s-clad backside, agree with her that it is a mighty nice one, and then tentatively launch into my dilemma.

Jess listens intently, her expression sympathetic. It has been a long time since I have needed any real relationship counseling from her. I can tell she welcomes the distraction from Trey’s latest angst-causing stunt as she says in her Alabama accent she has not shed despite years in the Northeast, “You and Ben will work this out. Do not panic.”

“I’m not panicking yet,” I say. “Well maybe I am just a little bit After all, having kids isn’t really something you can compromise on, you know?”

Jess nods and recrosses her long legs. “Good point.”

“So I’m hoping it’s just a phase,” I say.

Jess lifts the bun of her chicken salad sandwich and tucks a few chips inside. “I’m sure it’s just a phase,” she says. “A little something he’s going through.”

“Yeah,” I say, staring at my turkey sandwich. I haven’t had much of an appetite since our return from the Caribbean.

“Remember his guitar?” she asks, rolling her eyes. Jess loves to make fun of Ben, and he does the same to her, which I only take as a sign of their fondness for each other. She laughs and says, “Ol’ Benny Van Halen was hot to trot for a few months, wasn’t he?”

I laugh, recalling the day that Ben and I wandered past a little shop in the Village called the Guitar Salon. It was tucked inside a charming brownstone, all lit up and inviting on a rainy day. So we went inside and looked around, and after a few minutes, Ben decided that he just had to own a vintage guitar. It was literally the first time he had shown the slightest interest in any musical instrument, but by this time, I was used to Ben’s sudden interest in a wide range of topics. Ben is one of those people who manages to be an enthusiast for many, many things astronomy, films, collecting old watches, you name it. So I watched him fondly and waited patiently as he asked the owner a slew of questions. Then he took his time sampling guitars, running his fingers over the strings and even attempting to play. An hour later, he was spending a small fortune on a 1956 Spanish guitar made of spruce rosewood, along with a package of lessons taught by someone of moderate fame in the New York classical guitar world.

For months, Ben practiced with an endearing fervor, quickly mastering the basics and acquiring impressive calluses. On my birthday he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You” a song that, I sheepishly confess, makes me melt, especially because I’ve always maintained that Ben looks a little bit like a young, sandy-haired version of Elvis.

But a short time later, Ben lost interest in his new hobby and retired his guitar to a dusty corner under our bed. Recently, he posted it for sale on eBay. Jess reassures me now that his current fixation on fatherhood will be just as short-lived.

“Only problem is,” I say, “Ben actually owned a guitar before abandoning the idea of becoming an accomplished musician.”

“That’s true,” she says, scrolling through e-mail on her Black-Berry. Jess is a masterful multitasker. She furiously types a reply with her thumbs as she says, “And there’s no way to temporarily own a child, is there?”

“That’s where Ray and Annie’s baby could come in handy,” I say, thinking of the week-long stays at my sister Maura’s house after she had each of her three babies. All three visits were initially thrilling as there is nothing quite as meaningful or special as meeting a new member of your family. I also loved spending such quiet, intimate time with my sister, who is usually so frenetically busy with her many Bronxville social obligations. Maura and I have had some of our best talks in that cozy new-baby aftermath, both of us in our robes and slippers with our teeth unbrushed. Still, the nighttime feeding duties I would volunteer for were always brutal, and I would leave her house with a bone-tired weariness that verged on actual pain . I honestly don’t know how so many women keep that up for weeks and months at a time.

“Was the kid born yet or what?” Jess asks.

I smile at her wording. For someone desperate to be a mother, she’s going to have to soften up her vocabulary.

“Any day now,” I say. “So let’s hope that this is nothing that a few hours with a real, live infant can’t cure.”

As if on cue, Raymond Gage Jr. arrives the following afternoon, following fourteen hours of labor and a last-minute emergency C-section. Ben calls me at work with the news.

“Annie and Ray want us to come right over,” he says excitedly.

The hospital invite surprises me. Annie and Ray are our close friends, but I didn’t think we were that close. I thought we were more “Come see the baby as soon as we take him home” level friends. Still, the current controversy notwithstanding, I am looking forward to meeting their baby.

So after work I take the subway to Roosevelt Hospital where I meet up with Ben in the hospital gift shop. He has already picked up a couple of Mylar balloons and a card that we sign on the elevator ride up to the baby wing. We make our way to Room 1231. The door is adorned with a big, pastel blue stork holding an it’s a boy! banner, as are approximately half of the doors on the corridor.

Given Annie’s rough delivery, I am expecting a subdued gathering, but there is a full-on, raucous party inside. The room is filled with flowers, gifts, and at least a dozen friends and relatives who are snapping photos of the baby and clamoring to hold him.

There are even a few bottles of champagne that Ray hides behind his back whenever a nurse stops by.

Ray and Annie beam as they retell the details of Annie’s water breaking, the cab ride to the hospital, and their fight right before Annie got her epidural when Ray admitted he had left the video camera at home. We laugh and listen and admire Raymond Jr., who looks exactly like his father (and I’m not one who can normally see such resemblances).

It is a good time for all, but I am very aware of the effect the celebration is having on Ben. He is swept up in emotion and clearly thrilled for our friends, but I can tell that he is also uneasy and wistful. Not quite sad, but as close as you can get to being sad without actually being sad. His expression reminds me of a single bridesmaid at a wedding as she listens to the twentieth toast of the night.

Just as we are about to take turns holding Raymond Jr., a lactation consultant stops in, and Ray asks politely if everyone would please leave. I’m surprised that Annie, who would have been burning bras had she been born a few years earlier, cares a lick about her privacy, but then again, don’t they say a baby changes everything? We give Annie and Ray our final congratulations and tell them we’ll be in touch soon.

As we ride the subway home, I am hoping that Ben understands that the party only lasts so long. That once you bring the baby home from the hospital and a few weeks pass, the champagne-and-casserole flow stops, and you’re on your own in the middle of the night.

In case this point is lost on him, I let a few weeks pass and then call Ben and innocently suggest that we offer to baby-sit for Annie and Ray. Give them a chance to go out alone. Ben thinks it’s a great idea. We conference call our friends who graciously accept.

So the following Friday night, Ben and I take a cab over to Annie and Ray’s and climb the stairs to their third-floor walk-up (as I comment on how hard it will be to drag a stroller up and down the steps). I am hoping for a set of haggard parents, a messy house, the stench of sour milk commingling with the odor of dirty diapers. But Ray comes to the door clean-shaven and chipper, and I notice with dismay that their apartment is spotless. Neil Young’s “Good to See You” is playing a bit louder than you’d expect in a home with a new baby, who is sleeping angelically in his car seat.

“Where are you all going tonight?” I ask, eager to move them on their way. Leave the baby with Ben and me. Shine a light on our grand incompetence.

“Change of plans,” Annie says briskly. I note that she looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon, and she still has that pregnant glow.

“What? Too tired to go out?” I prod.

“No. We’re all going out. Table for four at Pastis awaits us!” Ray says.

I silently curse my choice of nice jeans, a basic black top, and flats. I can’t very well protest on the grounds that I’m wearing babysitting garb. Not that my friends would likely accept an “I’m wearing sneakers” sort of excuse.

“Are you sure?” I say. “We wanted you to have some time alone.”

“No! We miss you guys!” Annie says, hugging me.

“So who is watching Ray junior?” Ben asks.

“He’s coming along,” Annie chirps.

“Seriously?” I ask.

Annie nods.

“He sleeps all the time. He’ll be fine!” Ray says, lifting his son’s car seat up as if to prove the point. “Hey you guys wanna hold him before we take off? We have a few minutes It won’t wake him up.”

“Sure. Let me wash my hands first,” I say, remembering my sister’s obsession with germs after her first baby was born.

I walk over to the kitchen sink and scrub in, considering my strategy. Should I jostle him a little and try to wake him? Should I feign an awkward cradle, proving that babies aren’t my thing? I dry my hands and decide that such stunts might be too obvious. So I gently take the baby from Ray’s outstretched arms. I cradle his tiny head with my free hand and sit on the couch next to Ben. We both gaze down at Raymond Jr., who is wearing a white cashmere onesie and matching cap. He remains sound asleep, and I can tell right away that he is going to screw me and play the role of perfect baby.

After a few minutes of conversation, Ben says, “May I?”

Annie beams. “Of course.”

Ben is a natural, completing my handoff with ease. Raymond Jr. opens one eye and peers up at Ben. Then he yawns, tucks his knees up against his chest, and falls back asleep. Ben looks smitten.

“Don’t they look precious together?” Annie says.

I nod, feeling annoyed by my friend’s use of the word precious . It is the first sign that she has changed. The old Annie would never have used a word like precious unless doing so disparagingly.

Ben runs one finger gently over Raymond Jr.‘s cheek. “I can’t believe how soft his skin is.”

Of course he can’t have a little eczema or baby acne, I think.

Ben keeps gushing. “Look, Claudia. Look how tiny his fingers are.”

Raymond Jr. clutches Ben’s thumb, and I wonder how I’m supposed to compete with a stunt like that. The kid is good .

“Does he ever cry?” Ben says.

Annie says, not too much, he’s a very easy baby.

Naturally.

“We’re really lucky,” Ray says. “In fact, we have to wake him up at night for his feedings.”

“That’s highly unusual,” I say, glancing nervously at Ben.

Everyone ignores my comment as Ray whisks his son up, bundles him back into his car seat, and leads the charge down to the street where he flags a cab almost instantly. I am hoping that the baby counts as a fifth person over the legal limit in a cab but our driver doesn’t protest.

The rest of the evening continues smoothly, with Raymond Jr. snoozing peacefully in the noisy restaurant. Our conversation is normal and fun, and I almost forget that there is an infant sleeping under the table. When all else fails, I find myself rooting for an unsavory boob out on the table, but Annie produces a discreet bottle of formula, explaining that she’s decided breast-feeding isn’t her thing.

So short of the word precious , I have nothing on Annie or Ray or the baby.

On our way home that night, Ben asks what I thought of Raymond Jr.

I say he is really cute, very sweet.

“But?” Ben says, because my tone suggests a but .

I start rambling about how rare it is for a baby to sleep so much. I remind Ben that my sister’s kids all had colic, and that even short of colic, most babies fuss a lot more than Raymond Jr. My monologue is not exactly subtle, but neither is Ben’s rebuttal: a sales pitch centered on lofty and impractical offers to take “full, nighttime responsibility” for our baby should we somehow produce the difficult kind. It is as if he believes that the only thing keeping me from having children is my desire for a full eight hours of slumber. He follows that up with a speech about his firm’s liberal paternity-leave policies and the appeal of being a stay-at-home dad.

“A stay-at-home dad?” I say. “You love your career.”

Ben shrugs. “I’d love our baby, too The point is, you wouldn’t have to change your schedule at all , Claudia,” he says. Then he repeats the statement, with the same emphasis on you and all .

“I heard you the first time,” I say.

That night, around three a.m., I find myself wide awake and worrying. I strongly consider shaking Ben and saying, “Your turn to get the baby, honey.” After all, it’s one thing to talk about getting up in the middle of the night. It’s a very different thing to do it when all you really feel like doing is sleeping.

But I decide against this tactic. After all, the way things have been going for me lately, Ben would likely get up, whistling and brainstorming baby names.

three

Ben’s baby comments verge on bribery and continue rapid-fire over the next few days. I tell myself to hang in there, don’t blow up, ride it out. I tell myself that I should give him at least as long as his guitar-playing days lasted on the off chance that babies are just Ben’s current fixation. Or maybe he’s just a little restless or bored or looking for something to fill a void. This would fit with one of my theories of why some couples even the ones so ill-suited to be parents have children. The theory is that part of the baby allure might have to do with our society’s focus on “firsts.” With benchmarks and rites of passage. We have our first kiss, first relationship, high school graduation, college, college graduation, first job, wedding, first home. Having a child just seems to be the next thing remaining in the progression of life, the only momentous step left to take. Or maybe couples just want to vicariously experience all those great firsts again through their children. Relive the highs and erase their mistakes. I’m not saying all couples have a baby for these reasons most truly want to be parents but I think some do.