Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (23 page)

The class is fun and awkward, and there are plentiful instances of humming, rocking, and spinning. I can tell everyone feels like an idiot, but we also don't want the teacher to notice. So we attempt to sing, and I remain composed even when marching in a circle and singing about goober peas. By the end of the class, I've learned two things: Some people have wretched singing voices but don't seem to care; and I have incredibly veiny legs, as witnessed by the world as we sat crisscross-applesauce on the floor. Sam seemed oblivious to it all and mostly just stared at people with a concerned look on his face. I'm glad I have already instilled in him the gift of suspicion.

149 Days Old

I walk through the neighborhood, Sam strapped facing outward on my chest. I'm trying to savor moments like this, ones I imagined I'd have as a mother. Me connected with my kiddo, literally if not always figuratively. The care of Sam when I'm not at work weighs heavier than the growing boy hanging off my body. I tick through the possibilities: Convince my mom that other people's parents watch their grandkids full-time; endure a painful round of potentially fruitless nanny interviews; or spend a chunk of Sam's meager college fund to hire a company, which still won't exempt me from having to conduct interviews. There is always plan X: Quit my job and stay home from work. Maybe Righteous Latte Love Mom was right. Maybe I was meant to do this. But as much as I enjoy walking around the neighborhood with Sam, something about being at home all day every day doesn't feel like the right choice for me. Just because I go to work doesn't mean I'll never get to walk with him; I can do it after work, on the weekends, even before work if I force myself to wake up that early. I'll still nurse him before school, after school, and at bedtime (not to mention a veritable smorgasbord of times during the night). I'll be gone during the day, but he'll still crawl, talk, and walk when I come home, too. Speaking of walking, whom should we encounter once again but the infamous Walking Man. Does he ever stop?

“Hello.” He smiles.

“Hello,” I greet back.

We both slow down, two lonely daytime souls looking for adult communication. At least that's my take on it.

“Boy, is he getting big.”

“You don't have to tell me or my back.”

He chuckles. “You go back to school soon?” he asks.

Had I told him I was a teacher? Is the Walking Man omniscient of everyone in the neighborhood? In the world? Is the Walking Man God?

“Less than three weeks,” I say, and pout my lips in the way I'm supposed to show I'm sad about it.

“What are you going to do with this guy?” the Walking Man asks, twiddling Sam's toes. I appreciate how he doesn't touch Sam's hands; too often people think they have the right to play with a baby's fingers when I don't know where their hands have been.

“My mom's going to take him part-time, but I'm still searching for someone the rest of the time.”

“Have you talked to Maureen?” he asks. He does know everyone, doesn't he?

I shake my head. “Maureen?”

“She lives…” He pauses to count. “Seven houses down the block. She runs a day care out of her house. Really nice woman. Retired from teaching five years ago and now has this business.”

“Do you happen to know if she's licensed and everything? CPR?” My questions sound preposterous as I ask them, because why would the Walking Man know? But he answers, “Yes, it's a full business. We talked when she set up her corporation. I'm a retired accountant,” he asides. Could God really be an ex-accountant? How unassuming. “And yes also to CPR. We took a class together last year through the park district.” Naturally.

“Do you know if she has room for another child?” I ask, hope growing inside me.

“I'm sure. She tends to have more kids during the summer while their parents work, and some after-school kids. But why don't we go ask her?”

“Really? Right now?” I'm delighted at the prospect of discovering a hidden day care gem for Sam in my own neighborhood. It all feels too good to be true, which scares the shit out of me. Still, the Walking Man …

“Come on,” he says, and I follow him up the block to a ranch house with a small porch on which stands a dress-up goose. I tried to convince Zach we needed one on our porch, too, when we first moved to the suburbs, but he was adamantly against it. I decided it was a small war I'd let him win (and a victory I lorded over him for several years after).

The Walking Man rings the doorbell, and after a minute or so a gray-haired but not particularly old woman with a round face and matching round belly answers. She wears an apron over a faded school district T-shirt. “Irving!” she greets the Walking Man with a hug. “You're early for bridge night by about four days.” I hear children playing from inside. “Come in. And who's this?”

We step into the foyer, and I realize he doesn't know my name. Or at least I assume he doesn't. “I'm Annie Schwartz-Jensen, and this is my son, Sam. We live a couple blocks away.”

“Nice to meet you. I'd shake your hand, but I've got grape jelly all over mine. I was just making lunch.”

“Annie was wondering if you have room this fall for part-time day care for Sam,” the Walking Man, Irving, tells Maureen.

“I do,” she answers cheerfully. “In fact, as of now I only have one baby, about a year, and a two-year-old brother and sister during the day. We would love to add this little guy.”

I'm stupefied and unprepared without my list of interview questions, but she doles out plenty of information without me even asking.

“How many naps does he take? I have three cribs set up, each in a separate room. My kids moved away, and I took over their bedrooms. They like to complain about it, but I tell them they'll thank me when they learn what their student loans could have been if I wasn't making the extra money. You'll have to tell me everything: number of naps, when he likes to eat. Are you breastfeeding? Pumping?”

“Yes. Both,” I answer, overwhelmed.

“Good for you. I have a nice fridge just for the kids' foods. The only TV is upstairs in my room. We have a swing set in the backyard and a playroom. I put on lots of classical music, and I like to sing even if I'm not very good. You won't tell your mom, will you, Sam?” she asks him. He kicks wildly and smiles as though excited. “I think you'll like it here, Sam. You'll make some nice friends.” Maureen's voice is so sweet, so exactly how I want Sam's caregiver to sound, that I choke out an involuntary sob. “Oh, it'll be okay, honey. He'll be happy, and frankly, when he's older he won't remember much of his life before he's in school anyway. I worked when my kids were little, and they don't hate me.”

I laugh through a sniffle and ask if she has a tissue. She walks me into the kitchen, and I watch three kids playing in her backyard. We talk through the logistics, times, cost, qualifications. It all feels very reasonable and stress-free. When I get up to leave, I notice the Walking Man is gone. “Where's Irving?” I ask.

“He must have slipped out when we were talking. He can't stop walking for long, can he?” she asks.

“No,” I concur.

Maureen and I set up a day next week to test a half-day run-through with Sam. She hugs me good-bye and kisses Sam lightly on the top of the head. Unlike the pictures of the prince and his nanny, I'm not freaked out.

The Walking Man is nowhere in sight as Sam and I make our way home. I'd like to pretend that I imagined him, as though he were a guardian angel or, yes, even God leading me and Sam to the right place. Or maybe he's just a really nice guy who likes to walk a lot, and I was at the right place at the right time.

Either way, I'm one step closer to going back to work.

150 Days Old

Today was a triple drive-thru kind of day. Sam did not want to take a nap, and I was too sad to be at home. Every empty, sunny spot on the floor reminded me of Doogan. I keep finding catnip pillows tucked between couch cushions, behind doors, under the bed. His hairs continue to appear in my cereal bowls. It's too much, so Sam and I are out for a drive.

After a drive-thru donut breakfast, Sam falls asleep in the car and I get myself lost in the back roads of Northern Illinois. It's hard to believe that this is still considered the suburbs of Chicago, because there is nary a skyscraper in sight, and all roads lead to farmland.

A multitude of turns later, we end up at the Volo Auto Museum. Sam awakens when I shut off the engine, and I nurse him in the front seat without a cover. No one walks by the car, and his head does a nice job of protecting my breast from possible scandal. Even though I'm tired, even though I'm sad, I feel a modicum of pride at this moment. Here we are, mother and son, out on the (small) town, without the need for bottles or packed lunches, just a boy and his trusty boob, a woman and her trusty strawberry-frosted donut with sprinkles. When Sam's through eating, I rest him in the hatchback of our station wagon and adeptly tie the intricate Moby Wrap around and around my body until I have magically created a safe haven for Sam. I feel another twinge of triumph at how natural it has become to tie Sam against me. His head is at exactly the right height for kissing, and I repeatedly partake of inhaling the fuzziest hairs on the top of his head.

We pay our entrance fee to the auto museum, and as I walk I explain cars to Sam. I tell him his grandpa fixed cars for a living, but his dad has never even changed a flat tire. “You and me will learn how to do that together, Sammy. I want you to have all sorts of useful skills.”

It dawns on me that Sam will not always be this little log of a person who can't get anywhere or do anything by himself. Someday, Sam will be able to change a tire. Or cook a gourmet meal. Or fly a spaceship. He has a future.

We laugh as we walk through the hall of famous cars: the Batmobile, the Mystery Machine, Ecto One from
Ghostbusters
. “You'll see those movies when you're a little older, Sam,” I tell him. Sam will watch movies.

In other buildings stand rows and rows of classic cars, and I imagine myself tooling around in a 1952 pink convertible. “What do you think of this one, Sam? Too pink? How about this yellow one?”

Someday Sam will drive a car.

I buy a grilled cheese and chips at the museum restaurant. The cashier, an older woman with a gap-toothed grin, asks, “How old?”

“He'll be five months tomorrow,” I tell her.

“That's a good age. They're all good ages. Enjoy every minute.”

For the first time, I am not annoyed by someone telling me to do so. “I'll try,” I agree.

“What's his name?” she asks.

“Sam.”

“Short for Samuel? My late husband was a Samuel. What's his middle name?” she asks.

“He doesn't have one,” I answer, followed by the obligatory explanation: “I don't have one, and his last name is hyphenated, so we thought we'd keep it simple.”

She nods, an appeasing sort of nod, as if she's judging my middle-class white-woman hyphenated-naming ways. I will have to get used to it.

“Well, he can always add one later, if he wants. I always wanted my middle name to be Anastasia. I thought it sounded fancy. Better than Wanda, my real middle name.”

“I like the name Wanda,” I assure her.

“It's not bad. I was named after my aunt who died right before I was born. My mom was very close to her, so she wanted to give me her name as a memory.”

“That's a very nice sentiment,” I say.

“I suppose it is. I better get this next customer before he goes hungry. Have a nice visit. Bye, Sam-with-no-middle-name.”

Sam and I grab a blanket stored in our trunk for winter emergencies and spread it on the lawn outside of the museum. A young couple sits at a nearby picnic table, and two children play at a playground set up on the grass. Sam fiddles contentedly with his toes while I eat my greasy grilled cheese. When I'm finished, I take out my nursing cover and feed Sam, not necessarily because he's hungry but because it keeps him content. The woman of the couple catches my eye and smiles at me. Again, that pride glows inside of me, as though I'm doing something right.

When Sam and I finish our lunch, we stroll across to the antiques mall on the other side of the museum. It boasts six buildings of antiques, and we wind in and out, Sam snug against my chest, happy to look at the sometimes heirloom, sometimes kitschy, items stuffed into every nook and cranny of space. The floor creaks precariously under my feet as I finger a goofy set of
Wizard of Oz
dolls. Maybe Sam will like the film as I always have, or maybe he'll be terrified like Nora was. I buy a set of the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow for $35. If he doesn't like them, I can always give them to Nora's daughter. I am certain she will have a daughter someday.

As I pay, I have a similar conversation with this clerk as I had with the restaurant cashier. Maybe they are trained to ask women with babies about their kids' names, but all of a sudden Sam-with-no-middle-name doesn't seem like enough. An idea bubbles into my brain, and by the time I'm strapping Sam into his car seat I'm certain I can convince Zach of the change.

Sam falls asleep immediately in the car, and I smile the entire drive home. I even reward myself with a Heath bar Blizzard from a DQ drive-thru. Any excuse for a Blizzard, really.

Later

I tell Zach about our day over dinner, and I almost have to slap the annoying grin off his face.

“What?” I demand.

“You look happy, is all. It's nice to see you enjoying your maternity leave, especially since it's almost over.”

“Don't remind me,” I say, and I'm not sure if I do it as a reflexive statement or if I mean it.

“Well, make the most of your last few weeks,” he says. “Wizard World is next weekend.”

“I know. I'm excited! Even though it's hardly about comics anymore, I still love being amongst all of my kindred nerd spirits. I'm thinking of dressing up Sam.”