Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (24 page)

“Oh yeah? Like who?”

“I'm not sure yet. It has to be somewhat easy, since I have to make it in a week. I'm thinking someone classic, like Superman or Batman. Seeing as he can't even walk and most of his costume will be hidden by the Moby Wrap anyway,” I consider.

Zach laughs to himself.

“What? Use your words,” I demand.

“This is how I pictured it, you know, having a kid? Going to comic conventions, dressing him up like a nerdling, being happy.”

“I like that you pictured what having a kid would be like,” I admit.

“Like it enough that you want to jump my bones?”

“Like it enough for you to refer to sex in some way other than that of a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“Ouch.”

“So I was thinking today—”

“About sex?” Zach asks.

“Is that all you think about? Because that wasn't all you thought about before we had a baby.”

“It's not all I think about. I thought I was recognizing a subtle segue.”

“No. That was me changing the subject. To Sam's middle name.”

“Thwarted again. You're not still pushing for Atreyu, are you? Because I thought we put the kibosh on that in your second trimester.”

“No, I was thinking, though, that maybe we could give Sam a middle name. I'm not married to him not having one, and maybe it would be nice to give him a name that has sentimental value instead of merely sci-fi value.”

“Samuel was my great-great-grandfather, and the S is for my dad,” Zach reminds me.

“Whatever. Since we have a family name from your side”—I pause to dole out a heaping helping of charming eyelash bats—“we give him the middle name from my side. After, you know, Doogan.”

“After the cat? Won't that be a little weird?”

“Doogan can be a human name, too. Like that movie
Max Dugan Returns
.”

“I never saw that.”

“Me neither. But no one has to know why we gave him the middle name Doogan. Maybe they'll think we named the cat after someone, and we're carrying on the tradition by giving our son the same name. They don't have to know that the someone is actually the cat.”

Zach ruminates as he shovels pad thai into his mouth.

“He was a good friend. A great pet. You loved him, too. Can we do it?” I press.

Extra pause.

“You realize you're not allowed to say no, since I'm the one that spewed Sam out of my cooch.”

“You're going to hold that over me for a while, aren't you?” Zach asks.

“Every damn day until I die,” I confirm.

“Okay. Samuel Doogan Schwartz-Jensen it is. But you have to figure out how we get it on his birth certificate and everything.” Zach looks over at Sam, batting a frog toy hanging above him in his bouncer. “Sammy D.,” he announces. “I like it.”

“So do I,” I agree. And my heart feels so full, I can barely swallow.

It should be the norm to wait on baby names.

What if you name your kid at the hospital, and they end up not looking or acting like the name you gave them when they were merely a blob of a person? I can already tell Samuel Doogan is the perfect fit.

To: Annie

From: Louise

Dear Annie,

Sorry about my last email. Sometimes I wish I can delete emails I send, not just ones I receive. Make sure you delete all the horrible ones you get from me, ok? I don't want any of that dark shit coming back to me if I ever try to apply for a new job. Speaking of dark shit, how's your belly button looking? I can't believe mine is going to start spreading again. Will it ever go back to its pre-baby cuteness? That was always my favorite body part: my petite belly button. And my right earlobe. The left one has a beauty mark with a hair sticking out of it.

I've slightly warmed up to the idea of another baby, and that's only because Gertie has been extra cute lately. I'm sure it will pass. Or maybe my baby brain will kick into extra high pregnancy gear, and I won't remember all of my misery anyway.

Do you have time for another mommy date before you go back to work, and I become a bloated toad? Let me know—

Lou

151 Days Old

Sam and I may be on better terms, but he's still a buttwad at night.

I am amazed to learn that there are over four hundred people waiting on the QVC phone lines just to order a velveteen table runner. I hope they don't sell out.

152 Days Old

I spend the week constructing a baby Robin costume, à la Batman and Robin circa the television shows of the 1960s. I found a pair of white baby tights, a green diaper cover (both from the girls' section, but I won't tell if Sam won't), and I'm sewing the red tunic out of felt. I also fabricated a black mask that will probably stay on Sam's face for only 1.3 seconds. As long as it's enough time for a picture I can post on Facebook, I'm happy.

153 Days Old

After working on Sam's costume and imagining the never-ending stream of cosplay photos people will be taking of him, I realize that the person holding him will be in the photos, too. Me. And my jiggly stomach that stays put only inside the magical waistband of my yoga pants. But I can't wear yoga pants to a comic book convention. I don't want to look like a dork.

Before I try any of my clothes on, I hit the Spanx drawer. Some people bow down at the altar of Spanx, but my relationship has always been less worship and more acquaintance you smile at when you greet them but give them the finger behind their back after they walk away.

I pull out the biker shorts variety, taupe in color and already eyeing me condescendingly. Wearing underwear (I cannot convince myself to go undieless in Spanx, no matter how many people tell me that it is the norm—I know full well what's about to go down in the cotton-stitched crotch area, and I don't think any amount of hand washing can undo the damage), I step each foot into the leg holes. Down around my ankles, things feel promising. Then I yank the waistband upward. That's when the party begins to stall out. My thighs, which have never been my most problematic areas, turn into fat-dappled sausage meat wrestling with their casing. I tug them up as high as they are willing to go, and I have a sickening dividing line between where the Spanx end and my leg begins. It grows whiter by the millisecond. I can see knee fat. My stomach may look smoother and stay relatively in one place when I walk, but the newly formed belly roll that settles over the top, along with its matching thigh Twinkies, is enough to make any woman look for liposuction Groupons.

Did I mention the sweat? Proving me brilliant for wearing underwear, my vagina is already a good fifteen degrees warmer than its average setting.

I look horrid. I feel even worse. The Spanx are so tight that my thumb can barely squeeze its way into the all-powerful waistband.

The juices continue to stew, and I make a mental note never to touch an already opened package of Spanx at a department store. Not that I will ever touch a pair of Spanx again. What sadistic minion of Satan devised these things? Why am I supposed to be keeping my body still anyway? “You will not oppress me any longer!” I yell at the Spanx, and I grab a pair of nail scissors from my nightstand. The tiny blade is no match for the sinister force of the spandex, but I am determined. Plus, I really have to go to the bathroom now. I hack away, little bits of nylon falling willy-nilly until, finally, relief comes as the waistband sags away from my skin and I'm able to roll the beast off of me.

A red mark is etched into my stomach, but I wear it with pride. I fought a battle, and this is my scar. I am the victor. Until we meet again, Spanx. Until we meet again.

154 Days Old

Today I managed to wash and dry one load of laundry, fold it, and put away every last piece. This calls for a chocolate cake shake. I need the extra calories and energy because I've started to store up more breastmilk for Sam when I go to work. The timing of everything is beyond complicated: I feed Sam when he wakes up, I feed Sam when he goes down for his nap. So when do I pump? My best bet is to do it while he's sleeping, but if I just fed him, there isn't anything left to pump. If I wait an hour and I start pumping, I'm guaranteed he's going to wake up early. Maybe the melody of the pump motor wakes him up. Sometimes I swear I can hear the grinding breaths of the pump even when I'm not pumping. I better get used to it. Me and Old Pumper are going to be spending a lot of time together in the coming months in a storage closet. I wish that were as sexy as it sounds.

To: Annie

From: Annika

Hey Annie!

What have you been up to? Isn't your maternity leave almost over? I bet you're going to miss all that free time, sitting on the couch, kissing your baby, and working out. You won't have any time to work out when you go back to school. Hope you don't gain back the baby weight! You look pretty good for someone who just had a baby. Almost as good as Gwyneth. If you squint, right? If you have a chance, let's grab brunch before work and you're too busy to remember your friends.

Xo,

Annika

Dear Annika,

You think I'm sitting on my ass all day watching “The View” and eating Thin Mints while toning my abs?

I am with this baby all the time. Every second. I spend at least 35 percent of my time trying to get him to sleep, and when he does—the time you think I must be fanning myself on my chaise lounge—I have to be so quiet as not to wake him that I can't do 90 percent of the things I need to do. Not that I have the energy to do them because I am up with him every three hours during the night. He is sucking all the nutrients from my body because not only did I grow this human inside of me, but I am now giving my body to SUSTAIN HIS LIFE. I'm losing weight because I can't possibly eat enough to regenerate all of the calories lost to this person who grows an inch every month. And, oh, maybe I manage to put in a load of laundry here and there, but then Sam wakes up and I forget about it and by the time tomorrow rolls around the wet laundry smells so bad I have to rewash it. This week I washed the same load of laundry four times.

And what do you think I'm doing when he's awake? Setting him on a bed of homemade blankets while I smile at him and read GOOP? He will not let me put him down for a second. I take shits while he sucks on my boob. He needs constant feeding, constant connection, and constant entertainment. We played peekaboo for an hour yesterday.

And you think all I do is sit on my ass? I haven't sat on my ass since this kid was born.

Don't you have a brunch to go to? I'm sure your ass will have a grand ol' time sitting there. My ass has more important things to do.

—Annie

PS: I look a hell of a lot better than Gwyneth because I am REAL, thank you very much.

 

To: Annika

From: Annie

Hey Annika,

Sorry, but I'm so busy trying to squeeze in every last minute I have with Sam before I go back to work I probably won't have time to get together.

Talk soon—

Annie

That other letter would have gone over her head anyway.

155 Days Old

Sam made a new friend! I suppose babies don't yet have the ability to make friends. Or do anything much more than roll over at this stage. But I did get together with a mom and baby from his music class, and I think that constitutes friend status.

Sam's new friend is one of the Jacksons (the non-x version), and my new friend is named Katie. They live one town over, and Jackson is her first child, too. After music class, Katie asked me as I gathered up Sam and put on my shoes if we'd like to go to the park just outside the building. Neither of our sons can do anything at a park aside from flail around in a pile of wood chips, so we found a grassy spot nearby.

“Sam was a preemie?” Katie asks.

The jig is up.

“Not really. I go back to work soon, and I wanted to have the chance to take a music class with Sam before I abandon him completely.”

“You're not abandoning him. Unless, of course, you actually are and plan to leave him at home, unsupervised.”

“I'll set out some bottles for him. Give him a remote. He'll figure it out,” I joke.

“I think it's great that you're going back to work. Sam will see that his mom has a life, too, and learn all about responsibility and money and independence. Eventually, I mean. First they've got to learn how to feed themselves.”

“Do you work?” I ask, and then realize the faux pas of such a loaded question. “Of course you work, as a mom, but I just meant do you have another job outside of the house, one that pays even though it's probably a hell of a lot easier than the more important job we're expected to do for free?” I hope that covered my ass.

“I was a school librarian for six years, and I applied to have one year of leave for Jackson. Between you and me, I've had a lot of days where I've questioned that decision. It's a lot easier going to work. But I'm afraid if I go back, I'll regret it. If I stay home, I might regret it, but at least I can hold it over Jackson's head when he's older. ‘I left my job for you!'” We laugh.

“I've got a whole speech prepared about the pain he caused me during the birth. I'm saving it for when he's a teenager, and slams his door on me.”

Both babies start their huge cries, and Katie and I simultaneously reach into our diaper bags. I pull out my nursing cover, she pulls out a bottle.

I want to ask her why she isn't nursing, but I recognize that's completely obnoxious and judgmental. For all I know, there's pumped breastmilk in that bottle. Or she tried nursing, but it wasn't working. Or she never wanted to nurse to begin with. Seeing as we're hanging out for the first time, I keep my opinionated mouth shut on the matter.