Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (27 page)

“I seem to recall Annie and Zach being way hotter at one point than any fictional couple,” Zach butters me up. “Remember that one time on a road trip near Prairie Dog Town—”

“Less talk, Zach. More kissing,” I command.

And our imaginary soundtrack swells in the background.

168 Days Old

My mom is finally home from her trip, and she brings Sam the entire inventory of San Francisco's baby t-shirt line.

“I don't think he'll even be this size for the number of days there are t-shirts,” I tell her.

“So I'll change him multiple times a day,” she explains. “You won't be here to stop me anyway.”

“Ma! What kind of thing is that to say? You know I'm freaked out about going back to work in three days. You don't have to scare me with your psycho grandma threats.”

“It was one threat. Hardly a threat. They're just t-shirts. It's not like I'm going to slip chicken soup into his bottles to help him sleep during the night.” She smiles slyly.

“You wouldn't,” I challenge her.

“I don't think I will. Not consciously, at least,” she goads.

“Mom! Please don't make me have to fire you.”

“You have to pay someone to fire them,” she notes.

“You are being paid in baby kisses and dirty diapers. Besides, you're the one who's always telling me solemn tales of your friends where daughters-in-law never let them spend a single moment alone with their grandbabies. Think of how many moments I'm gifting to you.”

“Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to go to work?”

In order to make this a true trial run, and not me just running errands around town and secretly spying on my mom with a pair of never-used binoculars I found in our crawl space, I'm going into my classroom today to set things up, including my pumping closet, which I will also be using for the first time.

My car is packed with folders, papers, snacks, and my pump bag. The fridge is stocked with cold cuts for Mom, along with thawing packets of breastmilk. The kitchen counter is lined with clean bottles, and the refrigerator is covered with neatly typed instructions for everything from feeding to changing to naptime to playtime.

“Call if you have any questions. Really. You won't be bothering me,” I remind my mom for the fiftieth time.

“Sam and I are ready, Annie. And so are you. Go have yourself a nice day at work.”

I take several starting breaths, searching for one more instruction or warning, but none materialize. I guess it is time to leave.

“I love you,” I say to Sam, and kiss his forehead, each cheek, rubberband wrists, and his forehead again.

“Love you, too, honey,” my mom says. “Now leave.”

“Bye-bye.” I wave while backing out the door. Taking deep breaths, I manage not to cry the entire ride to work. In fact, I sometimes manage to enjoy the freedom of driving without having to turn into a contortionist to settle Sam in the backseat.

On the way to my classroom, I run into several colleagues, and we exchange hugs, summer stories, and gossip about who's dating, who's hired, and who left unexpectedly. I barely have time to hang up my bulletin board when it's time to pump.

The first thing I do is tack up a notice I created on the computer and laminated, a smiley clock surrounded by the line “Privacy needed—Please come back in ten minutes.” I don't know if that will encourage too many questions from my students, but even if it inspires a discussion about pumping breastmilk, at least I'm teaching the kids something. Plus, there's this handy slide lock Stanley installed on the inside of the door for me.

I prop up my iPad and play some footage I have of Sam attempting to raise his head during tummy time. Already that seems like so long ago.
My big boy,
I think, and the happy feeling inspires a healthy amount of pumped milk.

When I finish, I snap my nursing bra shut and place the pumped milk into a small cooler bag. I wind up the pump tubes, and I hear a quiet knock resounding through the small closet.

“Annie?” a voice sneaks under the door, and I recognize it as my librarian friend, Devin.

“Can you have lunch?” she asks.

I open the door and shut off the closet light. “Not today. I have to get home. My mom is watching Sam solo for the first time.”

“For a second I thought you meant his name was ‘Sam Solo.'” Devin chuckles.

“That would have made sense in our house. But actually, it's Sam Doogan.”

“Like your cat? Sweet.” Devin smiles.

“Yeah. I better get going. I'm afraid I'll get home and find that my mom cut Sam's hair and is feeding him a bagel.”

“Good luck,” Devin offers.

The morning flies by, and when I get home my mom is knitting on the couch and watching
Out of Africa,
one of her favorites.

“How did it go?” she whispers.

“Fine. How did it go here?” I ask.

“He was perfect. Took the bottle well. He didn't fall asleep right away, but he only fussed for a minute or two. And now he's sleeping.”

“Well, okay, then.” I nod, partially with relief and just a tiny bit with disappointment. It would be nice if Sam raised a little hell while I was away. Just a drop. But I remember to count my blessings and remind myself that if he is happy, then I should be happy.

I take off my shoes and park myself on the couch next to my mom. I take a moment to relax before I sit up. “You didn't give him any chicken soup, did you?”

Mom winks.

169 Days Old

I planned to spend one of my last days on maternity leave filling out the glaringly blank pages of Sam's baby book. Do I really want to relive his birth? The sleepless nights? The questionable mental health moments? Maybe I'll open it again in a year or two when I've forgotten everything. It's not like Sam is going to care about the first time he held up his head. Or laughed. Or lost his (shudder) belly button crud.

As I ponder whether this will top off my list of parenting flubs, a package arrives. It's small, postmarked from Sweden, and addressed to Sam. Inside is a crocheted R2D2 hat and a note from Annika.

Needed to get away for a bit, so I took off for Sweden. Met a lovely man on the plane. Will tell you all about him when I get home. I knitted this along the way. I miss you.

Love, Annika

The R2D2 cap is about ten sizes too big for Sam, but I'll save it for when he's older. I'll tell him his wacky aunt Annika made it for him. She'll be the aunt he hears lots of stories about but rarely sees. And she always sends the best gifts.

FACEBOOK STATUS

I go back to work tomorrow! So happy and so sad all at the same time. Definitely a double-dessert kind of day.

I can't believe how many people liked and commented on my Facebook status. All of the high school Facebook friends came out of the woodwork again. It's amazing how many women do this: birth a baby and then go back to work. And they all are so encouraging about it:

You'll be so happy you did.

Best decision I ever made.

The time you have together will be all the more special.

Only one person said, “You'll quit next year.” It was some girl I had gym class with who keeps posting bikini selfies of her new boobs. Delete and unfriend.

I read the encouraging comments again. I hope they're right. I hope I made the right choice.

170 Days Old

I talked to Sam's doctor today. Even though he is a few weeks shy of six months, she okayed him starting on solids. I wanted to be the one to give him his first taste of rice cereal before I go back to work. I'm afraid of missing out on firsts: first words, first crawling, first steps … Zach made the argument that when I experience them, they'll still be firsts for me, but that's not the same thing. Zach doesn't get it. I think there is something very inherently different between the way men and women deal with children. Or maybe it's just me and Zach. But things don't seem as big of a deal to him—the good or the bad. Earlier, Zach didn't understand how I could feel hatred toward Sam. Now, he can't comprehend why I don't want to miss the milestones. Is it different in a house with two Mimis? Am I being overly sentimental?

As I place Sam in his high chair for the first time, a gift from my mom when he was born, I stifle tears at the sight of my big boy sitting up, waiting to be fed. The cereal is liquid mush and doesn't smell very good, but I bought the organic, brown rice kind to start Sam on a road to healthy eating. Maybe the white rice smells better.

I take the tiniest spoonful and place it to Sam's lips, lips that undeniably look like miniature versions of mine: the same small bow on top and full, round bottom lip. He rumples his brow as though trying to make a decision on this new sensation. The food goes in, the food dribbles out, and we repeat for the next ten minutes until Sam gets cranky.

I remove him from his high chair, fumbling with the lock on the sliding tray. “Don't worry, Sammy!” I tell him. “I'll get you out.” Eventually I manage to disengage the mechanism, and I lift Sam into my arms. He's too big now to dangle over my shoulder, but he clings to my shirt. I never imagined anything could feel so good.

Today is our last day home together, so I strap him into the Moby Wrap and set out for a long walk. It's a glorious day, with scant humidity, a blue sky freckled with animal-shaped clouds, and a breeze to wick away my hormonal sweat.

Several blocks in, we meet the Walking Man, Irving, and we stop to chat.

“Maureen tells me she's got a new friend.” He twiddles Sam's toes.

“Thank you so much for introducing me to her. I think it's going to work out really well.”

“Count on it,” the retired accountant quips. “Onward!” he announces, finger in the air, and he's off again.

I do enjoy running into the Walking Man, but I'm a tad disappointed that he wasn't some friendly apparition brought to earth to lead me to day care.

I walk and walk until I reach the coffee shop. I'm prepared with an arsenal of witty comebacks for the stay-at-home-mom pusher, but she and her brood are nowhere to be seen. Probably for the better. I wouldn't want to get arrested the day before I go back to work. The judge would side with me, right?

I order an iced coffee, and the woman behind the counter gushes, “He is so adorable. Oh, my gosh! Jenna, look.” She draws over the barista. “Isn't he the cutest little guy you've ever seen?” The two perky coffee purveyors
ooh
and
ahh
over the baby boy strapped to my chest. “He looks just like her, doesn't he?” Jenna asks her coworker. “He looks just like you,” she repeats to me.

A customer lines up behind me, and I move aside to wait for my drink. When my name is called, I gather the cool beverage in my hands like a warm drink on a brisk fall day. My body is filled with a new kind of warmth. And I owe it all to this boy I wear over my heart, my son, the one who looks just like me.

 

Acknowledgments

This book wouldn't exist without the brilliant idea from Jean Feiwel that reawakened my writing joy. Thank you to Liz Szabla, my friend and editor for six (!) novels, and my agent, Rosemary Stimola, for making this happen and riding along for the sleep-deprived journey. Thank you to Brendan Deneen and Nicole Sohl at Macmillan Entertainment, and to everyone at Macmillan, old and new, as we grow up together.

To my mom friends, Lillian Johnston, Tracy Heins Lehman, Ali Kafcas, Emily Keeter, Nina Hess, and Jen Perlis-Glassman, thanks for your invaluable sanity support; and to my non-mom friends, Katie Nelson, Beth Rubin, and Liz Mason, thank you for taking me away from the kids occasionally. And special thanks to my D&D friends—Andrew, Brian, Jake, John, and Mike—for bringing magic and mayhem to my suburban mom existence.

Thank you to all of my Facebook friends, many of whom I barely knew in high school but who offer so much insight and camaraderie in parenthood. To Jim Klise, my writing friend and bagel partner. To Gabrielle Zevin and Mary Hogan, for the excellent advice. To Joyce Buckley, for the best nursing cover ever. To my sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, and in-laws, for the unconditional support.

Thank you to the Warren Newport Public Library and the Round Lake Area Public Library, for providing free and comfortable writing spaces for a mom who needed to get out of the house. Thank you to our veterinarians, Dr. Kathy Berman, who took care of our cat long ago, and Dr. Katie Dymek, for bringing his life to such a humane end. To the Kalinowskis, for being the best neighbors ever. To Laura, Maria, Marta, and Cheli, for the advice and ears and being the only people on the planet who make me feel at all glamorous.

Special thanks to all of the health-care professionals who helped me on my long and complicated road to becoming a mom: Debi Lesnick, Gaye Koconis, and Dr. Pamela Goodwin for the births of my two children, and Dr. Ouyang and Dr. Horton for your unbelievable kindness, compassion, and care. To Dr. Marilyn Zwirn, our most trusted pediatrician. And to Jeanne Cygnus, who changed my life and the lives of my children with her immeasurable and invaluable knowledge of breastfeeding.

And, most important, thank you to Matt, Romy, and Dean. Without you three, I would not hold the most important title on my CV: Mom. I love you more than
Battlestar Galactica, Buffy,
and Disney World combined.

 

About the Author