Momfriends (4 page)

And then, there I was in another monotonous budget meeting. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I hadn’t even gotten my caffeine yet.

We were meeting with the talent people about the demands of one of our most popular actresses who wanted time off to get a medical procedure that we all knew was a face-lift. The actress was fifteen years older than I was and looked as if she could be my younger more stylish sister.

Deanna, the general manager, was actually attending this, because the actress in question was so high-profile. She was one of the actresses that made fans crazy.

Deanna was the type of person to preface one of her many stories about her children with “here’s something adorable my son did the other day” or “I am so in love with my daughter because.” And then after you sat through the whole fifteen minute monologue, wondering the entire time when the actual business of the meeting was going to start, you had to nod, as Deanna asked, “Aren’t they the most amazing children ever?”

I used to dream about getting her job. But now that I had children the idea of it made me tired. I hated the idea that she was able to do it
and
have children. Deanna went to Harvard. If I had transferred maybe I could have done it all too.

Deanna referred to her children’s preschool as their early-childhood education. And today, instead of focusing on the meeting, I was imagining what it would be like to have two nannies like she supposedly did. And then I realized that she was currently looking at me and talking.

“I would be curious for Claudia to show us the ratings and ad losses from two years ago when Sadie, had her last ‘illness,’” Deanna said.

The table looked to me expectantly. In the days before when I got an average of six hours of sleep a night, I would have been able to pull those numbers out of my head, or maybe on the rare off day pull something comparable out of my ass. Now I flipped through the giant budget binder in front of me.

“Let me just find it,” I said, trying to stall. I felt my heart beating fast. If I had actually been paying attention, I would have seen where this meeting was going. I had never been the girl who didn’t have the answer when called on. What was wrong with me? I was the one who always raised her hand before the teacher even finished answering the question.

“Here,” I said, scanning down the document. It didn’t look right. I checked the quarter and realized I had the wrong year. “Oh, hold on.”

“Actually, I’ve got the numbers,” Keith, one of the junior talent agents said. “Claudia gave them to me last week at our meeting. Maybe you mistakenly gave me your hard copy.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying to lie as smoothly as he was. Keith and I never had a meeting. I barely knew him. As another job justification, I sent constant budget emails to people attaching various charts and comparative analysis. I thought most people chucked them. I couldn’t believe Keith had it printed out and organized. That was pretty antlike.

“Or maybe I accidentally swiped it,” he said, making a joke.

“Maybe,” I said, gratefully. When I looked up at him I was pretty sure he winked at me. Keith read the numbers aloud. Deanna told talent to negotiate with Sadie’s agent in a way that she would have to work harder when she returned from her surgery. This way she could have a more intense story arc that would spike the ratings during sweeps.

Deanna ended the meeting but followed me to my office, where she stood hesitantly in my doorway. For a minute I felt as if she was going to reproach me for not being more prepared. This was the last thing I wanted today of all days.

“How’s everything going, Claudia?” Deanna said.

“Great,” I said. I wasn’t sure what this was about. Deflect, I told myself. “I think Sadie is going to be with us for quite sometime.”

“Oh, me too,” Deanna said, giving me the smile she used with the actors. “Are you totally exhausted running after the twins?”

“Oh, they’re a handful,” I said. I hated talking about my kids at work. I always felt like it was going to be used against me. I had seen enough women use their kids as an excuse. No one ever forgot that.

“My two certainly keep me young. Little Chloe is taking ballet now and never wants to take off her tutu, and Aiden won’t eat anything but freezer waffles with cream cheese.” I heard myself give a fake little laugh. Was she going to sit down? What was the point of all this? “And the nannies, they’ve got so many of their own issues. Honestly, sometimes I think we need an administrator to keep it all together.”

I nodded. Nannies? Did she even have any idea how entitled she sounded? Were we bonding now? Was I supposed to empathize with the fact that she had enough money to even consider that as a possibility? Was she going to sit down? If she was, I wished she would.

“And getting here, some mornings I think, Haven’t I already done my full time job?”

“Yes,” I said. I wondered what times her nannies got there. She probably had plenty of time for coffee. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable. She wore designer clothes. Did she have to deal with cereal being flung against the wall? Did she make sure she got home in time to put her kids to bed every night? Would I have asked myself these questions if she were a man? The answer to all of my questions was most likely no. But I couldn’t help comparing us as both mothers and colleagues.

“You know, sometimes you wonder why you had the IVF. All the treatments, the expense both financially and emotionally.”

Sometimes you wonder? Me? Did she think I wondered? I didn’t. My kids were conceived the old fashioned way in spite of what everyone might think of twins. If she were a mom on the street–and I had been asked plenty of personal questions by moms on the street–I would have corrected her, but politically I didn’t know if this was a good idea.

I didn’t say anything. She looked off, lost in her own visions of infertility. Was she going to sit down? It was after four. I had another hour to cram all the work that would have made me stay until at least eight before I had children.

She glanced around my office. She looked confused. Her eyes rested on me. “Any new pictures?”

“Of the twins’” I asked confused.

“Yes,” she said laughing. “I want to see how Jacob and Emma are looking.”

“Emily,” I corrected. No matter how bad it might be politically, I wasn’t going to not correct my daughter’s name. She nodded, but she wasn’t paying attention she was looking over onto my desk.

“Um, I have a couple on my phone,” I said, fishing it out of my bag. These were a good two months old. They were blurry and small. Deanna reached over my desk for my phone and had to squint to see them.

“They’re adorable,” she said. And I knew they were, but I also knew it was impossible to tell from those pictures that I quickly shuttled through on my phone.

“We recently got a bunch of professional ones taken of the kids. It’s a really great investment,” Deanna said. Was she going to sit down? “You know it keeps the grandparents at bay for a while.”

She was trying to bond again. And she wasn’t sitting down, but she was taking one of the chairs in my office and pulling it around to my side of the desk.

“Here I can show you,” she said, reaching out to call up the photographer’s website on my computer.

I sat through the slide show, offering my opinion on which photo to make what size and which ones to use as note cards. I knew she wasn’t going to listen to my opinions or even remember what I said. All she really wanted to know was how cute her kids were.

Very well, then, I would invest in some professional pictures. It might be good for my image. Maybe I was coming off as too much of a hardass. It’s always such a fine line women walk in the office.

It was almost five by the time Deanna’s slide show was over. I was pretty sure that I sufficiently praised her children. And just when I thought I was done, when I had barely enough time to finish up a few things and gather all my work and dash to the subway, Deanna turned at the door. She wanted me to put together a giant spreadsheet with the characters’ hiatus versus ratings versus ad dollars versus various other components. This was more of a job for the research department, but she was the GM and not someone I could say no to.

“Do you think you could have it by close of business Thursday? Is that enough time?” No. It was Tuesday.

“Sure,” I said.

“Super,” Deanna said. She smiled brightly. I bet her teeth were capped. “Thanks, Claudia. Have a great night.”

“You too,” I said.

“Should I close this,’ she said, moving her index finger back and forth next to my door, questioning whether or not to close it.

“Please,” I said, managing a smile.

The door shut behind her. I sighed and rubbed my temples. I should assign this to someone on my team, but I didn’t want to have to shadow her and I knew she wasn’t going to be as detail-oriented as it needed to be. Today of all days.

I glanced at my email and my message light. Nothing. Peter had forgotten it was my birthday. Everyone had forgotten. I knew it was in my assistant, Jennifer’s calendar but she had called in sick, probably because she went out the night before. Partying hard on Monday night. That’s what it was like to be young. I was old. I was thirty-nine.

I was 16 when everyone forgot Molly Ringwald’s birthday in
Sixteen Candles
. I loved that movie. I should have known eventually this would happen to me. Even though, I could never be as cool as Molly.

Now my birthday was just like any other day. Nothing special or cinematic. It was nothing like Molly’s life, there was no Long Duk Dong to peer at me through the glass of my office table and make me laugh. I was pretty sure that Peter didn’t have any Jake Ryan moments planned. Sure, my mother remembered, but that was to make it more about her than me. Nothing unusual there.

The only thing different about today, the only thing that lay underneath my skin like an item unchecked on my to-do list, was the wink from Keith.

I couldn’t quite get it out of my head.

Chapter 3

Ruth Finds Herself in Several Uncomfortable Positions

The last thing I expected was to have my legs open. Again.

But here I am with Dr. Kim peering at my girl parts saying things like, “Beautiful, beautiful. You’re recovering beautifully.”

Now, I never really think of my vagina as beautiful, but I assure you any chance of winning the Ms VAJAYJAY pageant ended when Abe came and pushed his way out almost six weeks ago.

On that fateful day when I thought the pain was finally over and I could close my legs and settle in and bond with my son, I had spent two hours getting stitched up, while Steve got to hold and rock him, politely averting his eyes.

Now, from my vantage point above the stirrups, I look down, smiling, nodding. “Thanks.”

“And you’ve been feeling good.”

“Yeah,” I lie. “For the most part.”

I didn’t want to mention my daily weeping. It happened every day when Oprah was over. I felt personally abandoned by her as soon as I saw that guests of the Oprah show stayed at some Omni hotel that I would never get to stay at. Sometimes they flew on planes. I had no idea how I was ever going to fly with a screaming baby.

I cried because the world was the worst place to bring this kid into. Every day on Oprah and leading into the five o’clock news I was faced with this fact. Why did anybody do this? Why had I? I must have been smoking crack. I had injected hormones into myself to make this happen. Maybe the universe had been trying to tell me that I wasn’t meant to be a mom. I had brought all this on myself.

I cried because I couldn’t stop this stupid calculation. I kept subtracting four weeks from when Abe was supposed to be born. I had a six week old; I should have had a two- week old. I would have been so much more prepared if I had the extra four weeks I was promised when they calculated my due date. Also maybe the epidural is what was causing the colic. That’s what my best friend, Liz, mentioned back in the day when I thought I was going to go the natural route to childbirth. Way before I felt my first intense contraction.

Not that I was really officially ready to call what Abe had colic. But it was definitely a lot of crying. I was still holding out hope that we were in a bad patch and that he would turn into a Zen baby, a yogi. Hadn’t I taken enough prenatal yoga and done enough prenatal meditation to set the scene in utero for a peaceful baby?

I cried because when Oprah was over it was still another two hours until Steve came home and took over for me. When he took over I could lie down for maybe two hours, maybe two minutes.

When Abe first came out and they wiped him off and handed him to me, I looked down at him, with Steve right beside me, and I couldn’t believe anyone so perfect could possibly have come from me. Every mother supposedly thinks this about her kid, but he really was the most beautiful baby ever created. We were so happy. Steve and I both cried and cuddled him. We spent the entire first night in the hospital examining him. We concluded that he was flawless.

Abe had been the perfect little angel for the first two weeks. This is a breeze I told myself. We had a constant stream of guests Steve’s parents, his sister, my parents and my best friend, Liz. They all came and cooked and marveled at what a perfect little peaceful creature Abe was. He slept so much at first.

And then right around when Abe should have been born, the day before his due date, the shit hit the fan. He cried and cried. And I thought I was going to try to feed him on a schedule, but it is impossible. The only thing that keeps him quiet sometimes is eating. My nipples are cracked and bruised.

I think I’ve tried everything. Everyone’s got an opinion. Everyone’s told me about the guy who wrote the book about the happiest baby on the block. I’ve tried all that. I’ve gotten the article
The Times
did about colic forwarded to me six times. At the park, the one day it seemed Abe might be asleep for awhile only to wake up and wail, a Caribbean nanny told me I needed to make the baby some sort of tea that I couldn’t understand so I nodded and then fled. I’ve tried the vacuum cleaner. I’ve tried running water. I’ve heard about the clothes dryer, but I live in an apartment, so I subjected the patrons of a wash and fold to Abe’s cries for a half an hour. Then a crazy homeless guy offered to rock him, and I fled again.