Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (5 page)

“Tired. Relieved it's over. How about you? Any transference of penis pain?”

“I'm trying not to think about it.” He adjusts his manhood all the same. “You did great today.”

“Thanks? I didn't really do much except eat a lot and try not to cry.”

“You were very composed. Very mature when you gave that speech thanking everyone for coming.”

“I guess this officially makes us grown-ups.” I sigh, resigned to the idea.

“I guess so. We can still go to comic book conventions, right?”

“I hope so. We can dress Sam up in all sorts of humiliating costumes before he's old enough to tell us not to.”

“I knew there was a reason we had a baby.” Zach squeezes me.

“Not too hard in the boob area. I wouldn't want to get any milk in your eyes.” He eases off. “I noticed Annika didn't show. Not that I expected her to. Who brings a new boyfriend to someone's bris?”

“It would be better than when she brought that one guy to my grandpa's funeral,” Zach reminds me.

“Oh yeah. That white guy with the dreads. Isn't he an accountant now?”

Zach fishes around in his pocket. “I got you something.”

“I really hope that's not Sam's foreskin,” I joke.

“Annie,” Zach reprimands my grossness. “Here. It's a push present. I read about it online.”

“You read about it online, huh?” I smirk at the thought of Zach reading relationship articles on his computer while pretending to watch
Breaking Bad
.

He hands me a tiny cardboard box with a hand-stamped logo on it. I open it, and inside is a silver “S” framed with a gold heart. “It's for ‘Sam.' I thought it kind of looked like the Superman symbol, except with a heart.”

“It's beautiful. Thank you.” I open the clasp and slip it around my neck. Zach kisses me on the lips, and for a moment I pretend we're a perfect little family.

Dear Aunt Edie,

Thank you very much for the savings bond and the lox platter for Sam's bris. His penis seems to be healing very nicely. Next time I see you, can you remind me where you bought that tuna salad? It was delicious. Capers—brilliant!

Love,

Annie

 

To: Annie

From: Louise

OH MY GOD I MISSED THE BRIS! I am such an asshole! I am so sorry! Can you do it again, so I can see it? Just kidding. I wrote it on the calendar, but for
next
Tuesday. Will you forgive me? Attribute it to baby brain. Four days and counting, and they slice this be-yotch out of me. Can't wait! (to be un-pregnant. I can wait for just about everything else. Except for the smell!!! New baby smell!!! You better at least be enjoying that.) Hopefully we can talk on the phone when I'm in the hospital. It's the only time I'll be away from Jupiter. She never lets me near my phone—either I'm on it, and she talks the entire time no matter how many conversations we've had about Mommy being important, too, or she's on it playing games. (Don't look at me like that. I see your smug superiority through my computer screen. Just you wait until you have a four-year-old!) Speaking of, I have to go, the battery's about to die on my phone.

Wish me luck with my c-section!

C
-ya later!

Lou

10 Days Old

Doogan the cat seems rather annoyed with Sam, and I can't say I blame him. Every time Doogan and I try to get snuggly together on the bed, Sam bellows from his little co-sleeper and I have to move. Pretty soon Doogan will be so perturbed that he'll stop snuggling with me altogether. How tragic. Seventeen years of snuggling instantly replaced by this pooping, screaming, squiggly creature. It reminds me of a song I listened to in junior high by Faith No More called “Zombie Eaters.” It's sung from a baby's perspective to his mother, and Mike Patton, the lead singer, teases the mom with lines like “Hey, look at me, lady, I'm just a little baby. You're lucky to have me. I'm cute and sweet as candy.” I thought it was hilarious when I was a teen. Now I'm ready to cry at the relatable lines “But I really do nothing, Except kickin' and fussin'.” Is this my penance for listening to music like that? I imagine Doogan's half of this conversation, “Bloody hell,” because in my mind, Doogan has a British accent. “What is that scrawny thing? No fur, can't even crawl to his food bowl, and he makes more noise than the neighbor's schnauzer. I've got it in my right mind to climb into his bed and rest my giant, furry butt on his blotchy face.
Lady and the Tramp
was quite accurate, you know.”

Someone suggested I introduce the baby's scent to Doogan to get him used to it, so I tucked Sam's hospital hat into Doogan's bed. The cat hasn't gone near his bed since. Ironically, Doogan can't seem to get enough of Sam's bedroom rug, though. I've already tripped over him twice on my way to the changing table. So I put the hat into Sam's baby book instead. It does have that delicious new-baby smell. I think I must inhale Sam's head at least sixty times per day. Why does it smell so good? Is it an evolutionary tactic so that a mom, no matter how harried and confused and depressed she is, finds some inkling of comfort from snorting her baby's skull?

Is it possible to form an addiction? Do they have support groups for baby head huffing? Is this the main reason Michelle Duggar wants to keep having babies? Because she has an addiction to the scent, and at some point it goes away and she can't possibly live without it, so she submits to having sex with Jim Bob for the twelve millionth time just so that she will be able to sniff in that sweet baby goodness?

I think I just answered one of the most vital questions of our time.

FACEBOOK STATUS

I'm worried that I might erode a spot on Sam's skull from sniffing his head so frequently.

11 Days Old

The doorbell rings while I'm putting Sam down for a nap. When I eventually open the front door, I find several garbage bags filled with gifts from my colleagues at Parker Middle School. I can't believe how much they bought for him—clothes, bottles, toys. There are hundreds of dollars in gift cards (enough for a plane ticket out of here—not that the thought crosses my mind). Strangest of all is a handmade blanket from the superscary math teacher with whom I try to avoid all interaction, particularly when he's fired up about the union at our faculty meetings. A note with the blanket reads, “Congratulations on the sweet, new addition to your family. Enjoy the time you have at home. They grow up fast.” Did he knit the blanket?

I'm giddy with the generosity of my coworkers until I remember I have to write them all thank-you notes. I figure I have until the end of my maternity leave. Five months should be enough time, right?

Dear Parker friends,

   
Thank you so much for all of the amazing gifts for my baby Sam. It's nice to see that all of the money I've contributed at faculty baby showers actually pays for some nice things. Keep up the good work, social committee!

See you in a few months,

Annie

12 Days Old

“We need to finish the thank-you notes,” I tell Zach over a tuna sandwich.

“Have we started them?” he asks.

“
I
have. You get to at least write thank-you notes to your people.”

“My people? I thought we don't differentiate between my people and your people since we got married.”

“That's money. We don't differentiate between my money and your money.
People
is a different story. Your people are the ones who sent Sam a BB gun so he can jump on hunting practice at the ripe old age of two weeks.”

“Yeah, my uncle Roger really missed the mark on that one.”

“How do they not know you were a vegetarian for fifteen years?”

“They know, they just don't care.”

“And what is that thing your aunt Jessa made?” I crumple up a sandwich wrapper and throw it in the trash, already overflowing with carry-out wrappers. “Can you take this out, please?”

“It's a head cozy. Like a tea cozy for your head.” Zach stands up and ties the garbage bag into a knot.

“Isn't that called a hat?” I ask.

“Not in my family.”

I jot down a list of people Zach needs to thank. The list is short, only five thank-you notes long. “You're lucky your family is so small. I not only have my mom's side and my dad's side, but my mom's mah-jongg friends use up an entire box of thank-you notes. Not to mention her knitting group, beading beauties, and Canasties.”

“Canasties?”

“The friends she plays canasta with. I always wonder, if a group of people go in together on a gift, can I write them the exact same thank-you note? Or are they going to think that's tacky and lazy?”

“No one's sitting around, comparing your thank-you notes, Annie. I don't even think anyone expects thank-you notes after a baby's born. I mean, you're all crazy and forgetful with your baby brain, right? It's an accepted excuse.”

“No way. My mom told me that the other night at mah-jongg several people asked if we received their gifts. They weren't sure since they hadn't gotten a thank-you note yet. We're talking a week after the baby was born.”

“Your people are weird.”

“See. I have my people, and you have yours.”

“I'll get on those notes as soon as I take out the garbage,” Zach promises.

Mom's Friend Thank-You Note Template

Dear [Insert mah-jongg, canasta, knitter, beader friend's name here],

Thank you so much for the
_________
. Sam loves it and [circle one]

Wears it

Plays with it

Sucks on it

Reads it

whenever I put it near him. It was so thoughtful of you. My mom is lucky to have a friend like you.

Sincerely,

Annie, Zach, and Sam

Half Hour Later

Zach has been outside with the garbage for a year. What the fuck? If he really doesn't want to write thank-you notes, then he doesn't have to. In the meantime, I've changed a poopy diaper, watched Sam pee in his own face (and laughed just a bit), changed Sam's clothes, changed my clothes due to residual pee trickle, unsuccessfully fed Sam, cried, successfully fed Sam, burped Sam, wiped two tons of spit-up off the carpet, changed Sam again because I hate the sour smell of spit-up, and put him back down to sleep.

Finally, Zach saunters in.

“Where the hell were you?” I blast him.

“Whoa!” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I was just talking to Gary next door. He was mowing the lawn.”

“How nice for you. If you didn't want to write thank-you notes, you should have just told me.”

“Thank-you notes? I was talking to our neighbor.” Zach points toward the door, confused.

“And I was up to my eyeballs in bodily fluids.”

“Um, gross?”

“Just write the frakkin' thank-you notes!” I scream.

“Okay. Okay. If it's that big a deal to you, I'll do it. Do we have any cards?”

“Ugh!” I scream.

“Whatever. I'll write them on toilet paper. Sheesh.” Zach slinks away.

I poise myself at the kitchen table with a stack of thank-you notes and a pen.

And then I fall asleep and wake up an hour later to the baby screaming over the monitor and the word
dear
printed backward on my forehead.

Dear [six different knitting friends—do not forget to duplicate],

Thank you very much for the Chicago Bears, Cubs, White Sox, Bulls, and Blackhawks mobile. We thought perhaps you would have made us a beautiful blanket with your combined powers of knitting, but a mobile about sports is very nice.

Yours truly, Annie, Zach, and Sam

13 Days Old

My brain goes to crazy places in the middle of the night.

Why does Chicago radio play so much Billy Joel?

Why does it feel like I'm on vacation every time I visit a new Walgreens?

Would Sam be better off with a saner mother?

To quell the voices, I've started turning on QVC while I'm nursing (and in between, and while I catch a few winks and continue to dream about television shopping). I realize in this day and age there is an infinite number of choices for TV in the middle of the night, but there's something so warm and calming about QVC. Everyone is so damn nice. They want to better my life. Take, for instance, the name of the program I'm watching:
Everyday Solutions
. Every item in this show can help make my life easier. I have already purchased a set of encryption rubber stampers to wipe out the threat of identity theft, serrated knives, and a new set of pots. But buying things isn't my favorite part. I am particularly enamored with the testimonial line. People call in to say how much they covet the products, and they're so complimentary and kind, and the hosts are so encouraging and enthusiastic. If everyone were as loving to each other as they are on QVC, there would be no war.

Ooh! An olive tree!

Daytime

Mom came over today to drop off some more gifts from her friends. I've heard her kvetching about forking over money for all of the obligatory baby and wedding shower gifts, not to mention the bar and bas mitzvahs, and finally I am the one to reap the rewards. If only those rewards didn't come guilt infused with promises of thank-you notes.

My mom and her friends are single-handedly allowing the United States Postal Service to remain open on Saturdays. That reminds me: I need to buy stamps. Now there is a great idea for a new baby gift.