Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (7 page)

“He won't remember. And you'll make it without me. What if I were dead? You'd have to do it without me anyway. In fact, pretend I'm dead. It'll be easier.”

“Ma! Why do you always have to go to the dark side?” I ask.

“It's part of my charm, I guess.”

Doogan looks at me, and I swear I detect a shrug. “She's your mother,” he says.

I have managed to take care of Doogan for seventeen years. I'll take that as a good sign. Then Doogan bites me, and I shove him off the couch.

I'm screwed.

20 Days Old

Zach goes back to work tomorrow. I am terrified, scared shitless, and entrenched with fear. I have to be alone with this baby all day, every day, and I don't know if I can do it.

“You're going to be fine. You've been doing it already for three weeks,” Zach tries to comfort me as we watch
Supernatural
on the couch. Sam sleeps peacefully on Zach's chest. I give him the stink-eye, just in case he can sense I'm not happy with him.

“I haven't been doing it for three weeks by myself. At first I was in the hospital, and you've been here the whole time, playing a supporting role, as has my mom in her morbid kind of way. Plus—
fine
? I don't want to be fine. I want to be the best, most kick-ass mother on the planet. And beyond. I want to nurse him lovingly whilst I bake cakes and keep the house so clean you can hear little chimes of sparkle ringing from the countertops. I want Sam to learn sign language and ten other languages and to fit all the right shapes into that ball with the shapes cut out that five different people bought for him. Fine wasn't good enough for me before I had this baby, so it certainly should not be good enough when we're talking about the health and happiness of our firstborn son!” This would be the start of many a sleep-deprived diatribe on the subject of mama failure. But Zach will soon be lucky enough to get away from it all for ten hours a day, five days a week. Son of a bitch.

Middle of the Night

Full-on panic that Zach goes back to work tomorrow. Thank God for QVC. I don't know what I'd do without the hypnotic beauty of twenty-four hours of gemstones.

21 Days Old

F
IRST
D
AY
W
ITHOUT
Z
ACH
G
OALS:

•
Feed, clothe, change, etc., Sam.

•
Cut fingernails.

•
Paint toenails.

•
Bake chocolate-chip cookies.

•
Take nap.

•
Master Moby Wrap.

Zach is gone, and so far so good. Nothing out of the ordinary, and I did manage to write three more thank-you notes. Perhaps I will send them before Sam's first birthday.

I spent much of the day practicing intricate wrappings of the Moby Wrap so I can wear Sam around when I go places. Working with at least twenty feet of fabric to somehow transform it into a safe nest in which Sam will lie seems semi-impossible, but I've made it my quest for the day. Or maybe the week. Why rush these things.

F
IRST
D
AY
W
ITHOUT
Z
ACH
A
CCOMPLISHMENTS:

•
Blah blah blah Sam.

•
Managed to knot my Moby Wrap and watched it fall on the floor.

•
Fell asleep while on toilet (nap?).

•
Ate half a roll of refrigerated cookie dough (baked in my stomach?).

When Zach arrives home, the house is the same mess it was before he left. My face is still the same mess it was before he left. Zach looks like he just returned from a three-week trip to a spa. I pray for a gigantic, dribbly poo to slither into Sam's diaper so I can hand it off to Zach, but for once Sam's baby buns have clammed up. Not that Zach would care. “I missed you so much!” he proclaims to Sam as he swings him around the room.

I should take my act on the road. How much does an Invisible Woman make?

22 Days Old

I am still addicted to my squeeze bottle. I don't know if I'll ever be able to poo without it.

My Moby Wrap skills are improving. I even imagined Ellen was cheering me on from the TV as I pranced around in it. (Sans Sam. I'm not
that
good yet.)

T
HE
S
EXIEST
T
HING
T
HAT
H
APPENED TO
M
E
T
HIS
W
EEK:

Zach came home from work tonight while I was nursing Sam. His latch and my trauma are greatly improved, but he's very touchy about things. If I make the tiniest move, Sam unlatches, starts crying, then I start crying, and this goes on for a good fifteen minutes. It becomes a serious problem when I have to go to the bathroom. Really badly. As I've had to for more than an hour.

“How was your day?” I mouth to Zach as he gingerly closes the garage door.

“Good. Yours?”

“I have to poo,” I mouth.

Zach looks confused.

“I have to poo,” I repeat.

“You want some food?” Zach attempts.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I blurt out. “I don't have time for these Who's on First shenanigans. I have to take a shit, and I don't want Sam to stop eating. Help me.”

“What do you want me to do? Bring you a chamber pot?” Zach laughs.

“I'll give you a chamber pot on your head,” I growl.

“We don't even own a chamber pot,” Zach argues.

“Then I'll use a Crock-Pot. Just help me! Come here.”

Zach walks over to our big red chair where I like to sit while I nurse. “Help me up while I keep him latched.” Zach supports my arms as I use the remnants of my stomach muscles to get out of the chair. I attempt to glide over to the bathroom, and I manage to keep Sam happily eating. Once I'm in the bathroom, I realize Zach is in for a treat.

“You have to pull my pants down,” I tell him.

“That's what she said,” Zach jokes.

“Yuck it up, Chuckles. This may be the last instance you hear those words uttered in your life,” I warn.

Luckily I'm still wearing maternity yoga pants, so it's not too difficult to pull them down. The next part of the process, however, proves to be a tad more complicated.

“You have to squirt me while I poo.” I'm on the toilet seat now, and I urgently need to go.

“Squirt you?” Zach asks incredulously.

“With my trusty squeeze bottle. It's the only way pooing doesn't hurt.”

“Unh,” is all Zach can muster.

“There are stitches down there, and water makes the poo come out easier! Now be a man, and squirt my butt!”

Zach grabs the half-full squirt bottle off the sink and flails his arms around, looking for a place to squeeze it.

“Empty it first, and fill it with warm water. It has to be warm!” I'm trying my damnedest to hold it in, but it's already been too long. “Faster! I'm ready to go!”

“The water won't heat up!” Zach shouts as he repeatedly splashes his fingers under the faucet to check the temperature.

“Hurry!” I shriek. Sam doesn't seem to notice any of the commotion. I imagine he's probably reveling in my discomfort, as he is wont to do.

“It's warm! It's warm!” Zach declares, and fills the bottle to the rim. When it's full, he turns around and yells, “How do I aim it?”

“I'll stand up a little, and you squirt at my ass while I poo. But don't look!”

“How am I supposed to aim it and not look?”

“I'm feeding a human being and taking a shit. Learn to multitask!”

The instant the water starts spraying, I clear out my system in a matter of seconds.

“Done,” I announce.

“All that for a three-second shit?”

I sit back down on the seat, relieved.

“Now who's going to wipe?” I ask.

23 Days Old

My students just about broke me today. My mom, visiting, found a box on my porch with a note attached. (Does no one ring the doorbell? I would love to speak to an actual human being besides my mother.)

Didn't want to wake the baby. Your advisory made this for you with Abby in art class, and I had to drop it off. We miss you! Love to Sam!

—Devin

Wrapped up was a decoupaged box covered in pictures of my advisees. Inside were letters, written in the formal style I taught them, wishing me happiness and telling me how much they missed me. I handed Sam off to my mom so that I could read sentiments from children who actually care about me and communicate with me. It was positively abstract to imagine Sam would one day be able to do both.

24 Days Old

I had an appointment with Joanne today. I may visit her every time Sam needs to eat. Perhaps move into the parking lot outside of her office in an RV. My nipples are looking like booby battlefields, and Joanne suggested I put olive oil on the scabs to help them heal. I hope next it's something like frosting. I'd smell better. And Zach could lick it off. Just kidding! The next time I let Zach near my nipples, Sam will be studying law in college. Or farm studies. I don't care what he majors in as long as he's keeping his distance from my nipples.

The truly exciting news is that I'm done with the nipple shields. Sam figured out how to latch directly on to the real deals. Perhaps I'll turn the shields into a masterpiece of abstract art and sell it on Etsy. Or better yet, I can put them in Sam's baby book.

A LETTER TO MY DEAR CHILD

Dear Son,

Here are the nipple shields that I had to wear because you inflicted excruciating pain onto your mother. I WILL NEVER FORGET.

To transition from shield to nip proper, Joanne gave me some cooling pads to place over my nipples. They are essentially Dr. Scholl's gel pads, but for nips! They stick pretty well, even without a bra on to hold them in place. When I get home, I spend a good five minutes strutting around in front of a mirror pretending I'm in some warped postpartum burlesque show. I file the moment away as one good reason to be home alone during maternity leave.

To: Fern

From: Annie

Dear Fern,

I'm typing this quickly, as Sam stirs in his crib. I know he is going to want to attack my boobs soon enough. Sometimes it hurts so badly I think I'm going to pass out. I wish it would get a million times better, and he would turn into more of a baby than a lump. I never thought I'd say this, but I think Angelina Jolie was right. She said something lumpy about her baby once, and she caught a lot of shit for it. Glad nobody's interviewing me. Especially because I can't get rid of this zit on my chest, and I desperately need my hair colored. So many grays! Jolie did
not
have to deal with these things, even if she did have a lump of a baby. Remember that glamorous breastfeeding magazine cover? Fuck.

“Lumpy” calls—

Annie

25 Days Old

Friday. Five days of being home alone with Sam, and I'm counting the seconds to when Zach gets home from work. Today was very similar to yesterday, as it was to the day before.

  1. Wake up (officially, without the goal of trying to fall back asleep, although the desire is still there).

  2. Nurse Sam.

  3. Put Sam in bouncy seat while I make breakfast.

  4. Two minutes later, take Sam out of bouncy seat and hold him as I eat breakfast to prevent him from busting a lung with his screams. While bouncing him.

  5. Put Sam down for a nap.

  6. Shower with baby monitor on.

  7. Let water run until it gets cold or until Sam scares the shit out of me over the monitor.

  8. Get dressed in yoga pants.

  9. Put Sam on mat.

10. Read aloud from latest Tori Spelling bio.

11. Sing along to Ella Jenkins CD.

12. Nurse.

13. Put Sam down for a nap.

14. Repeat numbers 8–12.

15. Try to take my own nap.

16. Worry that I won't be able to fall asleep.

17. Fall asleep exactly three minutes before Sam wakes up.

18. Repeat numbers 8–12.

19. Take Sam for a walk. Run into “The Walking Man,” a neighborhood guy often seen striding by in gym-teacher shorts and tall socks. Friendly hellos exchanged.

20. Look at the clock 16,000 times until Zach walks through the door.

Except that before #20 can come to fruition, my cell phone rings. It's Zach.

Zach:
Hey, honey, how's it going?

Me:
Oh, the usual.

Zach:
You wouldn't mind if I went out with some people after work, would you? Like I used to sometimes on Fridays?

Me:
[cold, mind-melting silence]

Zach:
Hello?

What am I supposed to say? Is it selfish of me to want him to come home after I've been trapped with this kid for ten hours a day? Am I a horrible person for hating every ounce of his being for having the audacity to ask me this oblivious question? Is it wrong that I think he should automatically know that he needs to come home and that every lonely minute of my day leads up to the very moment that he does? Am I allowed to tell him any of this?

Me:
I'd really rather you come home. It's been a pretty long week for me.

Zach:
[silence. Is it angry silence? Pensive? Did he even hear when I said?] Yeah, okay. I'll see you in a little while.

We hang up, and I feel guilty. But why? Why is it perfectly normal in his head that now that we have a kid, he can still do exactly the same things he did before we had one? We are not the same people. Our lives are not ours anymore, and I'll be damned if I give him a pass to freedom—which he already has all day long—while I'm tethered to this baby for better or for worse. That was part of our marriage vows, right? So why do I have to feel like shit? I bet
he
doesn't feel like shit. He's probably driving home, cursing me out, making some ridiculously antiquated ball-and-chain reference to his work friends, who then get to make fun of me for being overbearing and demanding and a hard-ass and a killjoy.