Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (13 page)

“Kissing's good. I seem to remember a time when all we did was kiss,” Zach reminisces.

“Yeah,” I commiserate. “Our first date. Then it was all downhill from there.” I smile at the memory.

“And what a fun trip downhill it was.” Zach leans in for a make-out session equivalent in chastity to my sophomore year in high school. It was fun and frisky, but I could definitely sense Zach wanted more. When will my vagina stop being such a pussy?

74 Days Old

Mom and Nora visited today, and aside from nursing Sam, I managed to not hold him for a good five hours. I refuse to admit that something felt missing from my body.

“So you're still going away, Ma? Even with this little poochie here?” Nora presents Sam to my mom, and I allow her to give my mom the guilt trip she deserves.

“Sam will still be here, and he's so young he won't know the difference,” my mom dismisses.

“But I will,” I chime in. “What if I can't handle being alone with him every day of the week? What if I go insane, and by the time you get back I'm sitting in a corner scratching pictures of forest animals into the drywall?”

“What are you going on about?” my mom asks. “You will be fine. Nora will be here.”

“No, she won't. She lives in the city and has a job and a husband and can only come out here when she doesn't have anything better to do.”

“Hey!” Nora contests. I mouth, “Sorry,” and continue my defense. “You're sure you can't stay home just this one year?” I press.

“Honey, my sister and I are getting older. It is important for me to spend this time with her. I have complete faith in you that Sam will be okay—even thrive—without me here. Plus, I'm going to take care of him when you go back to work. This can be like my vacation before I start my new job as Sam's caregiver.”

“It's not technically a job if she's not paying you,” Nora points out.

“Just wait until you have a child you don't know how to take care of, and Mom abandons you,” I tell Nora as I escape to take a shower. “And for your information,” I call back, “I had sixteen-foot-high brick walls built around the house while we've been sitting here, so neither of you will even be allowed to leave again. Get comfy.”

75 Days Old

Even the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector don't want me to get any sleep.

To: Annie

From: Louise

Holy shit turd and a half. What the fuck was I thinking having another kid? Jupiter is on top of me twenty-four hours a day. She won't let me sleep. She keeps having nightmares and coming into my room. Last night I just put the baby down, which took me a good forty-five minutes, and I close my eyes for one minute before the apparition of Jupiter appears and says, “I had a nightmare about an Old Navy mannequin. I looked at it, and then it moved!” That is some freaky shit right there. And now I have another place I can't take the kids if I need to run errands. Better off anyway. How many of those stupid stuffed animal balls can I buy from the checkout just to keep my kid quiet for three minutes while I bleed money?

Hope you're faring better than me in the sleep department.

Lou

77 Days Old

I went walking with Sam today in the Moby Wrap. I listened to a particularly dorky
Harry Potter
podcast, although there's only so much one can say about a book and movie series that I've read sixteen times and watched hundreds more that is even remotely revelatory.

Then I realize that there will come a day when I can read
Harry Potter
aloud to Sam.

A rush of joy burns in my stomach that I haven't felt since his birth. Or before his birth, when I was hopeful and naive. I almost believe he will not be this age forever. At some point he will start to talk and walk and share in countless pop cultural milestones with me.

I have something to look forward to.

Sam and I round the corner, and I'm veritably beaming with my new discovery, when we run into the Walking Man.

“Hello.” He nods.

“Hi,” I reiterate.

“Hard work there.” He addresses the lump in my wrap.

“Hmmm?” I clarify, as I'm not quite sure to what he's alluding.

“Exercising with a baby. Good for you!” he commends me, and heel-toes speedily away.

A future with
Harry Potter
and a compliment? Somebody pinch me.

(But not on my nipples, please. You don't want to know what I'd do to you if you did.)

78 Days Old

When I first became a teacher, I told myself I could buy one fancy thing with my first paycheck. That thing? A boxed set of all of the
Monkees
episodes in existence.
The Monkees
was my favorite television show as a kid, when they celebrated their twentieth anniversary and aired on several channels from local to MTV. My mom took Nora and me to a reunion concert when I was merely seven, and I cried when they sang “Daydream Believer.” At the time I thought it was a sad song, since Davy (may he rest in peace) was telling sleepy Jean to cheer up.

I pull out the box set, untouched for several years, and pop in the first disc. Immediately I'm transported back to elementary school, when Nora and I danced around our living room to her cassettes and she made out with classic photos of Mike. (Never mind that the Monkees were well into their forties at the time of their reunion. They will forever be etched into our brains as the romping foursome of the TV show.) Sam seems to enjoy the sound of the show, and he gives an extra oomph to his neck extensions during tummy time.

Could I be doing something right?

79 Days Old

Has anyone seen my ass? I seem to have misplaced it while giving birth. Or maybe it's just reattached itself to my stomach.

To: Annie

From: Annika

Ready for Kesha? I'm painting my nails for the occasion. You should consider some crazy makeup, too. Can't wait!

80 Days Old

Some mornings, I love to see Sam smile at me, and I whisk him out of bed with a snuggle. Other days he's so whiny and grumpy that I'd rather leave him in there and beeline for the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru for a finsky of Munchkins.

81 Days Old

Last night Sam was up five times.
Five times
. Five times of crying, feeding, and wrestling him down to sleep. When I'm that tired, the middle of the night is so scary. I remember reading Roald Dahl's
The BFG
when I was a kid and he wrote about three o'clock being the Witching Hour. I am not supposed to be awake at three o'clock. Something happens to my mind, and it is not right. I am not right. My thoughts spiral out of control to a dark, terrifying place, a place I would never admit I go to anyone. I think about doing terrible things to myself, or to Sam, hating myself for feeling that way, hating Sam for the guilt and for coming into this world and making me turn into this monster. Picking him up from his crib and wondering if I can control myself from doing something atrocious. Feeding him without feeling love.

Then morning comes, and I don't feel as bad, and I make it through the day and Sam makes it through the day and Zach gets home from work and things feel like they might be getting better.

And then it's the Witching Hour all over again.

82 Days Old

“There are three bottles, just in case. You might only need two.” Tonight's the Kesha concert, and it will be the longest period of time I've been away from Sam since his birth. The concert is in Milwaukee, which is about an hour's drive from our house. Between those two hours of driving plus the two to three hours of the concert, I'm going to have to pump breastmilk in the car lest I get another plugged duct. I've never had to use the pump's battery pack, and I'm nervous that it won't have enough juice to suck the milk out of me. Not to mention the sheer awkwardness of having my boobs attached to miniaturized farm equipment in a car parked out in the open. I'm not as anxious about having them exposed near Annika; we had enough changing room shenanigans in college that it doesn't seem all that strange. Plus, I'll be wearing a cover.

Half the contents of my dresser are now on my bedroom floor as I try to find something to wear that a) does not scream, “I'm too old to be here!” and b) fits me. I settle on a distressed, oversized black t-shirt, worn thin from my college days, and a pair of shorts that don't squeeze my stomach too much but hang enough that they don't look like mom shorts. I finish the look with green Converses, cool and timeless (although I know I'll regret them later when my old-lady feet and back scream at me for not wearing more supportive shoes).

By the time we leave the house, I'm toting my pump bag, backup batteries, empty bottles, a cooler, my boob cover, and enough makeup to cover a transvestite cabaret. I convinced Annika to drive, since with my months of minimal sleep I don't know if I can be trusted to helm long car rides. And this way I can liberally apply ridiculous makeup along the way.

I look up the concert venue beforehand and see there is an opening act. Based on previous Kesha concert reviews, I estimate we can get there around eight thirty and we won't miss any of her show. I'm too old to be hanging out for an opening band.

Annika and I arrive in Milwaukee around seven thirty and grab a bite to eat before the concert. She regales me with tales of adventure and romance, delicious food, and mass quantities of alcohol. It doesn't seem very different from our lives in college, except now she's not living off her parents' insurance. Since all I have to talk about is boring stories of sleep deprivation and boob pain, I let her do all of the talking. Around eight, we decide to find the venue and a discreet place to park for the breast-pumping preshow event.

We drive through Milwaukee, down alternating bright and busy thoroughfares and dark and desolate industrial streets. I don't want to park on the breast-exposing bustling streets, but I'm afraid to park on the empty ones because there is something sinister about abandoned buildings on unlit roads. I'd hate for the suction cones on my boobs to slow me down in the off chance I'll have to make a quick getaway. We settle on a side street near the venue, kitty-corner from a well-lit McDonald's but directly in front of a darkened assisted-living facility. Annika pumps us up with music from her iPad while I pump the milk out from underneath my boob cover. It's all very surreal and odd and nothing I'd ever envisioned the two of us doing together in college. I'll pretend the whole thing is subversive and file it away for parallel life performance art potential.

I spy a disheveled man drunkenly wandering across the street, and I pray he doesn't make his way over and knock on our windows. I double-check the door lock just in case. Luck, be a titty tonight! I manage to pump without incident (or so I hope; one never knows what may sneakily make its way onto the internet).

When I'm finished (an ample five ounces!), I store the milk in my cooler, and we stuff everything in the trunk. “I hope no one is watching,” I say. “What if they think I'm stowing some kind of refrigerated drugs in your trunk, and they break in and steal my breastmilk?”

“I don't think anyone saw.” Annika shrugs it off, as she often does.

“That breast pump cost over two hundred dollars. I wonder what they can get for it on the black market. And think of the boost to their immune systems if they drink my milk!” I'm laughing at my breastmilk humor, but Annika doesn't seem, or even try, to get any of it.

We drive around in circles in an attempt to find street parking. Annika is certain we can score a free spot, but I'm leery of the possibility of getting stuck in Milwaukee if our car gets booted or, worse, towed with my breast pump in the trunk. “Why don't we just pay for parking?” I suggest.

“Why would we do that?” Annika balks. I might have, too, fifteen years ago, but we are adults with jobs and there is a $20 parking lot directly across the street from the venue.

“If you don't want to spend the money, I'll pay for it,” I offer.

“It's the principle,” she argues.

“The principle is that we are thirty-six years old, and we don't need to be dealing with parking bullshit like seventeen-year-olds visiting the city for the first time. Park in the lot. We're going to miss the show.”

Annika concedes, and we give my $20 to a shifty-looking man with a wad of cash. He wraps our bill around the rest and points to a space in a lot that I'm hoping is kosher and not just some dude collecting money and leading suckers into a tow zone.

I'm suitably dolled up in face paint, and Annika looks doubly the part in preposterously uncomfortable-looking footwear. She staggers into the venue, and we scope out the joint.

I remember a time when I'd wait outside for hours before a show to ensure my body was pressed immediately against the stage and every person surrounding me. Tonight, older and germophobic, I don't want to touch any of the people here who seem to have started drinking sometime in the afternoon. Yesterday.

We decide to use the bathroom before the show starts, my practical suggestion, and we find a line in the bar area. A motley crew of “older” women wait in line, all completely trashed. I marvel as a ratty-haired gal digs into her bra and extrapolates a pouch, similar to a Capri Sun, filled with vodka. I know its contents because she proceeds to tell the entire line about her purchase and how the drinks here are too expensive and the concert tickets are so expensive and I'm afraid she's going to drop trou and pee on the floor, we've been waiting so long. Finally it's our turn for the bathroom, a single, as it turns out, and I invite Annika in with me. It seems like the right thing to do in this situation (and by “situation,” I mean being surrounded by drunk Milwaukeeans also too old to be attending a Kesha concert and getting shit-faced on boob package liquor).