Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (25 page)

“Won't it be nice when they request food instead of scream for it?” Katie asks.

“When
do
they start talking?” I reply.

“Before a year, I think. At least babble and Mama and Dada. It depends on the kid, though. My sister has one that was talking in complete sentences before she turned two but didn't walk until eighteen months. The other walked at thirteen but barely said a word at two. They all catch up eventually. We hope, at least.”

The babies finish eating, and we set them down for a few more minutes while we talk about work, husbands, and where to buy the best yoga pants. Naptime for the boys comes soon, so we pack up and say our good-byes.

“What's your number? We should get together after you go back to work. I'm sure Jackson will miss Sam terribly.”

“I know. It's like they've bonded for life.”

We type each other's numbers into our phones. I enter her under “Katie Jackson,” just in case I forget one or both names. I secretly wonder if we'll really ever get in touch, but it feels good to officially have one new mom friend notched into my belt. Or my stretchy waistband.

156 Days Old

Today is the day we do a run-through at Maureen's day care. I pack up three bottles of breastmilk, six baby blankets, six pacifiers, and eight changes of clothes. He will be gone a maximum of three hours, depending on how long he naps. While he's there, I'll finish his Robin costume and tidy up. Or eat a shit ton of ice cream and cry on the couch. I haven't decided.

I wear Sam in the Moby Wrap but push a stroller in front of me with the overstuffed diaper bag balanced precariously in the seat.

Maureen answers her front door, and immediately my heart starts beating triple time. I am really going to leave my Sammy with a stranger. I can't do this.

But I have to.

I don't have a choice.

No. This is my choice.

I have to convince myself I am making the right one. I just need to make it through this morning, three hours, and I will have my baby back with me and he will be okay.

Maureen cautiously approaches Sam as I untwine him from the wrap. I kiss his head fifty or sixty times, and Maureen tells me, “He'll do great today. So will you.”

Damn. How does this woman always know what to say to make me cry?

“Best to unassumingly leave now, Mom, so he senses you are relaxed.”

“But I'm not—” I start.

“Say bye-bye, Mom,” Maureen coos to Sam.

I resist the urge to tackle Maureen and steal back my baby. Instead, I quietly leave her house and don't look back.

I did not anticipate how absolutely painful it would be to walk three blocks with an empty stroller. I can only imagine what people think as they pass the violently sobbing woman pushing a stroller without a baby. One car actually slows down, but I turn my head away in shame.

Pull your shit together, Annie.

Before I sew, I call Louise.

“Lou, I dropped Sam off at day care for the first time.” I sniff pathetically.

“Aw, honey, I know how hard that is. The first time Jupiter's sitter came over, I was still home, and she took Jupiter for a walk. The second she left the house I dumped her purse on the counter and read every receipt she left in her wallet.”

“Find anything?”

“Just that she likes to shop at T.J. Maxx. Everything is going to be great, and soon you and Sam won't remember what it was like not to be in day care. Wait—that came out wrong. Hold on—” Louise drops the phone, and I hear her retching over the line. “Sorry. Morning sickness.”

“Poor Lou,” I offer.

“I better go. I'm gonna puke again.”

She doesn't give me a chance to say good-bye, and I'm left on my own.

I plunk a Monkees CD into the stereo, and the joyful pop songs bring a little sunshine as I sew the costume for Sam. I take a shower. I have a snack. And before I can do anything else, the three hours are up. I eagerly drive my empty stroller back to Maureen's house.

She's waiting on the front porch with Sam in her arms, two kids drawing with chalk on her driveway.

“He did great. He took one bottle, a two-hour nap, and I thought I'd wait to feed him since he wasn't crying.” Maureen hands Sam to me, and it's like I haven't seen him in weeks. His face looks older, different, and I worry that my days away at work will render him unrecognizable. Do I detect some stubble? Then he nuzzles his head into my shoulder, and he's my Sammy once again.

“Thank you, Maureen. We'll be seeing you again in a couple weeks,” I say.

“I look forward to it. Bye, Sam.” She waves.

“I'm proud of you, Sam,” I tell him as we walk home. “Are you proud of me? You should be. I found you a good day care, and I didn't freak out too badly when you were gone. I did miss you, though,” I say, and kiss the top of his head. “You better have missed me.”

157 Days Old

The buzz of a Comic Con morning is in the air. Zach and I have been going to different comic book conventions since the first year we met. We have both always loved comics and nerd culture, but in different ways. I read the funnies in the Sunday paper religiously while growing up and bought all of the
Calvin and Hobbes, Far Side,
and
FoxTrot
compilations as a teen. Zach was more of a
Spider-Man
kind of kid, and we have boxes of comics from his childhood collection in our crawl space. (I like to threaten to sell the collection when we are destitute. He likes to wax lyrical about handing them down to our children someday and how they'll pay for the kids' college tuitions.) As an undergrad I began reading more subversive, independent, and, admittedly, pornographic comics, and Zach discovered works from Drawn and Quarterly and Fantagraphics, personal or odd or quirky stories much different from his Spidey days. Together, along with our love for science-fiction television shows, Zach and I found the perfect partner in each other. Today our progeny will attend his first comic book convention, and we couldn't be more proud.

Later at the Con

We are sitting in a large room, as though several banquet halls have opened their giant, portable doors to make one great space. There are rows and rows of chairs set up, the expectation being that whoever is at the front of the room on the stage will draw such a hefty crowd as to pack the place. Sadly, this is often not the case. Thanks to overlapping programming or lack of interest based on the wrong target audience, these halls may have only ten to twenty people when there are chairs for two hundred. I feel sad for the celebrities who sign on for these events; it must be mortifying to be on a stage and look out at a spotty sea of semiadmirers. Today's victim is one Jason Priestley, with probably zero connection to sci-fi, comics, or fantasy, unless you count the fantasies I had about Brandon Walsh back in 1990 when
Beverly Hills, 90210
began (I quickly moved on to bad boy Dylan, played by Luke Perry, whom Zach and I met two years ago at a different con). The meager audience reflects the disconnect, and Zach and I choose a prime seat in the back row in case Sam decides to be vocal at an inappropriate time. He's already beginning to fuss, so I dig for the nursing cover. “Shit!” I exclaim as I remember I left it in the dryer after a particularly nasty spit-up incident. Sam's complaints grow increasingly louder, so as subtle as I can be, I whip out the ol' boob and stick him on. We're way in the back, so I figure no one will see. But instead of Jason Priestley appearing from a magic door somewhere behind the stage, Mr. Priestley saunters in through the regular, pedestrian door behind us, the very same door through which we entered. I turn around and watch him walking in, surveying the desolate landscape. I can only imagine the dialogue in his head:
Where the fuck is everyone? Thank God I'm getting paid for this. I hope I don't miss my hockey game.

He walks toward the chairs, down the aisle on which I sit while nursing my baby. As he passes me, he turns his head, and we make eye contact. Mr. Priestley gives a nod of acknowledgment and moves toward the stage. I am giddy at the fact that Jason Priestley,
Brandon Fucking Walsh
, nodded at me. And then I realize that he did so with my boob hanging out in the open. Jason Priestley saw a significant chunk of my breast. This is not exactly how twelve-year-old me imagined my boobs would play out in a scenario with Mr. Priestley.

That Night

We're back home from the con. What a day! I never envisioned myself sitting on a hard convention center floor breastfeeding a baby while three people dressed as the Joker eat lunch on my right side and the Justice League rests to my left. The buxom Wonder Woman was showing more boob than I was.

During Sam's awake period, Zach toted him around face-out so his Robin costume was on full display. We were stopped over and over by people wanting to take his picture. Zach and I loved the attention being on Sam, and I felt like a worthy seamstress. I Google “Baby Robin” in the past twenty-four hours, and I find a close-up of Sam on a cosplay website! (Note to self: Get a manicure the next time you know your hands are going to be widely photographed holding an adorable baby. Has QVC taught you nothing? Also, your stomach doesn't look abnormal. Suck it, Spanx!)

Sam sleeps soundly in his crib, and Zach and I happily climb into bed. “Today was pretty awesome,” he enthuses. “Maybe next summer we take him to San Diego for the big Comic-Con.”

“By next summer he'll be walking and probably a holy terror,” I warn. “Let's just focus on the success of today.”

On the bed, cuddling leads to kissing. I try, but I'm still not quite there with the whole “having sex postbaby” thing. However, the day's events, combined with a mental note stored away from a screaming kid-call with Fern, make me propose, “Why don't we try a little role-playing?”

Zach stops kissing my neck and perks up. “Like
Dungeons and Dragons
?” he asks.

“No!” I guffaw. “Like, we pretend to be other people having sex.”

“Oooh—a little fantasy fondling. I like it.”

“Yes. Especially without the dorky commentary. So who should we be?” I ruminate for a minute. I know whom I've fantasized about when there isn't another actual person involved, but as much as I'd like to, I don't think I can bend time and space enough to envision Zach as Chris Hemsworth as Thor. Plus, if we did that, then I'd have to be the dud Natalie Portman character. Not a turn-on.

“What about Xena and Hercules?” Zach suggests.

I laugh at his antiquated and hilarious reference, which is current again thanks to reruns on MeTV. “Maybe. But wasn't Xena a lesbian?” I ask.

“I think she was bisexual.” Zach nods.

“I don't know. I don't think I can make those high-pitched warrior cries that she does. Plus, it's kind of campy.”

“Isn't all role-playing campy?” Zach asks. We are most definitely out of our comfort zone with the task at hand.

“No. It could be broody, like vampire role-playing, or violent, which we aren't doing because I'd totally kick your ass—” Zach starts to protest but realizes I'm right and allows me to continue. “Or historical?”

“Historical? Like, you can be Mary Todd Lincoln, and I'll be Honest Abe?”

“Hot stuff, Zach. You really know how to get a gal's vagina blood pumping.” Which I realize makes it sound like I'm talking about my period. “How inept are we? At this rate, I'm wondering how we managed to get pregnant in the first place,” I say.

“Maybe we're overthinking it. What do we love? Nerd stuff. So let's have nerd sex. You be Cylon Number Six, and I'll be Gaius Baltar.”

Zach's
Battlestar Galactica
reference is spot-on, except that Cylon Number Six is a wicked babe and Gaius Baltar is a simpering, traitorous, self-obsessed prat. “You get the way better deal in that scenario. Let's pick a different
Battlestar
couple. How about Starbuck and Apollo?” I've always harbored a secret crush on the actor who plays the pilot Apollo. Zach, however, finds fault with my choice of Starbuck.

“I think she'd be scary to have sex with. Like, maybe she'd hurt me.”

“But you'd enjoy that if you were Apollo.” I'm definitely warming to the prospect of having sex with Zach as Apollo, but I don't know if I could do the role of Starbuck justice.

“I've got it,” Zach announces. “Athena and Helo!”

I realize that anyone listening in on our role-playing sex conversation would think we were two of the dorkiest people alive, so thankfully we get to, as they say, keep it in the bedroom. Helo's a good-looking, moral character, albeit not the brightest, who is in love with Athena, also good-looking and a pilot who just happens to be a human-engineered Cylon. Plus, they have a child together.

“I suppose it could work. Let's try it. Helo and Athena it is. Or, we are, I should say. Do we dress up?” I ask. Most characters spend a large portion of time on
Battlestar Galactica
in tank tops and cargo pants, of which Zach and I both have from years of being
Battlestar
characters at Halloween parties. We could fudge some things together.

“I'd rather we just dress down, if you know what I mean.” Zach joggles his eyebrows.

“I'm going to pretend Helo said that, which makes it slightly less dorky.”

“Whatever you say, Athena.”

The next twenty minutes are spent tweaking
Battlestar Galactica
quotes into ridiculous things like “This is my penis. Actual,” and “We have penis contact,” then laughing uncontrollably. While it doesn't end up being the sexiest, most passionate lovemaking we've ever had, it certainly does take my out-of-shape Kegel muscles and scabby nipple off the forefront of my mind. And I manage to have an orgasm (or two) in the process. So say we all!