Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (6 page)

14 Days Old

My friend Louise just had her baby. She went through a shitload of fertility testing, had two miscarriages, and suffered through an entire pregnancy's worth of shots for her four-year-old daughter, Jupiter. I felt horribly guilty that it took me and Zach only three months of trying to get pregnant with Sam. So many people I know have gone through fertility issues. My older sister, Nora, has been trying for three years to get pregnant. She's had two miscarriages so far, plus one pregnancy that looked successful but ended at eighteen weeks owing to complications from chromosomal abnormalities. She still hasn't completely recovered from that one. I was terrified to tell her about my pregnancy with Sam. Zach and I found out I was pregnant right before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and we were overjoyed until we realized we'd have to break the news to Nora and her husband, Eddie. Would she hate me? Scream in my face? Grit her teeth, then curse me out to our mom every chance she got?

Zach and I planned to make the announcement to our families at Rosh Hashanah dinner. It was Mom's night to host; she has three sisters who rotate hosting gigs for every holiday: Rosh Hashanah, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, and Passover. Zach's moms flew in that year for Rosh Hashanah, a rarity since we usually fly out to Seattle for Christmas. But Dawn and Mimi were readying to take a monthlong cruise along the Amazon, and they wanted to try the new-to-them experience of Jewish New Year. It felt like the perfect time to share the big baby news, but I didn't want to surprise Nora with anything in front of a group of people. I called her that morning.

“Nora, I have to tell you something, but I don't want you to be upset.”

“Then chances are I will be,” she guessed.

“Don't say that! I already feel bad as it is.”

“As long as you feel bad, then that should make up for how bad I'm about to feel.”

“Nora! You are not making what I'm about to say any easier.”

“No,
you
are not making it any easier. You could have just started with, ‘I have something to tell you.' You're the one who added the caveat. Now everyone feels like shit, and you haven't even said what you were going to say that supposedly was going to make me feel all bad.”

“Never mind,” I told her. My nerve had been lost in all of the back-and-forth.

“No, Annie, you can tell me. I promise I won't feel bad.”

“You promise?” I double-checked.

“Unless you killed my cat. Or Mom. Did you kill Mom?”

“Yes. I killed Mom. And Dad, too.”

“Good for you. I mean, not about Mom, but Dad was a solid choice.” Nora still hasn't gotten over Dad leaving Mom for his dental hygienist when we were in high school. “See! We've moved on to patricide. What you have to tell me surely can't be as bad as that.”

“What if it is?” I stalled.

“Jesus Christ, Annie, just tell me you're pregnant and get it over with!” Nora demanded.

“What? How did you know?” I was both mortified and relieved that she figured it out.

“What else would you be babbling about for twenty minutes? You never do anything wrong, so I figured this is the one thing you thought would upset me. Plus, Mom already told me.”

“She knows? How?”

“You went shopping together last week, and she caught you flipping through a maternity rack on the way to the bathroom.”

“Damn her.”

“Almost motivation to kill her, huh?”

“Ha ha. So are you mad?”

“How can I be mad? You wanted to be pregnant, and you're pregnant. Now, if you were all, ‘Shit! I'm pregnant, and I don't know what to do with this horrid thing growing inside me,' then I'd probably be mad. But I'm happy one of us can be having a baby. Then when I get my baby business figured out, we'll have some cousins.”

“Phew,” I sighed.

“I'm really happy for you, Annie. Just…” She paused. “Don't go around telling everyone just yet. Not until you're really in the clear. I know how awful it feels to tell people you're pregnant and then to have to tell them you're not pregnant anymore, without actually having a baby.”

“Okay. I won't. But I'm going to tell Mom, seeing as she already knows.”

“She started knitting you a blanket,” Nora divulged.

“You're kidding. I thought she was all Jewish superstitious, don't buy anything for the baby until the doctor slaps it on its ass.”

“It'll take her longer than nine months to knit it. And doctors don't really slap babies on the ass. At least I read that they don't in one of my baby books.”

I swallowed at the thought of Nora and her stack of baby books, worn from rereading over a period of years. “You're going to call me soon with the same news, Nora. I know it. It's going to happen. Kissing cousins and everything.”

“Can they just be hugging cousins?”

“For sure.” I laughed. “I wish I could hug you right now,” I said.

“You can hug me tonight at Rosh Hashanah dinner. Are you bringing your famous yum-yum cake?”

“I made two of them, so there will be leftovers.”

“That's my sis.”

Nora and I hung up, and a wave of relief washed over me. Zach and I agreed to tell our families once we made it to twelve weeks and the midwife gave us the all-clear. I did confirm with my mom that I was pregnant, and she subtly spent the rest of the night pushing extra turkey on me. “Protein is good for you.” She smiled, winking.

I had hoped Nora would soon be able to make a similar announcement, but as yet she and Eddie are still trying. If ever I pray for anything, it will be that Nora gets her chance to be a mom, too.

Afternoon

I speak with Louise for a few minutes in between the doctors prodding her postpartum belly at the hospital. Sam rests on my lap.

“I'm totally flashing back to the big squeeze two weeks ago,” I tell her.

“The big squeeze?”

“That's what I call the pushing out of the baby.”

“Oh. I guess you could call mine the big pluck.” Louise refers to her C-section.

“Like a fine violin,” I assure her. “How's it going?”

“Okay, I guess. I'm a little out of it. She's cute, I think. She looks like every other baby, really. For all I know, they gave me the wrong one.”

I laugh. “Does everyone keep telling you you did a good job? Every doctor that visited me in the hospital said something like ‘I heard you did great.' Was that just for me? Like, I was so awesome at screaming and swearing and punching my husband's arms that word was traveling around the birthing floor? I didn't get it.”

“They were full of shit. They said that to me, too, and all I did was lay on a bed while they pulled a baby out of my anesthetized stomach.”

“Bastards.”

“How's it going with Sam?” Louise asks.

“Okay, I think. I wish someone would come by and tell me I'm doing great at
this,
though. I feel pretty clueless. My boobs are the Antichrist. Antichrists, I guess.”

“Yeah, my nips are already cracked and bloody, and I just started.”

“Maybe we can compare nips when we see each other.”

“Sure. Or I could send you a picture over the phone?”

“Only if I can send you a picture of my stitched-up perineum.”

We laugh and commiserate over postbirth grossities until Louise has to go for a vitals check.

“Say hi to baby Gertie for me. Tell her her future husband, Sam, is a big crybaby.”

“I'm sure she'll whip him into shape when they're officially engaged.”

We hang up, and I pet Sam's head. “Happy two-week birthday, Sam,” I say. “I will eat a large piece of cake in your honor.” I yell downstairs, “Zach! Can you run to the grocery store to get me a piece of cake?”

What the hell am I going to do when Zach goes back to work next week?

15 Days Old

If there actually is a book of my life, as the Jews believe, then God must have stamped a big ol' FAIL on today's entry.

Sam will not eat right. I have scabs on my boobs, and even the nipple shield is not doing its proper shielding duty because it fucking hurts every time he feeds. I can't stop crying. I'm terrified of my baby's mouth, and it seems like any time I hold him, all he wants to do is attack me. Is this a sign of things to come? Is Sam going to grow up to be a horrible man who attacks women and thrives on their pain? Or worse: a cannibal? Sick little shit. I know I'm not supposed to say that or feel this way. I'm supposed to adore all of his sweet baby quirks and praise him when he does something right. I shouldn't hate him for doing something wrong, even though it's causing me debilitating pain. I should love him because he is my baby, and that's what moms do: They love their babies unconditionally.

But it is so fucking hard when it feels like he hates me.

Later

Latch. Pop off. Latch. Pop off. Latch. Pop off. Every. Single. Time. It hurts like someone is tearing off my nipple with flypaper.

I call my mom to complain, and she tells me, “I've got a case of formula ready for you right here whenever you ask for it.”

“You bought a case of formula, Ma?” I'm livid. “I told you I want to breastfeed!”

“It's for emergencies. They had it at Costco. If you don't want it, I'll give it to Marcy's daughter. She's due next week.”

“Don't you dare force that on her. Who is Marcy again?”

“I play canasta with her every third Wednesday.”

“And you have to get her daughter a present?” I marvel.

“Of course. Marcy bought you that set of sports team teething rings. She said you didn't send a thank-you note yet.”

“By all means, give her daughter the formula, then. Good-bye, Mom.” I hang up.

*   *   *

Odd Success of the Day:

Sam's belly button scab fell off. And I almost threw up. Am I supposed to save this nasty-ass thing? Don't some people eat them? Or is that the placenta? I think this is technically part of the placenta. I wonder if Zach would notice if I sprinkled it over his pasta tonight.

*   *   *

No, I did not do it.

16 Days Old

My friend Devin, the school librarian from work, called to check in today. Two weeks into my maternity leave, and I'm jealous of people at work. This does not bode well for the five months I have to be home. At least I get to spend more time with Doogan. When he's not running away from the shrieking parasite attached to my boob.

Devin, always the librarian, found a lactation specialist for me only twenty minutes from my house. Her name is Joanne, and she has a storefront lactation shop in a strip mall. I call her, and before I've even paid her she talks to me for a half hour about all of the things I'm doing and what I can do to help my pain. She says I can bring Sam in, and she can help me learn how to make him latch more comfortably. I'm strapping him into the car seat the second he wakes from his nap.

17 Days Old

Joanne worked wonders on Sam's latching technique, but she told me my breasts had “trauma” that would take a while to heal. Little turd has caused me trauma! And now that I'm getting him to latch, I can't get him to unlatch. He is seriously stuck to my boob right now, asleep. Joanne suggested sticking my finger in his mouth to break the seal, but I'm afraid of cutting him with my nail. I'm
afraid
of cutting this delicate flower when he is causing
me
trauma.

See, I'm not entirely evil.

18 Days Old

This morning I opened the door and a box awaited me along with the newspaper. The return address was from a funky-looking kids' store in Chicago, and inside was a onesie that read, “I love boobies,” and a frightening-looking clown stuffed animal. A note with the gifts read, “I never know what to get people with babies. The shirt thing made me laugh, and the clown scared the shit out of me, so I thought, why not? Bummed I missed the bris! Love, Annika.”

I'm pleasantly surprised she bothered to send me a gift at all. She must have a new, straitlaced boyfriend who gave her the idea. Doogan wandered off with the clown toy after he spent a half hour stuffing himself into the shipping box. Which makes one wonder if Annika mistakenly purchased a catnip-filled toy for the baby instead of an actual baby toy. Win-win if Doogan hides the thing.

FACEBOOK STATUS

Between the onion in the garbage from last night's dinner, my hormonal sweating through four t-shirts in bed, and Sam's head smelling like Zach's armpit, I'd like to suggest that no one come over today.

19 Days Old

Two days and counting before Zach goes back to work as an IT specialist at a local bank. “What are you so worried about?” My mom holds Sam as I drag a pen along the seams of an envelope. Two half-finished thank-you notes jeer at me. “I raised you kids without your dad around, and you turned out decent.”

“I'm not worried about Sam being decent. He barely has a sporting chance, what with being your grandson.” I smirk. “I'm worried about generally sucking as a mom,” I explain.

“Let me let you in on a little secret: All moms suck much of the time. The beauty about being a stay-at-home mom is that there is no one to watch you fail. It's not like Sam is going to tell anyone. You'll be back at work before he learns to talk.”

“Mom, you're wigging me out a little. And yet, you are very wise. You sure you don't want to move in for a few months?”

“Oh, you'd love that. We couldn't spend two days in Lake Geneva without the battle of the air conditioner. No, I'll just be around for support when you need me. At least until I go to San Francisco next month.”

“I can't believe you're still going. You have a grandchild now!” I'm worried more about me not having her to help than my mom not seeing Sam, but it sounds better when the baby is the one being the baby.