Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Babyland (6 page)
8
Domestic Bliss
B
oston's South End is an eclectic neighborhood, combining a large and fairly affluent gay community, a long-term and less affluent Hispanic community, people now in their seventies who've been loyal to the neighborhood through its seriously crime-ridden druggie days of the sixties, a healthy-sized Chinese community, and people like me and Ross. We're the upwardly mobile types, the ones who frequent the finer restaurants with regularity, the ones who buy their breakfast at pricey little cafés and their clothes at chic little boutiques, the ones who abandon their expensive urban lifestyle for an expensive life in the suburbs within a year of having their first child.
oston's South End is an eclectic neighborhood, combining a large and fairly affluent gay community, a long-term and less affluent Hispanic community, people now in their seventies who've been loyal to the neighborhood through its seriously crime-ridden druggie days of the sixties, a healthy-sized Chinese community, and people like me and Ross. We're the upwardly mobile types, the ones who frequent the finer restaurants with regularity, the ones who buy their breakfast at pricey little cafés and their clothes at chic little boutiques, the ones who abandon their expensive urban lifestyle for an expensive life in the suburbs within a year of having their first child.
I live in a renovated brownstone on Roland Street. There are three units in my building; I own the top floor condo, which is about eight hundred square feet, and the roof rights that go along with it. There are two bedrooms, one of which I use as a guest room and place for those artifacts of early days I just can't bring myself to throw away or relegate to storage. (Ross, it should be said, was not very happy about the notion of my bringing some of those items to the loft. He particularly objected to the badly gilded horse with a clock in its stomach that had once belonged to my father's favorite aunt. Helpfully, Ross suggested a storage facility in South Boston and gave me the phone number of the Salvation Army's nearest drop-off center, just a few blocks away, in Roxbury.)
Soon after moving to Roland Street, I had a cedar deck erected on the roof. Someday, I thought, when the final nail was hammered, I'll buy a grill and actually learn how to use it. But at the time of my pregnancy the deck was several years old and still without a grill. There were, however, two lounge chairs and a small table with an oversized umbrella.
On the first floor of the building lives an odd duck of a fellow named Arthur Audrey. He could be anywhere from eighty to a hundred; all I know for sure is that he served in World War II (on occasion he wears bits and pieces of his old Navy uniform), which makes him the oldest person I know.
I've never been inside Mr. Audrey's apartment, and I'm not sure I'd want to be invited in. Although he seems personally quite clean and spiffy, a variety of odd odors waft into the common hall whenever he opens his door just wide enough to slip in and out. On more than one occasion I've detected a whiff of sulfur, causing me to wonder if he's conducting dangerous scientific experiments in a homemade lab. On other occasions the distinct odor of patchouli permeates the hallway. Is Mr. Audrey a closet hippie?
Between Mr. Audrey and me there's Katie Ford and Alma Rodriguez and their adopted son Emilio. Emilio is one of those preternatural children who are four going on thirty-five.
Katie was born and raised in the tough working-class Boston neighborhood known as Southie. Alma was born in the Dominican Republic; she became a U.S. citizen when she came to live with her grandmother at the age of twelve. Katie and Alma have been a couple for close to eight years; before that they worked together for one of the neighborhood community action groups.
During the day, when I'm at work, Katie and Alma make good use of the roof deck. Alma likes to sunbathe. Seeing her all bronzed and glowing while my own skin remains unspectacularly pale all year round does on occasion make me regret my prudence. Maybe someday I'll throw caution to the wind and leave the apartment without my sunblock #45. Maybe.
Katie is a gardener, the gifted green thumb kind. I was happy to have her take over the roof deck; now from early spring through late autumn it's alive with color.
“How do you do all this?” I asked once, indicating the round pots of bright green basil and the rectangular planters filled with bright pink and purple pansies.
“The key to my success,” Katie replied solemnly, “is that I become one with the plants.”
“How can you become one with a thing that isn't sentient?” I asked stupidly.
“Ah. This is why you can't even grow a weed.”
“I'm not sure I would know a weed from a legitimate plant,” I admitted. “Until just last week I thought dandelions were something you planted.”
“But you choose flowers for events, don't you?”
“That's easy. All I have to know about are color and shape. The florist does the rest. I know. I suppose I could learn.”
Katie grinned. “Or you could leave the world of flora to the experts and just enjoy our results.”
The Saturday morning just after my lunch with Tracy, I called my neighbors and asked if I could stop by. “You don't need to call first, Anna,” Katie said. “But I know you always will. Come now. I'm making scones.”
Five minutes later I was sitting at their kitchen table, enjoying the enticing smell of baking pastry.
“So,” I said without preamble, “I'm pregnant.”
The spatula Katie was holding slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the stovetop. “What! Since when?”
I laughed. “Since about a week ago, I guess. Don't look so shocked.”
“I'm not shocked. Well, maybe I am. I thought you said you and your fiancéâ”
“Ross. And yes, I did say that we weren't planning to have children.”
“So?” Alma took a seat at the kitchen table with me.
“What happened? I mean, okay, I know how babies are made. But was it the old-fashioned way, by accident? Or did you change your mind and get yourself inseminated or something.”
“The old-fashioned way,” I admitted. “It was completely an accident. Ross's boys slipped right through my girls' defenses.”
“Wow.” Katie whistled. “This is big.”
“I know,” I said. “I'm ... I'm pretty shaken up by this turn of events.”
Alma eyed me closely. “I'm not hearing exuberance, Anna. Are you happy?”
“I don't know,” I admitted. “Maybe. I'm definitely scared. I have absolutely no faith in my parenting skills. The innate ones, I mean. I think I can learn from books, and I hope my doctor will give me some advice, but as for what's inside me alreadyâI just don't know.”
Katie placed a plate of warm-from-the-oven scones on the table. I couldn't remember. Did Katie bake before she became a mother? “You'll be a fine parent,” she said. “Everyone doubts herself at first. It's normal.”
“Well, what if I do turn out to be a fine parent?” I argued. I knew I was being silly, but I couldn't help myself. Would I have to learn to bake? Would I have to learn how to make meat loaf and chocolate pudding? “Isn't saying someone is âfine' at something really saying they're âokay' at something? That they're just mediocre? That they're just average? If I'm going to be a parent, I want to be an excellent parent.”
Alma laughed. “I'm not sure anyone is ever an excellent parent, at least for more than a random moment or two. You'll be a good parent, Anna. A good parent is someone who continues to learn as she goes. And that's something I know you can do.”
I wondered, Could I learn? When was the last time I'd really learned something new? Baking would require leaning. Cooking would require cookbooks and new utensils and a spice rack. I would have to learn how to install a spice rack. I would have to buy a hammer and a box of nails.
“You know,” I said, further shaken by those frightening thoughts, “you two are the epitome of good parents.” Katie waved her hand dismissively, modestly. “No, I mean it. I look at you with Emilio, and I look at how you treat each other and, well, I think there's no way I'm ever going to achieve that kind of success.”
“There's no doubt,” Alma said, “that it's easier to be a good parent when your relationship with your partner is strong.”
“Of course,” I replied automatically. And I wondered. Was my relationship with Ross strong, really strong in the way it would have to be if we were going to pull off being good parents, raising a well-adjusted child, building a happy family?
Suddenly famished, I reached for a scone. “I just wish,” I said, “that the pregnancy was the result of a conscious choice. I hate the idea of accidents. I hate doing things on the spur of the moment. I hate when people say, âoh, let's play things by ear.' I wish I could have planned this pregnancy, like you did.”
Katie gave me a funny look. “Anna,” she said, “of course bringing Emilio into our lives was a conscious decision. Let's face it, kiddoâit wasn't going to happen any other way.”
“Oh,” I said, stupidly. “Right.”
“Look, Anna,” Alma said, patting my hand, “getting pregnant accidentally is not a crime. It's a fact of nature.”
I frowned. Nature. There was never a way to get around nature entirely. If it wasn't cicada plagues every seventeen years, it was monsoons and tornadoes and earthquakes and heat waves and ice storms and flash flooding. Central air-conditioning and gas heating were fine, but you had to leave the house at some point.
“Planning isn't necessarily all it's cracked up to be,” Alma went on. “Don't you like anything about surprises?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I don't like surprises at all. I like things neat and orderly and planned. I like to control what I can control and what I can't control, well, I don't like things I can't control.”
Katie laughed loudly. “Poor Anna! Motherhood is going to be a terrible shock. It's one big surprise after another, kiddo. Better get used to it now. Forget about your old favorites. The next time you're at a restaurant, point blindly to the menu. Take what you get and learn to tolerate it if you can't enjoy it.”
The thought was horrifying. “What if I pick something that makes me sick?”
“So you'll cough or break out in hives or throw up. But you'll survive.”
Would I?
I glanced around the well-used kitchen. The room was warm and soothing. The scones were warm and soothing. The entire apartment was warm and soothing. It would be nice to live here, I thought suddenly. I wasn't ready to be a mother. I wanted a mother. Or two.
“Why can't you adopt me, too?” I said. “I promise I'll keep my room clean and I won't have boys over without permission and I'll even help out with Emilio.”
Katie grinned. “So we won't have to give you an allowance?”
“Nope. I'll be the best daughter ever.”
Emilio called out from the bedroom, waking from his nap. Alma stood from the table and patted me on the shoulder.
“Childhood is at its end, Anna,” she said. “Now it's time for you to raise the best daughter ever.”
“What if I have a boy?” I said.
Alma grinned. “Then you must promise to introduce him to nose hair trimmers immediately.”
9
Old Ladies Having Babies
I
shoved hard on the door to the building. Something was definitely blocking it. With a final burst of effort I managed to open the door just enough so that I could slip inside, where I found an enormous cardboard box. I peered down at it; it was from Kristen.
shoved hard on the door to the building. Something was definitely blocking it. With a final burst of effort I managed to open the door just enough so that I could slip inside, where I found an enormous cardboard box. I peered down at it; it was from Kristen.
Ah, I thought. The promised books on pregnancy, childbirth, and child rearing. Mr. Audrey must have signed for the box while I was out and then not have been able to shove it aside. How I would get it up two steep flights of stairs to my apartment was the next puzzle to solve. The answer: I opened the box in the hallway and carried the contents upstairs in small quantities.
“It was difficult letting those books go,” Kristen told me when I called to thank her. “It made me truly realize I'm not going to have any more babies.”
Except for those accidental ones, I thought. But maybe Kristen knew something I didn't about controlling pregnancy. Maybe Brian had had a vasectomy after their third child was born. Maybe Ross should have had a vasectomy.
Later that evening I opened the books with trepidation. I knew virtually nothing about pregnancy, let alone about the actual birth process. Child rearing? That could wait. There were plenty of scary new experiences to deal with first.
By the end of the evening I knew more than I'd ever wanted to know. Here are some of the things that I, as a pregnant woman, had to look forward to.
An increase in hair growth. That sounded positive until I read on and learned that the hair referred to was not only the kind that grew on my head. I could anticipate longer and more lustrous hair not only on my head but also all over my body.
An increase in nail growth. That sounded like something I could handle, although having to get more pedicures and manicures would definitely eat into my work schedule, not to mention my budget.
Hemmorhoids are quite common during pregnancy. So is intestinal distress.
Water retention. According to several sources, I'd begin to show water weight gain even before I'd begin to show actual baby weight gain.
And before my belly began to protrude, my waist would widen. My skin might break out; I might be plagued with broken capillaries. There was a good chance I would suffer morning sickness, which could strike at any time of day or night, and the accompanying sense of vertigo. The very smell of something as innocuous as broiled chicken might cause me to gag. Dizziness might cause me to fall down and hit my head on the coffee table.
Whichâwho knew?âmight cause a miscarriage. Because according to one source, something like ten percent of pregnancies end within three months. That was only twelve weeks. Another source stated that approximately one out of every five pregnancies ends in miscarriage, the mother's age being a significant factor in predicting failure.
That particular piece of information made an impression. I was thirty-seven. Three years away from forty. Forty! I'm too old for this, I realized. I'm just too old to go through all these exhausting changes, even the relatively good ones, like thicker head hair and larger breasts. Besides, I thought petulantly, I never asked for thicker hair or larger breasts. I was perfectly content with my appearance. Why did it have to change?
I read on.
The very next source informed me that a woman over the age of thirty-five is considered to be of Advanced Maternal Age. That makes her baby more at risk for certain birth defects like cerebral palsy and Down syndrome.
I wondered, Did my being of Advanced Maternal Age also mean that my emotional capacity to bear and raise a child was less than full strength? Was there an age limit on maternal feelings and capabilities? Would I have been a better, more loving mother at twenty-one than I would be at thirty-seven?
The same source now talked about all the hype women have been fed for the past years about how easy it is, what with “modern science,” to get pregnant well into their forties. Well, the source informed me, for most women it's hard to get pregnant at forty. For a lot of women it's expensive. And the author of another, purportedly humorous book ranted onâcould I blame her?âabout how exhausting it is to be the caretaker of a totally helpless little being on a totally random schedule when you're lugging around some forty-odd years of wear and tear, when all you want to do at the playground is sit on a bench in the shade and read the paper, not hoist a thirty-pound toddler to the highest bars of the jungle gym.
I closed the final book, exhausted. I couldn't read another word. Not that evening. But I could do some thinking.
First, I got a glass of juice and settled on the couch. In truth, I'd never felt a maternal urge, not even when Kristen's first was born; I hadn't really understood what all the excitement was about. Over the years, whenever friends asked if I wanted children, I told them that I was postponing serious thought about a family until I was married.
Well, here I was, just about as good as married. And together with my fiancé I'd given the notion of a family some serious thought and decided it just wasn't for me. And then I'd gotten pregnant.
What was I supposed to do? End the pregnancy and do some more thinking? But there wasn't much time left on my biological clock. Anyway, for me, ending the pregnancy just wasn't a viable option. And pregnancy isn't really something you can “put off,” like a visit to the dentist or a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew your driver's license. Pregnancy isn't a chore. And pregnancy isn't a theory to be considered. It's a fact.
If not now, I wondered, then when?
I'm not a religious person, but I'm not without spiritual sensibility. I couldn't help but wonder why I had gotten pregnant, and why at that particular moment in my life, and why with Ross. Was some Power or Spirit sending me a message? And if so, what was that message? That I should “choose life” and become a mother?
I finished the juice and went off to bed. I turned out the lights, but my mind didn't get the clue that it was time for sleep.
Maybe, I thought, maybe the pregnancy isn't a message. Maybe it's a test. Maybe the Universe wants me to discover the kind of person I really am.
I stared into the dark and wondered, Would I discover the answer to that question in the coming months? And would I like what I discovered?
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