Exploiting My Baby (10 page)

seven

Bad Move: Calling Nancy O’Dell a Stupid C-Word

A
lmost every idiotic thing I do can be traced back to one basic flaw: trying too hard. This explains how I end up calling Nancy O’Dell a “stupid c-word.”

Her publicist sends me a copy of O’Dell’s book,
Full of Life: Mom-to-Mom Tips I Wish Someone Had Told Me When I Was Pregnant
, and I settle down to read it one afternoon after work, Cherry Mylanta by my side, clutter I’m too tired to clean crowding our tiny condo. This is just what I need today, I figure, some insider information from Nancy O’Dell, the former host of
Access Hollywood
and a onetime Miss South Carolina. She’s going to tell me things she wishes she had known, maybe provide a bit of commiseration.

Of course, you can’t have “commiserate” without its Latin root, “miser,” which means “wretched,” and Nancy doesn’t experience much wretchedness, mostly just glee expressed with an abundance of unironic exclamation points. I sip a bit of antacid while reading about her absence of pregnancy nausea. My morning sickness increases just reading about her lack of it. While I hope my ponytail is long enough to cover up the cystic acne on the back of my neck, I read about Nancy’s pregnancy skin.

“I swear it actually glowed. It was luminous and smooth. Now, you have to understand, every day I sit in a chair for over an hour while makeup is applied to my skin to create that
very same glow!
”

Jealousy grips me as I grip her book in my sweaty hands and I continue reading about her awesome skin.

“I’d read that an increase in hormones could sometimes cause the opposite reaction, aggravating skin and causing breakouts. Phew, I had dodged a bullet there!” writes Nancy. And guess what? That bullet she dodged hit me right in the face, and anywhere else one might find a sebaceous gland.

There wasn’t going to be much commiserating, but maybe I could get something out of those mom-to-mom tips.

“I recommend that you start your baby scrapbook on the day of your first ultrasound, the first time you see your little one. Granted, it may just look like a dot on the page, but that’s your baby!” She includes a handy chart of other things to include in your scrapbook, including “close-ups of nursery furniture and bedding” and “nursery paint color samples.” I’m not sure where I’m even going to fit a crib, and I’m also not sure if that first ultrasound photo is still in my glove compartment, or if I tossed it out with some unpaid parking tickets and take-out menus.

Moving on, I check out some of her wardrobe tips.

Drawstring pants are very useful, she reveals, adding that you can hide your belly with a long scarf. “A large designer bag will do the trick as well, so this gives you a good excuse to buy one!”

Neat. Thanks for that mom-to-mom tip everyone can use; everyone, that is, with a couple thousand bucks to spend on a Gucci satchel.

She and her husband both felt in their hearts they were having a girl, but naturally, they would have been happy either way. Well, their hearts were right, and her CVS test confirmed that baby girl Ashby was on her way.

It wasn’t all hearts and flowers. She was “forgetful ” and often had to have her husband scratch her itchy belly with a towel, but even that process was “Heaven, I tell you. Better than any cream. And better than doing it yourself!”

Nancy also battled constipation, leg cramps and dizziness, but all of those problems had easy solutions: Stay hydrated, make your mom’s famous spice cake recipe with extra prunes and “put your feet up as much as possible.”

Paging through her trimesters, I discover she does have one real difficulty. The matching ottoman, glider, changing table and crib for Ashby will take eight to ten weeks to be delivered, not making it in time for the baby’s arrival, and the material for the nursery curtains is on back order as well. To make matters worse, her second choice of curtain fabric has been discontinued! “So place your orders with enough time to allow for delays.” Noted. I’ll make sure to let my decorator know.

Finally, I get to the best part. Nancy is holding her baby, and she’s in tears. Tears. Now we’re getting somewhere.

She just can’t understand why she’s crying when having a baby was so richly rewarding. That’s when her husband diagnoses her with her single, serious baby-related disorder.

“Babe, what you have is
postpartum elation.
”

I groan and toss the book under the coffee table with a pile of other books never to be read again. Nancy is now out of sight, but not out of mind. The more I think about her, the more I resent this perky, blonde stranger (now selling her own jewelry line on QVC).

When it’s time to sit in with Adam Carolla to record his podcast the next day, I’m still thinking about America’s sweetheart and the tiny white crochet booties with lavender ribbons on the cover of her book, and her whole blessing-filled pregnancy, especially as I discuss mine, a stark contrast. Full of life, but also full of fear, self-doubt and acne.

I guess I got caught up in the moment, trying to be funny, trying to fit in with Adam and the guys at the studio, trying to be so bracingly honest that pregnant women everywhere would embrace me as their new truth teller and anti-O’Dell.

Let’s face it, after three years of not cursing on FM radio I was a little “fuck” and “asshole” happy, but there was no need to go “c-word” on Nancy and I was way, way out of line, trying to make a point and, as is always the case when I am trying too hard, saying something lame.

After recording the podcast, I wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, “full” of regret. Nancy O’Dell will probably never even hear the show, I realize, and wouldn’t care if she did, because she has a life (is, as I’ve noted,
Full of Life
), but it doesn’t matter, because I know I said it and it came out all wrong, as only the c-word can.

Nancy, if you happen to read this, I am so sorry.

I know you can’t relate, because according to your book your worst pregnancy symptom was frightfully lustrous hair, but I’m kind of unhinged right now.

You couldn’t stop crying because having a daughter (Ashby!) made you think of your own beloved mother and the goddamn circle of goddamn life. Meanwhile, I lost the mom lottery and haven’t even spoken to my own mother this entire pregnancy, a pain that you poked with your literary outpouring of family joy. In every fundamental way that you had and are a mother, I got nothing.

Whereas, Nancy, you are perfect. You have everything. You were in a sorority. Your coworkers probably adore you. You
scrapbook.

Both you and your newborn little girl are gorgeous, which I know from staring at the photo on your book jacket.

You can’t judge a book by its cover, or the author by the photo on the back, but I’m going to. You have social graces, boundaries and the ability to restrain yourself from saying things that come across as mean-spirited and hurtful, something you probably learned from your family of origin, not to mention years in the pageant and Greek systems. You just plain know how to act. So you might not understand blurting out something asinine.

Let me just say that at the time it was really hot in Adam’s studio in a garage in Glendale and my bottled water was just out of reach and I was too self-conscious to break the mood and reach for it and one piece of my bangs kept getting in my eye and I couldn’t focus. I knew my tone was wrong, that while I was trying to make myself the butt of the joke, it wasn’t working. When I tried to correct it, I went to that file in my brain labeled “how to fix it when you accidentally call an entertainment reporter a c-word while trying to be self-effacing,” but the file was empty. Instead, there was just a Post-it reading “Peanut butter sounds
nummy
.”

Your little lime green and lavender dissertation on maternal euphoria shouldn’t try my patience. So what if you write tips like “Pants with an elastic waistband are great for the first trimester”? Sure, you have a love affair with the obvious, but you are happy and productive. You had a kid and wrote a book, two things I’m struggling to do. It would be a far better thing to be the one sitting over there weeping with joy into baby Ashby’s pink gingham bassinet and staring at a pile of books with your picture on the back than to be sitting over here criticizing and making fun.

There’s a saying: Compare and despair. This is very true when it comes to pregnancy. There’s an O’Dell around every corner, someone who just seems happier, more organized, less nauseous, more resplendent than you are. These O’Dells just seem ready to be moms.

I’m positive that there are O’Dells at every stage of motherhood.

O’Dells have short labors and wear their skinny jeans home from the hospital and O’Dells produce massive quantities of breast milk with no trouble and love every second of it. O’Dells have their moms come stay for weeks to help with the baby, because O’Dells only trust family and O’Dells just adore theirs. O’Dells teach their babies sign language and institute consistent and effective nap time routines. O’Dells make the best snacks as car pool mom, help tutor their valedictorians in high school, pack them up for college with a set of matching foot lockers in the appropriate collegiate colors and decorate their dorm rooms with both aplomb and tasteful restraint. O’Dells try not to brag about their children in medical school or modeling in Milan, but what can they do? That’s just where the kids are. O’Dells get big bouquets on Mother’s Day no matter where the children are in the world, because they love their mommy, but not in an overly attached, unhealthy, neurotic way. O’Dells plan their daughters’ weddings without incident, and sit in the front row weeping with happiness, as they did back in the day when they had that first bout of postpartum elation. O’Dells spoil their grandchildren—though no one can believe O’Dells are actually old enough to have grandkids! O’Dells are the subject of “My Hero” essays written by their great-grandchildren. When O’Dells age, they let their hair go tastefully gray but are never, ever without manicured fingernails, painted a dusty rose. In the old folks’ home, they always have more visitors than you, a steady stream who always seem to be singing. When O’Dells pass quietly and peacefully in their sleep after enjoying sixty-year marriages, their funerals are packed and the services moving. They will have a much sunnier and more expensive resting place than you will. There will always be more flowers on their graves.

It’s going to be a long lifetime as a mother if I spend it feeling inferior, so I might as well get a jump on it and start now.

eight

Why I’m Finally Psyched to Be Having a Boy

 

 

 

I
stood in the middle of a swanky baby boutique, stuck there, as if a pink diaper pin were going right through me, fixing me to the center of the crammed little room.

It looked like a vagina had exploded in there.

There were a row of petite purses made to look like chocolate chip cookies, a set of red plastic lips containing mint lip gloss, a bubble gum pink voile skirt hanging with a dainty black cardigan, a tiara festooned with powder blue fluff. There were racks of alternating orange and yellow boas, a stack of fuchsia headbands with white dots, a giant purple flower attached to a silver hair clip and a trio of white unicorns with gold horns and eyes.

“You baby store people are totally fucking with me,” I thought, my mouth hanging open so that it looked like I was having a mild stroke. Daring to glance at the boy wall, I saw one measly pair of denim overalls and a sad stack of brown Jimi Hendrix onesies.

“Can I help you?” asked the clerk.

Not unless you can turn an XY into an XX.

I was aware that it looked pretty strange, me standing there, mouth wide open, not moving, but I couldn’t tell the truth, that I was pissed off about all these girlie treats I coveted for the daughter I wasn’t having. So I muttered something about needing a shower gift for a little boy.

“So much cute girl stuff in here,” I whispered. “Not so much boy stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” chirped the saleslady, straightening a glistening display of sparkly barrettes. “Maybe some socks?”

Some socks. That’s what you get when you’re having a boy. If you’re lucky, you scare up a tiny pair of checkered Vans, but those also serve to remind you of what he’ll be wearing on his feet when he pushes toy trucks across the room, stacks piles of boring old Legos for hours and breaks everything in sight, including his own bones from time to time, trying to “fly” from the couch to the floor or playing other dubious games of his own invention. I just knew it would go from bleak brown onesies and dull blue socks with “I love Mommy” stitched to the side, to legions of army men and train sets underfoot, to a room smelling of mildew and dirty laundry and filled with hockey posters, barely used Aqua-Sport-scented deodorant sticks and one sullen, unapproachable, terse teenage boy. The last time he would say “I love Mommy” would be through his socks.

This boy would not call me much when he went off to college, or joined the merchant marine if they still have that, or whatever. He would dodge my calls, except once a week on Sundays when he would feel obliged to humor me for twenty minutes as I peppered him with annoying questions about his personal life and he gave me a series of brief, unsatisfying answers. I would never
know
him.

When he’s a toddler, I wouldn’t have a clue how to play with him and when he’s an adult, I’d just be a nuisance until one day his new wife would suggest they move to another state and visit once a year, but only if they can stay at a hotel.

So you can see why I was paralyzed in that baby store.