How to Party With an Infant (13 page)

She stares, hands poised on the keyboard. She goes back to smelling her hair again. Work just isn’t working, and she’s convinced it’s because Jenny needed to come on Fridays. She feels her most optimistic on Fridays, standing on the precipice of the weekend, those glorious lazy hours. That’s the upside to having a husband who works so much—on weekends she can drop Max onto his lap and say, “Your turn,” and then mothering becomes something thrilling and distant—a spectator sport, and she’s the owner of the team.

This is the fourth week in a row where this Tabor lady obliterated her Friday morning plan to work a little and then enroll in the Bar Method, supposedly some difficult workout class that she’s in desperate need of, seeing that she has enough skin on her stomach to make drums for an African tribe and her breasts look the same as Barney Frank’s. She bets Tabor has one of those crazy MILF bodies every mother seems to have these days. Annie has sweatpants that say
MILF
on the butt, and it’s clearly a false advertisement. She’s not even a Mother I’d Like to Cuddle With. Brian treats her like a Mother I’d Like to Scratch My Ass in Front Of (a MILSMAFO?), and why should she have to primp when he doesn’t bother to? His body is pale and plush, his strong face beginning to sink inward like the middle of a bell pepper. His penis is reminding her more and more of the muppet Gonzo, and when he bends over naked to put on his boxers, it’s as though a bouquet of ferns were sprouting from his ass. And yet, every day she texts him:
Home tonight!?
His absence is most felt when she’s in bed and there’s something funny on television, her laughter echoing in the room, and she knows if he were there he’d be laughing, too. She pictures him in his hotel room just as alone.

She pulls up the graphics of her mothers. All of them are fabulous, long-legged and angular, phones in hand, oversize sunglasses on head. One hand pushing a Bugaboo, the other hand holding a huge handbag or a martini glass filled with an icy pink or blue liquid, depending on the sex of the baby, who is always smiling. She gazes at her creations. If brought to life, these girls would travel in herds and use the word
momtourage
. They wouldn’t have husbands like Georgia’s, who yelled at her in public about the two-sheet rule (using no more than two squares of toilet paper per pee).

They wouldn’t be single like Mele, and if they were it would be “fabulous,” and they’d write books about being cool and hip, single, hot moms. These women weren’t like Barrett, the ex-cheerleader who
looks the part but whose mind keeps her from full immersion. Barrett is too funny, too judgmental, too independent and short. These moms perhaps resemble Henry’s wife, though his wife has to have some good qualities since she is married to Henry—that’s automatic points, like writing your name on the SATs.

She looks at the graphic of the mom for her newest apron. What would you do for fun? she wonders. Talk to me. She imagines their voices, all based on people she’s met and things she and Mele have overheard on playgrounds:

“I have dinner parties,” the graphic says. “I have them in my newly designed garden, which features manicured European-style plantings and Stockholm guild-stamped Swedish rococo chairs with blue velvet seats. Because of the economy, at last week’s dinner party my husband thought it would be really funny and yet responsible to get cheap beer and everyone drank it and said, ‘God, remember we used to drink this?’ It was especially humorous because our friends have respectable jobs: one’s a CEO, one’s a state senator, one is the granddaughter of the man who invented mini–condiments packets.”

The next graphic is of a young, socialite kind of mom, who in real life would follow practically every assertion with “That’s my motto.” Even though she doesn’t cook she buys these aprons as gifts for friends. The friends laugh, as if they’re prank gifts, like edible underwear.
Aprons? How kitsch! How retro! I could wear it to the library gala—isn’t the theme
Mad Men
? Oh, that would be ha-larious.
How do you have fun? Annie asks.

Well, fashion is my passion and my kids can’t get in the way of that,”
she says
. “I was just praised in
7x7
for my fearless combining of a vintage Dior silk organza jacket and a bubble skirt from Target. I’m known for my whimsical approach, for pairing couture with fuchsia tights and microminis. The thing is the media can’t pin me down, and so they keep tracking my fashion moves. One day I’m all Hawaii surfer–plantation owner, the next I’m all ice princess in ivory, cream, and ecru. Most of my closet is vintage or custom-made, but I also shop at Helpers Home Bazaar at Ghirardelli Square, which benefits retards.

Annie remembers reading this in an actual interview. This actually came from someone’s mouth. “Why do I spend so much time creating and disliking you bitches?” Annie says.
Because we’re real,
they answer. And it’s what the company wants. Why would they want some graphic for cocktail napkins of a mom using a breast pump or crying from postpartum?

She hears Jenny’s voice in the kitchen. An hour has passed and she hasn’t done a thing.

“I don’t have much fun these days,” she imagines saying to Jenny. “When I was your age I was interested in gin, skinny boys with big ears (think ghetto Abe Lincolns), and going sledding after eating a Taco Bell gordita with shrooms in it.”

Though she won’t say this, of course, she decides to give herself a challenge:

Say something real today. Something revealing. Something true.

*  *  *

Sadly, this may be Annie’s favorite part of the day: driving Jenny to Tabor Boyard’s. Each time she hopes for a glimpse of her. The actual driving part, however, isn’t as thrilling. Jenny always sits in back like a scared tourist.

The loud and obnoxious DJ whom Annie loves is talking about being on the couch with his hand down his pants. “I’m not masturbating,” he says. “It’s just how guys rest. We’re just checking in with ourselves, you know?”

She pretends to be disgusted and presses seek, landing on a bubble gum pop station. Jenny begins to sing along with the song—a love ballad with lots of oohing and melismata. The singer manages to sing
you
at a variety of pitches, building and adorning it as if the word were a wedding cake.

“Vocal diarrhea,” Annie mumbles, and yet she wants Jenny to hear what she has said. Forget CPR, forget TrustLine certification. If you like her humor then you’ve passed.

“What?” Jenny says.

“Her vocals are like Christina’s,” Annie says, backing out of the joke. “Aguilera.” She mispronounces the last name so that it sort of rhymes with
diarrhea.

“I love her,” Jenny says, then starts to make Max’s Piglet doll dance to the song. Max neighs.

“I love Piglet,” Jenny says to Max. “Do you love Piglet, Max? Do you love Pooh? I love Pooh.”

Oh, come on! Annie stifles a laugh. How she wishes Brian were in the seat next to her so they could stifle laughs together.

She turns off Seventh, climbing up the back way to Ashbury Heights.

“Any chance you can come this Friday?” Annie asks.

“Shoot,” Jenny says. “I’m supposed to be at Tabor’s for sure, but I was thinking—it might be okay if Max came there? I could ask if it’s okay or even if she wanted to do a nanny share on Fridays.”

“That would work,” Annie says, in a way that hides the fact that she’s thought of this countless times. A nanny share with Tabe.

“Purse—that’s Tabor’s little girl—she’s the prettiest, sweetest thing.”

“Purse?”

“It’s short for Priscilla. She’s a really calm, friendly baby.”

Max makes a braying sound.

“Max would love it,” Annie says. Maybe she and Tabor would hit it off, too. You never know.

“It’s super easy over there,” Jenny says. “They have tons of toys. Their whole downstairs is pretty much her playroom.”

“How nice,”
Annie says, embarrassed by her home. She imagines Tabor’s so rich and so together that the floor space between the fridge and the wall is spotless. “Max, you could play with a new friend!”

“Does he interact with other babies yet?” Jenny asks.

Annie thinks of him with the Panhandle babies and kids. “He notices them more now, but doesn’t really interact.”

“Just parallel play?”

“Yeah,” Annie says, not knowing what that’s supposed to mean, but then she gets it, and doesn’t understand why “doesn’t really interact” had to be translated into what she calls “baby bullshit language”—
tummy time, CIO, separation anxiety,
and so on. “Toddler bullshit language” is even more loathsome: “We need to calm our bodies, Isabella (or Gabriella, Ava, Bella, Ella).” “Use your words, Dash (or Gabe, Brody, Parker).” It’s like yoga language: “Honor your intentions, bring awareness back to your breath, squeeze out the toxins.”

“He loves his parallel play,” she says, knowing that this isn’t the time to reveal anything about herself whatsoever. Now is the time to impress, to have Jenny go to Tabor’s and tell her what a classy, smart, together mom Annie is. For fun she does yoga! For fun she scrapbooks! She needs to say something like that and remembers that god-awful mani-pedi moms’ party she went to the other night, in an attempt to embrace her husband’s absence and enjoy herself.

It was hosted by SFMC, and she sat in between a brunette who talked like a drag queen and an obviously new mom who had her hair pulled back into one of those severe ponytails.

They were chattering back and forth about pumping and dumping. The woman with the bitchy ponytail was explaining her circumstances: “If we have to go out I’ll nurse first, then when we get home I’ll pump out the spoiled milk. I wait a few hours so that most of the alcohol can get metabolized? One time, though, oh my God. Drank way too much, and when I pumped, I could actually smell the alcohol in the milk and so I’m like, ‘I’m
not giving Brayson that!’ and so I pumped and dumped every two hours for the next twelve hours and supplemented with formula so I wouldn’t give him an infant hangover? But because I pumped so much—total rookie maneuver—my body signaled my glands or whatever to make more milk and I got totally engorged. I looked like I had a botched surgery! That was
not
fun at all. I don’t even drink wine anymore—it’s dehydrating and there are all these pesticides on grapes? I’ve been sticking with beer because I know the yeast in beer stimulates milk production? Have you tried Otter Creek organic ale? It’s pretty good—it’s local.”

Fuck me, Annie thought. Or: fuck me?

The woman on the other side of Annie was quasi-listening, dismissing everything she said with quick shakes of her head. Annie could just see the words on her tongue waiting to be released like gas bubbles.

“Forget it,” this other, been-there-done-that woman said. “I have three kids.”

Ah, the three-kid exemption. When chicks pulled out this card you were just expected to bow down.

“After my first C-section I was on around-the-clock narcotics, still breast-fed, and Caitlin was fine. A bit unresponsive, but we both got sleep. You don’t need to dump, trust me. All my kids have turned out fine. And you want to know the truth? Alcohol breast milk is better than formula any day. The mothers who use formula are the ones who need to worry about the poison they feed their babies. I mean why wouldn’t you breast-feed?” She grabbed her left breast. “What else are they for? It’s like having eyes and not using them to see.”

Annie turns onto Tabor’s narrow street. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she says. “I had the best time the other night. My girlfriends and I had a mani-pedi party. We reserved the salon and got the full treatment!”

“Fun!” Jenny says. “That’s so awesome. I’ve
always wanted to do that.”

“It was so fun,” Annie says.

“Fun,” Jenny says.

“Super fun. So . . .”

Annie thinks of the Korean woman who worked on her as though she were a horse. The woman was so fast and rough. It was like she wanted to hurt Annie, and she kept talking to the manicurist next to her and Annie knew they were talking about her sweaty hands.

Annie stops in front of Tabor Boyard’s home, which must have views all the way to the Marin Headlands. Jenny opens the door and says good-bye to Max.

“Don’t forget these!” Annie says, passing Jenny the tin of dulce de leche brownies through the passenger window. “You know how I have fun!” Her June Cleaver tone grates her ears, but Jenny’s eyes light up.

“Oooh, thanks,” Jenny says. “I’ll share with Tabor.”

“Yes! Please do!” If she couldn’t go to exercise class then Annie would give up sweets and make Tabor fat.

“I’ll let you know about Friday,” Jenny says.

Annie keeps her face as still as possible, not wanting to reveal her hope or her annoyance from having to wait in the wings. Jenny walks into the house, and Annie slowly pulls forward. This is the part she likes. She lowers her sunglasses so she can look out the corner of her eye at Tabor’s home. It’s brown with a creamy yellowish trim. She bets the paint is called Thoroughbred Brown and Golf Shirt Yellow. Every time she leaves she scans for another detail, for something she’s missed. She takes a last look back, spying the glimmer of a garden fountain. She says something to Max while looking lest she appear to be openly gawking, having the owner of the home mistake her curiosity for jealousy or worse, admiration.

*  *  *

Friday: no call from Jenny.

The following Tuesday, Mele comes by with Ellie. Annie is making Baileys brownies and pours some Baileys into her coffee. “Want some?” she asks.

“What time is it?”

“Noon.”

“Okay.”

She pours some into Mele’s coffee, checks the chocolate in the double boiler, then sits down.

“Brian still gone?” Mele asks.

“Yup,” Annie says. Still staying in Palo Alto. She calls him at night, always with the intention of speaking calmly—it’s not like it’s his choice to be gone—but it always goes south. She assumes the position of haggard housewife, raising their child alone, sleeping alone, and she always hangs up angry with both him and Fletcher Webber IV.