How to Party With an Infant (7 page)

I felt guilty that his misery had given me sustenance, and I kind of bowed my head.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. His hand was on the bench, and I patted it once. He looked down, acknowledging my gesture, though I don’t know how he felt about it.

Henry is so simple, in the best of ways. It takes very little to make him happy—a day at the park, a sandwich, things that are what they seem.

I thought of effortless salads, straightforward foods, late-night sandwiches, comfort and love. Blue Cheese Greens, a crisp salad to refresh. A Croque Monsieur sandwich with butter on both sides of the bread; a side of Bud Light to keep things light. I looked at him, then quickly looked away. I felt it. A nervousness, a crisp tang like tarragon vinegar on iceberg lettuce. A life without Bobby could be possible.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, and maybe like Bobby I was chanting the answer I wanted to hear. We’ve always flirted from the safe realm of impossibility. But now . . . But now nothing. I was thinking illogically, selfishly. Now I had a friend who needed some support.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What are you going to do about Bobby?” He was lightening up, his habitual expression was back—amused, present, mischievous.

“I’m going to look great at his wedding,” I said.

“Attagirl,” he said. “Let me know if you need some arm candy.”

I didn’t know if he was joking, and it seemed like he didn’t know either. We both got quiet and had slightly puzzled faces. Before I could respond, Tommy ran back to the bench.

“I have power,” he said, cupping something in his hands. “I got some under there in that hole.”

“Good job, son,” Henry said. “Power’s good. Go and get some more. Get some for me and Mele.”

I suppose for a minute we looked married, the parents of Tommy and Ellie. We sat in silence for a while until Ellie came and got me, for the first time asking to go home. It was late, I realized. I could smell people’s dinners wafting out of apartment windows. Henry got up, moving a hand through his thick brown hair. He walked toward his son. “Let’s hit it, all right, kiddo?”

I’ve never seen him rush or panic, or hurry his child by counting to three. He tricks the eye. Sometimes he looks like a boss, an overseer, other times he looks like he chops down trees for a living. He has steely green eyes, a boyish face, an athletic build—you can tell by the way his clothes hang. I felt a little guilty for bringing it all out of him, but he looked better than when he first got there. I feel like our talk was a kind of triumph.

“See you guys,” I called out to everyone. “We’re heading out.”

He looked back at me leaving and smiled that true smile that takes up so much of his face.

When Ellie and I got home and she pushed her tricycle into its spot in the basement so that it was just so, I made Henry a Croque Monsieur, which translates into “crispy mister.” Just a ham and cheese sandwich, but béchamel’s the opposable thumb of the meal, making a primitive thing into something deliciously evolved. I got into it, also making a Croque Madame, placing a fried egg on top of the sandwich, then decided on two eggs and called it a Croque Second Wife. I created a Croque Enfant for Ellie, placing apple slices on top. She ate all of it. I can’t tell you how proud I feel when my child eats everything I put in front of her, when I can sit down with my baby and talk and sip wine at a leisurely pace and not have to scream: “Eat!”

These are my accomplishments.

Renee—that’s great you have foreign friends; however, the issue is your proposal that calling the police is an appropriate response. So your kid gets pushed and the solution is the family goes to immigration jail?

—Beth Nelson

Has your husband ever asked you to use your breast pump just for fun? Like, in a foreplay kind of way? I wasn’t sure how to respond to this and pretended like I had “bowel issues,” but I don’t know how long I can keep using this excuse. Is this
a thing
guys like or . . .

—Anonymous, please reply to general forum

Now
that’s
special. Never got that request before! There’s a dairy farm in Vallejo if he wants to check it out and get his milking fix. It’s organic!

—A.L., West Portal

Does your husband cook? How do you divvy up the responsibilities?

Way to rub it in my face, you sick, kitten-heel-wearing bitches. The only thing your husbands cook is probably the books. I bet you complain he doesn’t do enough. He doesn’t pick up the kids. They’re driving you crazy. You’re trying to post something about your miracle cleanse and they’re fighting with one another over the iPad again. You need to post about the cleanse this minute and how you know exactly what you’re putting into your body and you’re so happy and healthy! You need to Instagram your body Before and After! You need help from your husband—he works too much, he doesn’t treat you the way you should be treated. He didn’t notice your highlights. He didn’t notice your pedicure. You have eggplant toes, god damn it! The It color!

*  *  *

So, I’m a little off this week. The Big Day is three weeks away, same time this book’s due, and I’m anxious and depressed. Annie is adamant that I don’t go, but I can’t help but want to. I want to see what he’s choosing. I want to see this life I’m somehow a part of.

Today I browsed through Bobby’s registry, scanning for appropriate gifts—carafes of shit or a set of silverware—the latter already purchased by the Mittwegs. How greedy to ask for a punch bowl when he has a toddler! He should register for preschool tuition or princess dresses. He should register for wine and therapy for the mother of his child.

I’m at my desk, which is in the living room. Ellie is banging on her little piano, which isn’t helping my hangover. I swear motherhood leads to alcoholism. I never used to drink like this.

Last night, Annie, Georgia, Barrett, and I confessed we had a drink every night of the week. I don’t think it’s that untypical for women to
have a couple glasses of wine with dinner every night, but I guess it was our seemingly dire need for it that was interesting.

We were at Barrett’s house, sitting in her living room, drinking wine, civilly.

“After a day it just sounds so good,” she said.

“And it makes it seem like your child is behaving better,” I said. “You’re charmed versus pissed.”

“It’s sort of like an award at the end of the day,” Annie said. “Like, good job. You can clock out and relax now.”

“Except you can’t,” Barrett said. “It’s like the Hotel California.” We continued our conversation, moving on to margaritas and tequila. I stayed with wine. Doesn’t make me a better person. I’m just neurotic about sugar, and citrus makes me sweat. Our kids were racing around until ten, and we were all like, “Fuck it. Cheers. Man Pie. What the hell is man pie? Oooh, I love this song. What is this? Sir Mix-A-Lot? Oh my God, look at you in that picture. You looked so young! Where are our husbands? Who cares! Screw the husbands! Or wait, don’t screw them! Hahaha.”

It was practically Dionysian, like some mother binge. Barrett was slurring and swerving in place. She tried to sober up, but we found out she had just switched to watered-down tequila. Her husband swooped in to the rescue, making her say good night. How I yearned to be put to bed.

I know you’re judging me, just as I judge you most likely, but sometimes I think we should all vow to back off. As a mom, you should be able to be a pill-popping shoplifter and not garner scorn for all the crap you have to do, and I’m saying this as a person with a decent child, something not all of you have. Some moms have boys! That’s like having hyenas! What was great about last night’s binge was the relief everyone felt that we could be open about everything—thinking you have to uphold this Mother-of-the-Year image is tragic and sad, lonely.

“Wine is my savior,”
Georgia said, completely sincere. I thought she was going to make out with her glass.

I could never see men getting together and talking about beer this way. It’s standard that a man needs a beer at the end of the day. It’s American. It’s deserved. Beer ads only target men, and their messages are: You’re strong, you have a big truck, girls in bikinis like to randomly rub up against you, and your wife looks at you like you’re handsome and don’t have butt acne.

*  *  *

Does my husband cook? That was the question. Bobby used to cook, the most simple things since it would usually be late at night. Pasta with garlic and olive oil, fresh basil, anchovies. We’d eat and watch late-night TV, my feet in his lap. Those noodle and cigarette days are over. I can’t imagine Ellie waddling into that scene with binkie in mouth, blankie in tow. I can’t imagine her with a stepmother either, and the idea of this makes my blood swell—I imagine it having currents and barrels. Some surfer could win a trophy on my rage. This was never part of the life I imagined. She will have a stepmother with blond hair, someone who looks stunning in rubber boots and turtlenecks, someone who can say, “I’m just a simple cheese maker,” a.k.a. the daughter of a winery owner who is privileged enough to say to herself, “I should just go and do something artisan, organic, and fashiony on all that land we don’t use.”

We definitely don’t divide the responsibilities. I am responsible for Ellie, but I guess I want it to be this way.

He came to the city yesterday morning, as he sometimes does on Sundays when they close the roads in Golden Gate Park. We strolled around with Ellie on her tricycle with the push handle and I pretended we’re a real family. We liked to watch the Rollerbladers who disco. Or, we liked to watch Ellie watching them.

“Pedal. Use your legs,”
he said to Ellie for the ninth time. I was counting. It boggles my mind when he can get frustrated with her in the first half hour when he hasn’t seen her for weeks, knowing that he’s just going to take off again.

“Is it really that big a deal?” I asked, pushing her with the steering handle while she sat without pedaling—I used the bike more as a stroller than an actual bike.

A swarm of runners went past us, and we had to sidestep some staggering toddlers.

“It’s a transition bike,” he said. “And she’s never going to learn to move it herself if you keep using the steering bar. I told you to get her one of those balance bikes. Then you can bypass training wheels.”

His brow was furrowed. This was an actual issue for him—Ellie’s tricycle-riding skills. I felt a mixture of annoyance and contentment. He cared at least. And it was fun to hear those words come from his mouth—
transition bike, training wheels.
He looked like all the other swagger-free dads at the park, no hint of his old self, the man who’d come in late at night, walk purposefully to me as if I were on fire, and without saying a word, strip off my clothes and take me wherever I happened to be sitting, standing, or lying down.

“I’m not really worried about her bike-riding skills,” I said. “That’s really the least of my worries.”

“You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said.

“Do I though?” I said and stopped walking.

He pushed my back to keep me moving. “Don’t be dramatic.”

I walked and talked quietly, my jaw tense, words barely seeping out. “I think I can feel sorry for myself and be dramatic and any number of things.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Whatever it is you need.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” I said.

He shrugged again, as if that was something obvious, like telling
him he had black hair and wide shoulders, and a coy, seductive smile, god damn it.

“Stop!” Ellie said, and we stopped on the bridge by the de Young museum to watch the swing dancers. She was entranced by their synchronized movements. I was entranced by their bliss, the fact that they were dancing like this in a public park, in daylight, without alcohol. To do this you had to be incredibly fulfilled.

Bobby smiled at the scene, but in a way that seemed to say,
Look at this nerd herd.

I watched an older couple dancing as if in a trance, a moving meditation. The man touched the rim of his hat while she twirled, and I wondered if he did that every time and for how many years.

“What does she think about you being here with us?” I asked. It took him a moment to understand.

“She’s fine,” he said.

It pissed me off that the cheese artisan was fine, that I wasn’t someone who rattled her. He never gave me details when I asked how she managed to forgive him. He always just said, “We worked it out.”

I decided to push it. “You got another woman pregnant while you were engaged. She sure is a forgiving lady.”

He looked down at me. “Do you want me to hurt you more? Admit that yes, she is forgiving, yes, we worked it out. You always bait me into saying something that will just upset you. We didn’t get married when we were supposed to a year ago. But yes, we worked it out and now it’s wonderful.”

“Can we go to the duck pond?” Ellie asked, and we moved on, thank goodness. The love and joyfulness around me was making it hard to breathe. I wiped tears from my eyes.

“I just can’t believe it, I guess.”

Bobby walked with his hands in his pockets. I pushed the handle of the bike, enabling our daughter.

“She can’t have children,” Bobby said. “So she thinks this is good, in a way. She found a bright side to all of this.”

My breath was sucked out of me, like I got hit with a ball in the stomach.

“She’s happy that I have a kid,” he said. “And now, she does, too. She always said that down the road she’d consider adoption, but now . . .”

I picked up the pace. I wanted to roar. I wanted to run, but it was too hard with this bike. Ellie’s legs were already circling too fast. She looked back like this was a thrilling ride. She’s the child that will save them all the hassle of adoption? She’s the clasp to their almost finished circle? I’ve given them both a gift. I’m like a surrogate mom! And now they want me to give them a punch bowl?

“Slow down,” Bobby said. “You asked.”