Not Ready for Mom Jeans (11 page)

All in all, quite the productive afternoon.

5:00 P.M.

I still haven’t started my column. I asked Jake if he thought I could write eight hundred words on the amazing rate of speed at which Sara’s Freddy Krueger–like nails grow and he stared at me for a few seconds before turning back to some football game.

“Well?” I said.

“Sorry, were you serious about that?” he said.

“Jake, you have to help me. I can’t think of anything to write that people will want to read.” I stood next to him, hands on my hips.

“You write about things like that every day on your blog. And what, something like twenty thousand people read it every day, right?” His eyes were still firmly fixed on the television.

“Yeah, but this is different. It’s like important stuff. In February, during my haze of sleep deprivation, I did an entire blog entry about how I pissed I was that Paul Giamatti’s character in
Sideways
never got a book deal. I don’t think that would be good enough for a regional newspaper.” I put my hands over my face and peeked at Jake through my fingers. It had no effect.

“Was that the night we watched
Sideways
and drank like fifty different kinds of wine?” He leaned forward toward the television.

“Yeah, I think so. Anyway, do you have any ideas?”

“Yes! Touchdown!” He leapt in the air, scaring Sara, and she started to wail.

“Very helpful, thanks,” I said, and took Sara from his arms and walked toward our bedroom.

“Sorry,” he called down the hallway.

Maybe I should write my column on husbands who don’t help their wives brainstorm.

10:00 P.M.

I did not work on my column tonight. I instead, in a sort of reverse nesting after the fact, decided to start to baby-proof the entire apartment. I covered electrical sockets, hid all the R-rated movies, and marked the liquor bottles.

Although my column remains unwritten, Jake and I are now prepared for when Sara starts crawling and walking, becomes interested in sex, and starts drinking. Hopefully not all at the same time.

Sunday, March 30

8:57 P.M.

My column is written!

After hours spent staring at a blank computer screen, I decided to exploit my own struggles for the sake of material, even though I basically do that every day on my blog. I briefly considered writing about my choice to continue working, now that it’s actually a decision rather than a necessity, but I didn’t have the emotional fortitude or enough introspection yet to deal with that giant boondoggle of a topic.

Instead, I literally chose to exploit
me
. Namely, my expansive hips and Dumpster-size ass. I wrote about the dreaded post-baby weight or, more accurately, ice-cream-and-Twinkies-every-day-for-nine-months weight. Here’s an excerpt:

From the moment the pee stick turned pink, I knew I would be forever changed in so many ways. It didn’t help that my daughter was a surprise and my husband and I were at the stage where we were much more likely to splurge on a Nintendo Wii than a box of diapers. I didn’t know much about having a baby, and I certainly wasn’t prepared for how it would change me physically. Sure, I expected sleepless nights and fewer adult dinners, but I honestly didn’t fathom wearing stretchy black pants, dubbed Miss Piggy pants, on my first day back to work after maternity leave. No, the weight didn’t just “fall off” like so many of those celebrities proclaim. Liars!

It doesn’t help that my closet is full of pre-baby low-rise jeans and skinny pants, all of which appear small enough to fit my three-month-old daughter. Even if I never fit into my Seven jeans with the four-inch zipper again, I pray that I never have to resort to wearing high-waisted Mom Jeans with a twelve-inch crotch and elasticized waistband. I’m prepared to concede my tops and leggings forever, but I will never be ready for Mom Jeans.

Monday, March 31

The verdict on my article is in: it doesn’t blow.

My editor called me this morning and congratulated me on a great first column and said, with a few minor changes, the copy was almost perfect. I’m going to be an official, real-live published writer by week’s end.

Even though so many people read my blog, it’s strange to think people will read my column in an actual newspaper—not just one of those free ones next to apartment guides and stripper advertisements. I’m also slightly regretting that my first widely published article details the size and shape of my love handles, but that milk already be spilled. I mean, I write about personal details all the time on my blog, but that’s kind of … my space. (Not to be confused with MySpace, landing strip for teenagers and socially stunted adults.) A newspaper is a professional gig and a whole new level of “out there.”

I’m going back to the hospital tonight to see Reese. She’s doing OK, all things considered. Her mom’s been staying with her at the hospital, since Matt’s been so busy “working.”

I’m going to sneak in a margarita for her—the only thing she requested I bring. I think her words exactly were, “Flowers are always nice, but they don’t contain tequila.”

10:00 P.M.

I just got home from visiting Reese in the hospital. Thank God Matt wasn’t there. I’m too exhausted to make fake-nice conversation with Husband of the Year.

After work, I picked up Sara from day-care and went to the grocery store to buy margarita mix to bring Reese. I figured I’d just get one of those premixed bottles with the tequila already in it, but the only kind they had was the kind that requires adding alcohol. And they didn’t sell tequila. So, being the super-klassy-with-a-capital-K mom that I am, I lugged my baby into the liquor store to buy a bottle of tequila.

“Can I help you?” a salesclerk said, eyeing Sara.

“Yeah, where’s your tequila?” I said, and shifted Sara’s car seat to my other hand while thinking,
Would it be possible for car seat manufacturers to make a heavier car seat? I mean, I really enjoy lugging around thirty pounds of plastic and baby, but I think I’m starting to develop some kind of serious rotator cuff injury.

“Aisle six,” the clerk said.

So, I made my way to aisle six, maneuvering between the woman talking to herself in front of the bourbon and the teenager nervously standing in front of the beer, trying to pick out which beer would make him seem of age. “Heineken,” I whispered to him as I breezed past. I finally located the tequila, but all they had were huge jugs of tequila.

So I found the clerk again. “Excuse me, do you have any other bottles of tequila?”

“What are you looking for?”

“I need something smaller.”

“Smaller?”

“Yeah, something that will fit in this.” I pointed to my diaper bag.

He looked quizzically at me, no doubt calculating how fast he could grab the phone and dial Child Protective Services.

“I’m going to the hospital and I need something to fit inside my diaper bag.” That explanation didn’t seem to make the look of
you are the worst mother ever and possibly a raging alcoholic
disappear from his face.

“We have pints of tequila behind the register,” he finally said, shaking his head.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend,” I tried to explain.

“Honey, that’s what I tell myself every time I come here,” the woman who had been talking to herself in front of the bourbon said behind me. “Nothing wrong with a cocktail after work. Or a whole bottle.”

“I know, I mean, no, it’s really not—never mind.” I turned and headed toward the register.

“The cigarettes are up there, too,” the clerk called out to me, and snickered.

Reese thought my baby / liquor store incident was quite funny.

“Oh God, don’t make me laugh.” She winced and gestured to her abdomen. She lay back in her bed, her baby-blond hair fanned out around her head. God, it’s disgusting. Even in the hospital after a C-section and doped up on narcotics, Reese looked beautiful. After I had Sara, I think some of the nurses thought I was receiving charity care. One of the nurses even kept mentioning, “You know, you’re free to use the shower,” despite the fact I showered twice a day.

“Oh, sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She reached for her hospital tray and picked up a giant pink plastic pitcher of water.

“So where’s the little guy?” Sara started to fuss, so I let her suck on my car keys.

“Clare!” Reese shrieked, nearly spitting out her water.

“What? It’s fine.” I shrugged but quickly grabbed the keys out of Sara’s mouth. “So where’s the little chunk?”

“He’s in the nursery for the infant hearing screening. Brendan, by the way.” Reese smiled.

“What a cool name. Brendan is definitely a hot guy name. He’ll be a hit with the girl babies.”

“He only needs to be a hit with one.” She pointed to Sara, who was transfixed by the ceiling tiles.

“Right, should we start planning their wedding now or wait until their first birthdays?”

“Eh, give it at least a month or two.”

“Hey, you’ve got a great view.” I walked toward her room’s window to try to get a better look at the garden below. But instead of gazing out the window angelically, I did something very, very Clare. I didn’t realize the window was a double pane and bounced my head off the first pane of glass. “Shit!” I said, and rubbed my head.

“Ow, ow, ow! I told you not to make me laugh!” Reese patted her abdomen again.

“I’m fine.” I rubbed my head and looked at Sara, who smiled widely, as though to say,
You’re such a dumbass, Mom, but it certainly is entertaining.

“Sorry, this time it wasn’t intentional. I’m like an accidental Patch Adams. Maybe I should go down to the pediatric ward and cheer up some sick kids.”

“Just as long as you don’t say, ‘Shit,’ next time.”

I noticed a copy of
Goodnight Moon
next to her bed. “Another copy?” I said as I picked it up.

“Yep, now we have one for every room in the house. People just love to give that book. But that’s OK, it is pretty darn good.”

“I should write a version for new moms called
Good-bye Life,
” I said.

“What, like ‘Good-bye showers, good-bye skinny jeans’?”

“Good-bye pretty hair, good-bye social life everywhere.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” she said, and smiled.

“I know.” I laughed.

“I know. How’s the new daddy handling everything?”

“He’s doing well. We’re both just so exhausted all of the time and there’s basically no alone time, since I usually collapse ten minutes after Sara goes to bed. I vaguely remember sex. I think it made me pregnant or something. I don’t know, I don’t really remember.” I shrugged as I picked at my cuticles. A voice in my head whispered,
Maybe you and Jake would have sex more if you weren’t working full-time. You wouldn’t be as tired, right?

“I remember those exhausted, random fights over what brand of baby wipes to buy.” Reese’s voice interrupted the stay-at-home-mom devil on my shoulder.

“Oh yeah, big-time. Last week, I became unreasonably furious because he wouldn’t listen to me about how to properly adjust the straps on the Baby Bjorn. I threatened to call Customer Service so they could properly teach him. Then he accused me of buying cheap diapers but splurging on expensive shampoo and we wound up not speaking for an hour.” I folded my hands in my lap, still irritated that Baby Bjorn’s customer service took Matt’s side.

“Ah, yes, the important things in life. Matt and I don’t even fight anymore, it’s like it’s not worth—” She stopped herself and her eyelids blinked rapidly for a moment until she shook her head. “Let’s see what’s on television, shall we?”

I hung out with her for a while and mixed us a couple margaritas while we watched a rerun of
Grey’s Anatomy
until Sara decided she’d had enough of the hospital, margaritas, Reese, me, and behaving in general, so I hugged Reese and we left. I’m so proud I was able to stifle any questions about Matt. Another fifteen minutes, though, and the dam in my mouth might’ve exploded and I might’ve blurted out,
WHY AREN’T YOU DRAWING UP DIVORCE PAPERS RIGHT NOW?