Not Ready for Mom Jeans (29 page)

After we arrived at our house and I put Sara to bed, we opened up a couple bottles of wine. Joel and Megan gushed over our wine collection, and just as I was feeling very sophisticated Megan started laughing and pointing to Butterscotch. He decided to entertain our company by dragging his butt across our carpet, directly in front of Megan. He should’ve just gone all the way and put on a rhinestone thong and starting lip-synching to “It’s Raining Men.”

It was the perfect distraction.

Wednesday, September 3

I let Sara play hooky from day-care today. Well, it wasn’t really hooky per se, because she does have a horrible cold and cough. Since I wasn’t about to send her sick (like that bitch Jeannine did last week when she brought her chicken poxed kid in. Thanks for the early heart attack!), Sara and I spent much of today on the couch. She’s been pretty lethargic all day and it breaks my heart to see her coughing and sniffling, so I’ve held her almost the whole day. I even let her fall asleep in my arms and held her the entire time she napped. I said a few prayers for her cold to migrate to me and spare her, but no dice.

Her nose is like a faucet and she keeps rubbing her face on my chest, so I slightly resemble the Creature from the Snot Lagoon, but I don’t care.

She and I did get to watch a particularly good episode of
The People’s Court.
She watched it so intently, I decided she’s bringing me on as a participant.

Da Duh Duh.

This is the plaintiff, Sara Grandalski. She’s suing for mental distress due to the expectation of good behavior.

Da Duh Duh.

This is the defendant, Clare Finnegan. She admits to forcing her daughter to go out to public places like restaurants and shopping malls with the expectation of no screaming.

It’s all here on
The People’s Court
!

Of course, everyone in the entire galaxy (including some aliens from Planet I Know Best) has given me advice on how to help her through the cold.

Marianne: Feed a cold, starve a fever.

Um, OK. I guess I should nix my plan to withhold food from Sara since she doesn’t have a fever, right?

Jake: CALL THE DOCTOR, OH MY GOD, IS SHE OK? DOES SHE HAVE PNEUMONIA?

Drink a cocktail or something.

My dad: There’s nothing you can do.

Thanks. Very helpful Doctor.

Doctor: There’s nothing you can do.

Are you guys all in this together or something?

Reese: You should’ve stocked up on baby cold remedies before they took them off the shelf. I have a whole arsenal here.

I’ll just get in my time machine and do that.

Natalie: Ash Leigh never gets sick because she’s not in day-care.

Not. Going. To. Respond.

Me = down.

Natalie = kicking me.

Thanks.

The postman: Did you take her outside? Babies catch colds when they go outside.

Oh, right! I did take her outside once, in fact. Thanks for reminding me! Won’t happen again.

Despite her being sick, I loved being home with her today. Just spending the day with her recharged my motherhood batteries a little bit.

Thursday, September 4

If nothing else, Sara’s cold provided me with my next topic for my column in
The Daily Tribune.
I wrote about the difficulty of sorting through all of the information thrown at new parents and some litmus tests for Bullshit versus Very Good Advice. Guess which category most of Marianne’s advice falls under?

After I had Sara, I ran out and bought every baby book my swollen fingers could grab at Borders. I went home, skimmed them, and took notes like a college student cramming for a final. I’m sorry to say, none of it really helped. The biggest issue was consistency. One book would say to swaddle at night, the next not to swaddle under any circumstances. One book said to give rice cereal at three months, the next not until they’re at least six months old.

I mean, c’mon, people.

Can we all just get together and come up with some kind of parenting protocol? Babies don’t come with an instruction manual. And this is a really big problem. There needs to be a book called
This Is the Only Book You Will Ever Need. It Will Teach You How to Feed, Potty Train, and Not Accidentally Injure Your Child.
Hospitals would give the book out to new parents as they leave with their newborn. Now it’s just like,
We’re going to pretend we still care about you by wheeling you to your car, but the second you are beyond these doors you are Not Our Problem. Try not to kill your child or let the door hit your still-fat ass on the way out. P.S. Don’t forget to pay your bill.

I swore I wouldn’t ride in the backseat of the car on the way home from the hospital. I mean, only crazy, overbearing, nervous parents do stuff like that. And Jake and I were going to be hip, cool, flexible, and relaxed parents.

Um, right.

Jake asked me if I was going to sit in the front seat and I looked at him like he suggested duct-taping the car seat to the roof of the car. I wedged myself into the four inches of space next to Sara in the back and reacted to her every sigh.

It was just the first instance of a very important parenting lesson: you will go back on everything you said you wouldn’t do. That’s what parenting is about: making decisions and firmly digging your heels in, followed quickly by instituting the exact opposite.

When Jake and I finally got Sara home the first night, we freaked out. Even though I’d been around babies all my life, I was still
sure
her head was going to roll off if I didn’t support it properly. I fretted about giving her brain damage if I accidentally touched one of the soft spots on her still-developing skull. I was terrified her umbilical cord stump would fall off too early and she’d be stuck with an ugly outie belly button and have to wear one-piece bathing suits her whole life because her mom wasn’t paying attention when she changed her diaper and accidentally ripped off the scab too soon.

I’m ashamed to admit, I was also sort of wondering when her parents were going to come and take her back. It was mostly the narcotic drugs, but part of me couldn’t comprehend the idea that she was our daughter, rather than some cute baby we were watching for a few days.

And then, miraculously, after a week, everything clicked. We had a daughter! We were parents! She was cute!

Then, another week passed and we surrendered like prom dates after four Busch Lights. She still wasn’t sleeping for more than an hour at a time. I was still stuck sleeping on the couch since she’d only nap in her swing. I lived in fear of hearing her cries on the monitor, knowing it meant I’d have to get up and feed her, change her, rock her, something. I started to panic, not knowing when was the next time I’d get a full night’s sleep. Not knowing when my body would somewhat resemble its old shape. (Still waiting on that one. Damn Heidi Klum for setting the bar so high.) Not knowing when, or should I say
if,
Jake and I would ever get to be alone again.

I knew having a baby would be a huge stressor. I knew our lives would change. I knew things would be hard. But I had no idea Just How Hard or Just How Bad It Would Get.

It was a complete mental breakdown, similar to what must go on at terrorist detention camps. My suggestion would be to bring in a posse of newborns when interrogating prisoners of the state. Chinese water torture? Nothing. Electroshock techniques? A joke. Withholding of food and water?
Ha.

Spending time with a newborn? The key to unlocking a spy’s mind.

A few more weeks passed and the fog lifted a little. And each week, it got a little easier. Because we cared about the little stuff a lot less. I didn’t stress if she had to cry for a few minutes so I could take a shower. We didn’t worry if her diaper was wet and it leaked through her pajamas. No big deal if she projectile-vomited all over the cat.

But it sure would’ve been nice to know.

Saturday, September 6

Sara’s cough still sounds like an eighty-year-old man with emphysema, so I left her home with Jake while I went shopping with my mom and Sam. My mom called me a few days ago and asked if I could help find Sam’s Homecoming dance dress.

“Ha,” I snorted. “I’m sure that’s exactly what Sam wants—her uncool sister helping pick out a dress.”

“Actually, she told me that I don’t know what’s in style and you are the only one who can help her.”

“Funny, Mom.” I laughed

“No, really,” she insisted.

“Seriously?” My eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Wow, OK. I’d love to come.”

I hung up the phone and immediately dialed Sam’s cell phone.

“He-ey,” she sang into the phone.

“Hi! So, we’re going shopping for dresses this weekend! Mom told me you want me to come along!”

“What? Oh, I just said you probably have nothing else to do.” I could hear what sounded like an emery board being scratched across a fingernail in the background.

“Oh, well, um, OK. Do you have any idea of what kind of dress you’d like?”

“I don’t know.” She made a little
pffft
sound. “Listen, Jessica’s on the other line. I have to go,” she said, and hung up.

I hung up the phone, shaking my head. I fell into the trap again. She was never going to show her cards and be rah-rah sisterly with me.

I met my mom and Sam around noon at Nordstrom. Sam paced back and forth on her cell phone while my mom sat in an armchair. As I walked closer the lines on my mother’s face became deeper and deeper, and by the time I stood next to her dark circles encased her eyes and her cheekbones looked drawn.

“Hi, Mom!” I said as cheerfully as I could muster.

“Hi, hon,” my mom said as she stood up. She wobbled a little and I grabbed her elbow to steady her.

“Are you OK?”

“I’m great,” she said, and smiled ruefully.

“Hi, Sam,” I said pointedly.

“What? Hold on, hey,” she said, and turned back to her cell phone.

“Where are we going first?” I asked my mom.

“BCBG. Duh!” Sam called over her shoulder as she bounced toward the door.

My mom and I trailed after her like an entourage.

“How’s everything?” I asked my mom as we pushed the heavy glass doors of BCBG open.

“Just a little tired. I’m going stir-crazy, though. I’m not used to not working,” she said as she pulled her cable-knit sweater closer to her.

“Mom, this is the first time in forever that you’ve had some time off,” I reminded her.

“I know, I just feel like I should be doing something.” My mom shrugged.

“You are doing something. You’re working on getting better,” I said, and put my arm around her shoulder. “On second thought, if you really want a project to work on, Marianne called me last week and invited me to join her knitting group.”

“Oh, I can’t.”

“Why not?” I teased her.

“I’m very busy. I have cancer,” she said, and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and play the cancer card again,” I teased her.

“THIS IS, LIKE, THE CUTEST DRESS EVER IN MY WHOLE LIFE. I WANT TO KILL MYSELF IT IS SO AMAZING,” Sam shouted from across the store.