Not Ready for Mom Jeans (5 page)

Our quiet family moment didn’t last long, as the phone rang, cutting through any contemplation. I picked it up and checked the caller ID. I held the phone out to him. “It’s your mother.”

“I’m busy. I need to throw this out.” He waved the dirty diaper around in the air and walked two feet away to the garbage can.

“I hate you,” I sighed, and answered the phone. “Hi, Marianne.”

“Oh, hello, dear. I thought I’d get Jake. I figured you’d still be at work since you’re such a career girl and all. How nice you’re home to spend time with your family for a while.”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes, it’s just wonderful.”

“How’s my Sara adjusting to being taken to a day-care center?”

“She’s doing great.” I pantomimed shooting myself in the head to Jake. He laughed and took Sara from my arms.

“I saw a report on the news the other day about this day-care worker who beat an infant to death because he wouldn’t stop fussing. It made me sick to my stomach, thinking about my precious granddaughter with god-knows-who….” She choked up and sobbed a little.

“Sara’s at the best day care in the city. Trust me, I’ll show you the monthly bill.”

“Oh, I’m sure, dear. You know what I always say, though, there’s no substitute for a mother’s love.”

I contemplated which extremely sharp object I wanted to stick in my eye.

Steak knife? Nah. I’d ruin my new set.

Stiletto heel? Just got the pair polished.

Sewing needle? Still in the package.

Corkscrew? Too important to risk.

“Do you want to talk to Jake?” I said.

“Sure, hon. Oh, before you go, I wanted to tell you that Natalie and Doug set a date for Ash Leigh’s first birthday party. It’s going to be June twenty-second. I’m sure it’s going to be great, since Natalie stays home and has so much time to plan the party.”

“I’m sure we don’t have any plans, since it’s like three months away, but I’ll mark our calendar. Here’s Jake.” I thrust the phone toward my husband.

“OK … Sure … Yeah … OK … Love you, too…. Bye” was all he said.

“Did you know that recently a day-care worker killed an infant?” I asked him when he hung up.

“Did you know that my mother wants me to talk to you about staying home?” he said as he put the phone back in the cradle.

“Did you know Natalie is throwing Ash Leigh the best birthday ever since she has time and stays home?” I said, and rolled my eyes.

“Did you know that I have no idea why my brother married her?” Jake asked with a laugh.

“Did you know that Natalie makes me want to physically abuse myself?” I pantomimed slitting my wrists.

Jake walked over and patted me on the head. “Yes, I did know that,” he answered.

Friday, March 21

It’s Friday! I’ve almost made it through my second official week as a working mom. To celebrate, I’m making chicken divan for dinner. I found the recipe while searching on the Food Network’s Web site last night. The chicken, coupled with some wine after Sara goes to bed, should be fabulous.

Having a glass of wine is one of the huge benefits to not nursing Sara anymore. I gave it a valiant effort for two months, and then she decided that eating every hour rocked. Oh, and she would take forty-five minutes to eat. What those worthless baby books don’t tell you is that the time between nursing sessions begins when you start feeding your kid. So, it would be 2:00 p.m., she’d eat until 2:45 p.m. and then want to eat around 3:00 p.m. again. Fifteen minutes barely gave me time to pee or check my e-mail. After much tears and frustration, and despite a serious case of guilt and remorse, I remembered that bottle-feeding isn’t the devil, and we haven’t looked back since. Besides, I feared Mule Face walking in on me while I was pumping at the office. No doubt with a camera.

So yes, I will be having a glass of wine tonight.

12:00 A.M.

Tonight was horrific. Much worse than the Time Our Cat Butterscotch Accidentally Got Locked in Our Car Overnight with My Bridesmaid Dress for Reese’s Wedding—the reigning Worst Night Ever.

After work, I picked up Sara from day-care. The second she saw me, she gave me one of her huge, toothless smiles that make my insides melt. I scooped her up and kissed her about fifty times on her soft hair and whisked her outside and into the car. She cooed happily the entire way to the grocery store. I had briefly contemplated getting the groceries before I picked her up, but I couldn’t wait to see her.

Besides, she usually behaves in stores and I was just popping in the store for a wee moment. Except I forgot that I am a huge idiot who is very, very stupid and wrong.

She smiled at me from her car seat the entire way from the parking lot until the second we walked into the store.

“We’re just going to pop in for a quick moment and then we’ll be on our way!” I said cheerfully as I wheeled her through the doors. I deftly maneuvered the cart around an old lady studying coupons.
I’m
so
good at this taking my kid out in public stuff,
I thought smugly.

Yet, as I got about ten feet into the store, dark clouds began to gather and Sara’s brow furrowed. I knew the heavens were about to open up and punish us all.

“It’s OK! Like I said, just a quick lil’ minute!” I said loudly, hoping my three-month-old daughter would suddenly become familiar with the English language.

Except her face instantly turned beet red and she opened her tiny mouth. A wail of epic proportions emanated from her head.

“No panicking,” I muttered to myself. I didn’t worry because I knew all the tricks. A little jiggle here, a little bounce there, and she’d be fine, right? Oh, so, so wrong.

I jiggled her, which only made her more angry. “Shhhhh,” I awkwardly hissed at her as people began to stare. I stood in the produce aisle and began to sweat. Finally, I unstrapped her from her car seat and cradled her. When that didn’t work either, I reached into the diaper bag for her bottle. Panic washed over me as I groped around desperately.

Nothing.

I’d forgotten the bottle at the day-care center.

“Jesus,” I muttered as Sara turned purple. People around me began to whisper to each other. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back as I contemplated running out of the store. But I was determined to make my celebratory dinner, so I blazed over to the baby supply aisle, grabbed a pack of ready-made formula and a package of bottles. I ripped them open, made a bottle, and shoved it into Sara’s mouth. I was then able to shop a little, albeit awkwardly, trying to push the cart, feed her, and grab ingredients all at the same time.

After five minutes, the bottle became futile as well and she started screaming again. This time I was ready to screw the dinner and leave, but now I had to pay for the formula and bottles I’d already opened. So, like a total idiot, I waited in line, screaming child and all. A woman next to me on her cell phone glared at me as I stood next to her.

“… I know, so rude … What? … What? … I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. There’s a baby next to me … I know … She’s not even trying to make it be quiet.”

I immediately felt my face flush as anger bubbled up inside me. I caught her eye and said,
“What?”
The cell-phone woman rolled her eyes and looked away.

I got in line behind the old woman with the coupons and prayed she was one of those Super Fast and Efficient old people and not like my grandmother, who takes ten minutes to remember her debit card’s PIN.

“OK, good,” I said as I saw the clerk speedily move through the order. Then, sudden death appeared. The woman pulled out a checkbook. (I seriously didn’t think anyone paid for anything with checks anymore. I thought they were obsolete, like laser discs or something.) Ten minutes later, it was our turn.

Items purchased: formula, baby bottle, almonds, and paper towels.

Needless to say, I arrived home, still red-faced and sweaty and burning inside from humiliation and anger, plopped Sara’s car seat in front of Jake, and announced, “We’re having goddamned pizza for dinner.” He took one look at the frizzed-out hair, beet red face, and sweat marks ringing my armpits, silently nodded, and grabbed the phone book.

“I can go back out and get …,” Jake started to offer when I shook my head violently.

“No. Stay. We’re all in for the night. Going outside is bad,” I said ominously.

“But I really don’t mind. I can make something for dinner,” Jake said. He leaned forward and pulled Sara out of her car seat. “Shhhh,” he whispered as he patted her on the back.

“We’re safe in here,” I said solemnly. “Outside, bad. Inside, good.” I nodded, my proclamation handed down.

The worst part about everything is I didn’t get to buy any wine, so we have to drink the Merlot that Natalie bought us for Christmas. It doesn’t taste
exactly
like a dead animal but pretty close. But it’s better than nothing.

Not to mention, Jake and I have Adult Time planned for tonight, and I would prefer that he drinks a few glasses of wine before getting a good look at what these Miss Piggy pants are a-hidin’. We’ve had a handful of Adult Moments since Sara was born, and all I have to say is thank god our bedroom has bulbs that are about 15 watts.

Sunday, March 23

I woke up yesterday with a headache thanks to the no-doubt poisons in the Merlot from the Roadkill Vineyards, but ignored it since last evening required full strength. I was invited a while back to participate in something called Local Bloggerpalooza at a bar called the Wine Seller. Apparently, a bunch of Chicago bloggers were supposed to read blog entries. Or something like that. I didn’t know, I just figured I’d show up with a few printed entries and toast the crowd. I spent yesterday trying to calm my nerves, but publicly reading my writing is so much more frightening and panic-inducing than just blogging.

My blog,
Am I Making Myself Clare,
was mildly successful, as I mainly wrote about going out in the city and getting drunk at happy hours. Until last year, when an article about my site ran in the national paper
The Daily Tribune
and I suddenly had twenty thousand hits a day. Then, because my life is Just. That. Funny, I unexpectedly got pregnant immediately after, thanks to an unkind mixture of antibiotics and my punk-ass birth control pills. My pregnancy led to lots of sweet comments, a serious increase in stalkers, and many, many links to pregnant lady porno Web sites.

I invited Julie to join me, for both emotional and possible physical support, should the wine drinking be vigorous. Jake offered to join us, but I was due for a girls’ night in the city with Julie. So, he booked a poker night and my parents offered to babysit.

Jake and I started preparing for the space shuttle launch a.k.a. getting out the door and Sara over to my parents about three hours ahead of time. Traveling with Sara is what I would imagine it’s like when Mariah Carey goes on vacation, except our bags are filled with diapers instead of Fendi purses. We arrived at my parents’ reasonably on time. I heard Sam screaming as I opened the front door.

“… MAKE FUN OF ME! MO-OM, I LOOK HIDEOUS! THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT COULD’VE POSSIBLY EVER HAPPENED TO ME! MY LIFE IS RUINED!” Her voice bounced across the walls of the house.

Jake and I stood in the foyer, not sure whether it was safe to proceed or not. I heard a door slam upstairs.

“It really doesn’t look that bad. Sweetie, come out and let me take another look.” I heard my mom use her most gentle, Sam-specific voice.

“MOM! I’M HUMILIATED! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Jake cowered and covered his ears.

“Sam, please, it’ll be—”

My mom’s efforts were cruelly rebuffed. “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” Sam’s voice sounded like a tortured squirrel.

“OK, I’ll leave you alone.” My mom appeared at the top of the stairs, her brow furrowed. “Hi, I didn’t even hear you guys come in.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, and tried to hide a smile.

“Your sister’s highlights didn’t turn out the way she wanted. I think they look fine, but she’s obviously not happy.” My mom threw her hands up and rolled her eyes and walked down the stairs. She bent down and looked at Sara, “Hey, beautiful. Come to Grandma.” She unbuckled Sara from her car seat and picked her up.