At the rabbi’s request, my mom holds the baby and lets him suck on the wine-soaked corner of a cloth. This is anesthesia, old school and Old Testament style. The baby is sucking on that Manischewitzsoaked rag like maybe his gentile half is taking over, which gives us an easy laugh.
After looking around, the rabbi sets up shop on my desk, because that’s where the sunlight filters in and he wants a clear view. My husband holds the cloth in the baby’s mouth as the rabbi does his thing. Thirty seconds later, with barely a peep from the boy, it’s all over.
Before leaving, the rabbi gives us instructions on how and when to apply the ointment and tells us to bury the foreskin in the dirt to show God we are earthy. It feels like I’ve been sucking on a wine cloth of my own, but I’m just tipsy with a double shot of relief and gratitude; my husband not only fixed the toilet, but he duct-taped over the mom problem, which can never be truly repaired but can at least be patched and repatched. Now she isn’t just my mother but my son’s grandmother, and I would be an asshole to rob my son of his grandma because I can’t forgive her.
The rabbi is a man gifted with babies.
He tells us to stay calm, always calm, so your baby will do the same. This isn’t always easy for me, because I love that little fucker so much that the idea of making a mistake, of not knowing what he needs or failing him, the worry that something may be broken in his body or mind that I can’t fix, the idea that I don’t have the patience or sweetness or wisdom to deserve him, well, that is the big bag of shit my soul carries around.
The rabbi leaves. My mom heads back to Vegas, careful not to overstay her welcome. Later that night, as we’re eating leftover bagels and cream cheese, I send my mother a photo my husband took of her holding Buster, tears dotting her green shirt, mouth slightly turned down at the corners, staring down at her first grandchild. She e-mails back, “Please keep the pictures coming, love Grandma.” And we bury the foreskin in the front yard.
twenty-seven
I Said a Lot of Things
I
was full of pronouncements before I had this baby.
Forget those new moms who whine incessantly about not having time to shower; in a triumph of will and excellent planning, I was going to be the impeccably groomed mother of a newborn. I would make time for blowouts and basic hygiene, because I’m vain, own seventeen tubes of lip gloss, and refuse to wear too-tight Juicy Couture sweatpants and be all sacrifice-y and blah.
Cut to me sitting around in my own filth with breast milk stains on my XL men’s shirt from Target, spit-up on my maternity jeans and hair so dirty that when I finally go to the salon, the hairdresser asks me, with more genuine curiosity than disdain, “How long has it been since you washed your hair?”
“Maybe three days?” I lie, before playing the new mom card.
And there I am, flying right in the puffy face of my own naïve declarations. On top of which, I have to ask the hairdresser to hurry it up—the sitter is waiting.
The sitter is waiting.
This is my life now. It’s not unusual for me to take a hooker shower in front of the bathroom sink with a couple of baby wipes and almost no shame. I’m this person.
Like I said, I made a lot of pronouncements.
I proclaimed I would never be one of those moms who has entire conversations about my child’s poop. Yet last night I Googled “green poop” on my iPhone while nursing and have now had lengthy conversations with several moms about the causes and potential dangers of green poop. (Just so you know, poop is only concerning if it’s white, black or red, according to
Babycenter.com
.) Now I get it, I get the poop talk. As a new mom, I’m just trying to do right by Buster and he is very limited in his modes of communication so he has to let his poop do the talking. We have even photographed the green poop, lest our idea of green and our pediatrician’s differ. Mint green? Forest green? Mossy green? Let’s break out our camera and show you the exact hue. This is my life now. On my camera,
there is more than one picture of my child’s poop.
I’m this person.
There was a time I loathed homes that were filled with baby accoutrements. Now there is no Mozart-playing swing center or Velcro-enhanced baby swaddle I won’t buy. Whereas I used to think the baby industry was out to get me, I’m now out to get any crutch that will help me entertain my baby. The house looks like a Chuck E. Cheese’s after an earthquake.
To anyone who would listen, I announced that you would never catch me in any kind of Mommy and Me bullshit, or one of these new mom support groups. Now I’m desperate to fit one into my schedule. If you have been a mother for even one day longer than I have, you know things I don’t and you can help me.
Whereas I used to assume I would never fit in with women who would populate these classes, that I would never be one of the bland, stroller-lugging mom masses who gives a green crap about the superiority of Desitin or organic muslin burp cloths, now I practically molest moms I see on the street, at restaurants, anywhere, peppering them with questions: Do you like that baby carrier? Does it hurt your back? How long did you breast-feed? Did your baby ever get a rash on her cheeks? What pediatrician do you go to? How long does your baby sleep? When did she start sleeping through the night? What exactly is a Sleep Sheep?
I take feverish notes, especially about whatever DVD or book she says was the magical sleep maker. I buy it all.
When I get a mom in my clutches who seems to know what she’s doing, something I deduce from the effortless way she snaps a car seat into a stroller frame or wipes the drool from her child’s chin with a bumble-bee-covered burp cloth that materializes from somewhere on her person, I don’t stop at the easy questions; I pry her for information about vaccines, eating solid foods, how soon after the baby she and her husband had sex and anything else she seems open enough to reveal. I always ask her how long it took to lose the baby weight, but I can tell already that even though I’m still big, my eating has gone back to normal, and soon my size will, too.
Just like the new kid in school who is trying to fit in, I’m starting to inch up to the mom crowd, to figure out what they wear and how they act and think. The clerk at the store where I took my breast-feeding workshop tells me that the Monday afternoon support group is empty, because all the moms go to the Mommy and Me movie at the mall that day. Get here early on Tuesdays, she adds, because it’s standing room only. And I realize the moms travel in a flock, and maybe I’d be better off getting in formation than flying solo. If I go where they go, maybe I can learn what they know. Part of me is still wary of joining, because I want to do everything my own way, but I’m starting to think my own way sucks and that there is an inherent wisdom to the flock. Besides, in every social situation I’ve ever been in, I always find the one other girl who feels like a complete outsider and we become friends, even if that bond is at least in part based on judging everyone else who seems happier and better adjusted.
What I’m saying is this: Yes, I am sitting here in public (very public, at the public library, in fact, where a girl can look a mess and stink a little without bothering any of the homeless men checking their e-mail and reading
USA Today
) wearing what is really kind of a nightgown with ankle socks and sneakers. This is my life now. I don’t care. I’d rather not run into any ex-boyfriends, but I don’t really care.
I said a lot of things before. I have the one stretch mark, but I don’t mind it.
I said I would never use a picture of my child as my profile photo anywhere, because I would rather lose my identity in more subtle ways. Already my cell phone wallpaper is a photo of Buster in a blue knit cap, no me, no dad, just the boy. That is a gateway baby photo, which can only lead to more serious use of the baby’s picture to stand in for my own. It’s happening.
I said only stone-cold bores and anti-intellectual twats spoke for their infants, imbuing them with all kinds of adult thoughts and feelings they could never, ever possess, the way a spinster announces that Mr. Fluffy loves
Friday Night Lights
but doesn’t care for the sound of the mailman’s voice. That was before my soul got splashed by maternal hormones and dried off only to find it appropriate to say, “Buster is flirting with you” or “Buster loves Jimmy Page guitar solos” or “Buster can’t wait to see Grandpa” or “Buster feels so dapper in his cardigan” or “Buster just loves his bath.” Like I know what the fuck that guy thinks or feels.
The fact is: I don’t know shit. I literally don’t know shit about shit. I don’t know why his poop is sometimes green or if it matters, I don’t know what goes on in my child’s mind, if anything, or how best to plan his nap and feeding schedule so he sleeps through the night, or when to stop swaddling him or what causes a baby rash or if I should really stop eating milk or nuts or soy or whether he really needs a hepatitis B vaccine or if he’s fussier than other babies or cries more or sleeps less or if, in fact, he is totally average.
It’s like I met a guy, fell in love at first sight, flew to Vegas to get married that day, and woke up to find I was madly in love with this man but didn’t know what he took in his coffee. I don’t know Buster, or if there is much to know yet. Sometimes I don’t know why he cries, or what exactly he needs, or if he has eaten too much or not enough. I just know I love him, because when I listen to John Denver songs and look down at him I cry right onto his now bald head with a feeling of categorical euphoria (Jesus, could I possibly have the “postpartum elation” I so mocked Nancy O’Dell for possessing?). Later, I cry because my stomach still hurts from the C-section and I just want to put him down but he needs to be rocked all the livelong day.
Sure, I have become some of the people I wanted to punch, but I’ve softened, and now I don’t really want to punch anyone. I do, however, want to give a light shove to a certain breed of mom who seems to get her sustenance from judging other moms. These staunch, disapproving types do a lot of preaching about how motherhood should be done. From Gerber to Ferber, they have strong, myopic opinions on all things baby-related and disdain for women who don’t do what they do. Listen, I’m not interested in debating whether moms should work, or kids should cry it out, or families should cosleep. As much as I used to long for people to just tell me what to do, I don’t think it serves us to be prescribing and finger-pointing. While I’m thirsty for information, I gag on the flavor of maternal contempt.
As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise a child, women all pitching in to care for the babies in the community; only now it’s a digital village, a world in which we all read the same Web sites and articles and blogs. Parenthood is hard enough without message boards and experts in our “village” telling us that pacifiers are evil, or working moms are selfish, or feeding your baby on a three-hour schedule is the only way to ensure he doesn’t become a spoiled monster. Back in the day, mothers didn’t sit around chirping about how their way was best; they just shut up and put your baby in their sling so you could go gather yams for dinner. Let’s not be bound by our scrutiny, but by our communal attempt not to screw up.
I realize I’m preaching about not being preachy, and I sense already that I will have to keep this in check.
I will try never to judge what you do, though I will want to know all about it. “Whatever gets you through the night” is not just the chorus of my new favorite lullaby; it is also my mom mantra.
There are parenting theories and philosophies that bombard you at every stage of your child’s life. Every milestone means collecting and synthesizing more data. Deciphering the best way to do things, that’s an intellectual exercise, and learning is generally something I’m good at and comfortable with—as opposed to being a loving mother to a new creature, which is terrifying and thrilling and sometimes frustrating and boring.
So I keep Googling and grilling, but just when I have a handle on some small aspect of baby rearing, and I’m tempted to start bragging about finding the perfect sleep sack or bedtime routine, he goes and changes on me. He’s a guitar that can’t be tuned once and welded in place. In fact, it’s starting to sink in that it’s not a question of how well I tune him, but how well I stay in tune with him.
I’m hoping I can’t go wrong if I just enjoy the kid without breaking him.
Buster smiles now. First, they were fake-out gas smiles, but now he seems to smile with his whole body. When that baby grins at me in the morning, squirming on his changing table, it’s like a shot of morphine right to my heart. I spend the rest of the day chasing the dragon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
wasted a lot of time fantasizing about this section of the book while was supposed to be actually writing the book, so it’s already been written many times in my mind.
In no particular order, I want to thank both people and places. Thanks to the Los Feliz Branch Public Library, where much of this book was written. While some of you library ladies gave me the stink eye when I broke out my thermos of coffee and occasionally answered a call from the sitter, you were mostly welcoming and it was a haven for me.
My literary agent, Anthony Mattero, didn’t just sell my book; he sold me on the idea that I could write it. I will forever be in his debt. Anthony, for being a young, unmarried dude and reading so much about vaginas and contractions, I adore you. Thanks to my editor at NAL, Tracy Bernstein, for being meticulous, thorough, thoughtful, patient, and most of all a successful working mother.
The writer Bill Simmons once told me, “Just keep your fingers moving.” This is what chronic overthinkers need to hear. He may not remember saying it, but I won’t forget hearing it. To my friend and colleague Ted Kamp, your confidence in me is baffling and boundless. You are never without an overflow of brilliant ideas and a combination of darkness and optimism that I’ve come to love. Your kids are so lucky.