Girl Walks Into a Bar (22 page)

“Oh, what a cute baby! What’s his name?”

“Um, it’s … Hercules.”

“WHAT!? Hercules?! What kind of name is
that
?
Hercules
?”

No. I didn’t have the strength. Plus, I must reemphasize, my mother’s head would fall off.

How to Care for Your F’in’ Baby

I hadn’t been
around many babies at all. Neither had John. In fact, we had no idea what the hell we were doing, but we were hoping instinct and helpful friends and family would get us through. For some peace of mind, we signed up for a class on infant care, a private session with a teacher who came to my apartment. I had to do
something
to feel like I was preparing to have this baby. I didn’t even glance at a birthing book until I was about seven months pregnant. I had previously thought I was escaping this one excruciating hallmark of womanhood, and now that I was having a baby, I just stuck my head in the ground and sang, “La la la la!” I took the approach of “Well, it’s gotta get out somehow!” Since I was doing no preparation about the birth, I felt I should do something to make me feel prepared in some capacity. Hence the class. Meredith, the teacher, showed up, a cool-looking slightly crunchy lady—she fit the image I had of someone who would
teach such a class—and she started to teach us about infant care.

First lesson: “There’s no sense in trying to build a schedule for an infant. For the first three months, there is no sleep scheduling to be done. You just let them sleep when they want.” This was the best advice that she gave us, actually. I didn’t know about that. “You don’t let them ‘cry it out’ when they are so young. They are crying because they need something. Now, later, when they’re a little older and crying, you might be like, ‘Fuck it,’ and let them cry it out.”

Was that …? Did I just hear …? The F-word? Oh jeez. I think I did. I could feel John withdraw his faith in this woman the instant she dropped it. It didn’t bother me, but John isn’t a big fan of swearing, especially in a professional situation.

“When you’re swaddling, you want to wrap it from one side, then the bottom, and tuck that in over here, and then wrap the other side like this. Sometimes people think they have to be delicate with babies, but they are soothed by being held really tightly, so you can get a really snug fit and just really fuckin’ wrap them tight.”

No. OK. Definitely heard that one. Lady, please. You have a Midwesterner here, from the real world, not the New York artsy world, and I want him to pay attention and have his first words after you leave the room be “I feel much better prepared to be a father!” not “Did you hear how many F-Bombs she dropped?”

“When the baby first starts pooping, it will have what’s called meconium. It’s a dark, tarry stool. The first time you see it, you may be like, ‘What the fuck is that?’”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John’s jaw twitch ever so slightly. OK, I’m not going to take responsibility for this woman. I’m going to let it go … just let it go….

She proceeded to drop five more before the session was through, clocking in at a grand total of eight. Lest you think I exaggerate, I assure you, John was counting. As soon as she left, sure enough, John said, “She dropped eight F-Bombs.”

I think if I’d been alone, I certainly would have registered that it’s an odd profession to be tossing around the F-word. It wouldn’t bother me, though. I just would have reported it to friends later as a funny story. It would be hard to be in comedy and take offense at the F-word. That’s tame talk in comedy circles. I couldn’t say John didn’t have a point, though. I could see using the F-word a lot if you were teaching lessons on “How to Do Heroin” or “Graffiti 101” or even how to play the electric guitar—something badass. But it was a bit of a mismatch for infant care.

Once I had the baby, I realized that the class was pretty unnecessary, since everything she taught us the nurses teach you in the hospital. Except that thing about when they are less than three months old, you don’t have to schedule them at all, which was a helpful fact. In hindsight, the whole thing was a bit of a waste, except that it made me feel I was putting in the prep time so junior wouldn’t know he was born to a complete novice.

Yet still, I suppose in a sense that Meredith’s advice stayed with me. Once our baby was born, every time I fed him or put him down for a nap, every time I changed a diaper or swaddled him, I remembered that caring for a baby is the most sacred fuckin’ event of your entire fuckin’ life.

A Letter from the Prophet Doug

John would visit
from Mill Valley about once a month during the pregnancy. He was always sweet and attentive, going to Whole Foods to get mangoes and watermelon—my two cravings. Whenever I would wonder what the hell was going to happen to us as a couple, I didn’t focus on it all that much, like I would have as a single lady trying to figure out her relationship, because the pregnancy and the planning were where all my energy was going. The crazy thing was, I hadn’t even met John’s family and wasn’t going to meet his parents until after the birth. One day, I got an e-mail forwarded to me from John. It was from John’s younger brother, Doug.

Rachel,

This note is long overdue. I should have written it a few months ago after getting the good news from John, but you know it’s hard (or at least a little bit awkward) to reach out to a stranger. The big problem is figuring out what to say or really just how to get started.

Turns out it is really not that complicated. It is a simple matter of starting off with a “congratulations!” and a sincere: “Welcome to the family.”

I am truly very excited about the arrival of this little boy.

You know for a long time, I guess my entire life, I’ve looked up to my brother, as younger brothers always do. As a child I was jealous of his athletic talent and his dancing ability (there was a time when he thought he was Prince). As an adult I envied his jet-set lifestyle and a passport that took him around the world. But nearly six years ago, when my own son was born, I thought I had reached a point when things had leveled off. At that time, it just appeared that fatherhood was something that may not be in the cards for my older brother.

That would have been a shame. I know there are deadbeat dads, baby’s daddies, and those who see fatherhood as only sending a check once a month. And there are guys like John. I am sure he is nervous right now, wondering what kind of father he’ll be—but that is the exact thing a good dad does at this stage. Truth is he’s a lock. He was meant to play this role. I know that from the devotion he has always had for his family, and I know that especially firsthand from the help he showed me this year in waging a fight for my own son.

Fatherhood will change John. It will probably slow him down a step or two, soften him up a bit and bring out a goofy side that causes him to make strange faces or sing nursery rhymes or do anything he can to bring out a smile and giggle from a little boy who’s captured his heart.

Rachel, I am sure your friends have told you to get ready, that there is nothing like the unconditional love a mother has for her child. They’re right. That bond is instant. But what you and John will discover is, the truly amazing part is not the love you will give but the vast amount that flows from a child to his parents. There is no way to prepare for it. It will happen within the first day or so. The baby will cry and you’ll wonder if he’s hungry or needs a diaper change, and then you’ll pick him up and he’ll instantly stop. Everything was okay, he just wanted to be held. In that moment nothing else, including the old ways we use to define ourselves, any longer matters: What you weigh, where’s your hairline (that one’s more of a guy issue), how much is in the bank account, where you went to college or what you achieved in your career is all irrelevant to this little child. All that matters to him is that you’re his parent, that you’re his mommy and daddy, and that is more than enough for him.

I guess that is why this is a letter of congratulations. Not because you’re about to have a baby, but because you are about to feel an unconditional love like you’ve never been exposed to before. I am truly excited for both you and John. I look forward to meeting you some day soon, and especially look forward to meeting this little guy.

So welcome to the family! You’ve given us reason to celebrate two additions.

Doug

I read this letter on an Amtrak train, and I don’t think of myself as an Ol’ Softy, but I had tears streaming down my face when I finished it. It could have been the hormones, I guess. I called up John and said, “Oh my God, I’m crying from this letter!” He revealed that it had made him cry as well. Then I sent it to my mom and a friend from home, not mentioning my tears, just saying how nice it was. They both called me back crying. Uncle Doug had created a trail of tears up the Eastern Seaboard.

Because of all his wisdom, we dubbed him the Prophet Doug. Later, when our baby would be crying and we didn’t know why, and we would just pick him up to hold him, that became known as the Prophet Doug move. Then it became just a casual verb on its own. The baby would be crying, and one of us would say, “Does his diaper need changing? Did he eat? Did you try Prophet Douging him?”

Besides the fact that Doug became a verb, I’m including
his letter because, though this is my story, I’m telling John’s story as well, and I thought you should know that beneath all of my quips or observations, some of which John may feel more comfortable keeping private, and whether or not we are together as a couple or as co-parents, the fact is, this guy did uproot his life from a quiet hamlet across the whole country to a busy loud avenue in New York City so that he could be a daily part of his son’s life. I thought he deserved some credit for that. Not everyone would do that. And I thought Prophet Doug said it better than I ever could.

With All Due Respect to Edgar Allan Poe

In spite of the fact
that I’m not a megastar, occasional perks come along for me because I was at one time on
Saturday Night Live
. Nothing major. Stuff like an open table at a busy restaurant. I lucked out big-time, though, when I was five months pregnant. I was walking down the street and a guy said, “Hi! I produced your segment on Tony Danza’s show a few years ago.” Not to say I may have blocked out my guest stint on the esteemed yet short-lived Tony Danza talk show, but I didn’t remember this guy. To be friendly, however, I talked to him for a bit and asked what he was doing now, to which he responded that he was working for the Nate Berkus show. Nate Berkus was Oprah’s design guy; he did all of her home makeovers for the show, and all of Oprah’s audience was completely in love with him because he is so attractive and sweet and talented that they all just blocked out the tiny fact that he is gay. It’s kind of a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy that the fans made with themselves
so they could still fantasize that someday he will do over their home
and
have romantic and caring sex with them.