How to Party With an Infant (11 page)

“Good-bye,” she says, but the driver just nods.

“I
was
waiting for you,” she wants to say to the little man. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

“Go,” Chris says, and Georgia goes on.

Has anyone tried Julie’s Method? We’ve done the diaper countdown, telling her that now no more diapers exist in the world. My husband and I have committed and gone cold turkey. However, we’d like to revisit diapers at night to avoid doing so much laundry, and also we have a wedding this weekend and we’re not sure if the babysitter can handle this. I feel like we would break our contract, but what do you do for night and special occasions?

—Carrie Lee

Yes, I’ve done Julie’s Method. Do not put a diaper back on! That’s the whole point of Julie’s Method. We created a potty song, loaded our daughter up on juice boxes. She was in heaven! We practiced for three days, never leaving the apartment. I strapped the portable to me and shadowed her. I was totally committed. By day three she got it. She poops, she pees, she loves it.

—Amanda Fuller

I agree. Julie’s Method works. The biggest barrier sounds like you. I would wait until you are ready. Kids get things, and if you aren’t 100% into it, the kid will know and will work it. Like Amanda, I was committed. I was pregnant and did not want to be wiping two butts. Dude, poop is terrible. It’s so liberating for the child to have that control over their body. It’s easy. Good luck. I really hope for planet earth and your child that you do it!

—Johanna Weller

The Pant-less Method worked for us, except there were skid marks all over the house.

—A.L., West Portal

What was the last thing you ate?

Thanks to Georgia, the last thing I ate was a burger from In-N-Out.

She told me a story that left me stunned and humbled. You never know what’s behind a person. For a moment she lied her way into another life, so tired she was of her own, and I admired her lies, the way they revealed the truth.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I said to her, thinking of her three children.

“I don’t,” Georgia said.

“But you do. You are.”

“I envy you,” Georgia said, and I spit out a laugh. “I’m serious. You’re free.”

“I’m not that free,” I said and stopped there. She could pour her heart out, but I wasn’t about to say: “I’m afraid and hurt and a tad desperate. The thought of being with a man sickens me, but sometimes I feel this pathetic need for one.”

Also, by saying that I was free, I think she was talking about her marriage, the way it confines and limits her.

Henry had come into the park during part of her story, and he was pushing Tommy on the swings. He did so much with his kids. I couldn’t imagine leaving someone who cared so much about my child. I couldn’t imagine leaving anyone who looked like Henry. I know he must be devastated about his wife, but he had to be unhappy before. Why would he spend so much time getting away from her and everyone in his circle?

“Imagine growing up in a neighborhood and never leaving it for the rest of your life,” Henry once said. “That’s what these people do. They go to the same schools, live in the same places, use the same designers, fight the same fights, go to the same parties, none of which are really parties. Then they have their kids replicate their steps under the impression that they’re making their own choices.”

Henry was here, making his own choices.

“Are you ready for the wedding?” Georgia asked, and it took me a moment to jump onto another line of thought. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no.”

“I think it’s good you’re going.” Georgia got up to gather her things.

“You do? Annie thinks I’m crazy.”

“Ellie’s the flower girl. You have to be there. Just to watch her.”

Georgia scanned the playground for Gabe, found him, check, and then she turned back to me. “Just have fun with her.”

“And the vows, the kiss, the dancing? Feeding each other cake.” I was beginning to think Annie was right.

“You’ll make it,” Georgia said.

I sighed and sank a little, thinking about a dish for Georgia. Perhaps Thai-spiced burgers with French fries—creative, exotic fries, because Georgia, and so many parents, needs to be transported. An artichoke dish, of course, and mini–milk shakes. Neapolitan to avoid having to make a choice. Sometimes there were too many choices. Just let Georgia have it all.

“Thank you,” I said to Georgia.

At the wedding, during those hard parts, I’ll lie my way into another life. I’ll transport myself. I’ll watch my daughter and pretend we’re all extras in a movie, something utterly unreal.

“Did you ever tell Eric?” I asked.

Georgia smiled. “No. I think Chris really likes the secret. Things have been good with us.” She looked out, content, some private thought changing the normal structure of her face. She looked at peace.

Secrets and lies, so healthy sometimes.

She got up and walked over to the sandbox to take something out of Gabe’s mouth. I walked to Ellie at the play structure next to the swings.

“What’s up?” I called to Henry, all cool and casual. I leaned against the metal bar and promptly slipped off of it.

“Howdy,” he said, something I had never heard him say before, and
he seemed a bit embarrassed by it. He crinkled his nose and shook his head as if he was disappointed. Henry has one of those faces where you know, absolutely, that he was very good-looking when he was younger. This isn’t to say he’s not very good-looking now—dark hair, with a few wisps of gray on the sides, dark eyebrows, green eyes, a strong build, but not an uptight triathlete build, more like the accidental strength that surfers or skateboarders have—it just comes with the job. I could tell he was a star once, and yet I never liked the stars, and the stars looked at the other stars—like Kate. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in timing. We could only be friends at the ages we are now. That went for all of us.

A drunk homeless person was standing by the playground gates screaming to Ellie that she was wearing the cutest hat. Ellie screamed back in delight, smiling at this man who looked like he had scurvy. I picked her up and kissed the top of her head, a reflex. She needed a bath. Her hair smelled like expensive mushrooms. I put her in the other swing next to Tommy, and Henry and I pushed their small backs.

“She had a really good story,” I said.

“Better than mine?” he said. “Adultery?”

“Different problems,” I said. “So how are things with you?” I faced Ellie’s back as I said this. It had been almost a week since he told me his story.

“She’s not staying at home right now.” He faced the back of his child. There we were in parallel play.

“Mommy’s on a work trip,” Tommy said, which must have hurt Henry—the lie of it, how he will have to lie to this boy for so long, perhaps forever. Children are always listening.

I thought of Georgia and her yearning for something, anything. I found myself pushing so softly, Ellie was barely swinging. The metal squeaked, making a rhythm with a nearby bouncing ball and a distant bongo drum.

I wondered if Henry would be like Bobby’s fiancée: forgiving because he’ll get something out of it.

“Nice afternoon,” I said, so lame, but it was clear and crisp, promising something. But what? It was almost dark and I’d go back to my small apartment. He’d go back to his wifeless, big house. Or.

“I’m craving In-N-Out,” I said, stepping to the edge of the diving board. If I could ask for this, I could eventually ask for more in life. Bobby was right. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Ellie wasn’t a baby anymore, and I was still reacting versus living. It’s just that these years went by so darn fast.

“Want to go on a field trip?” I bit my lower lip.

“Sure,” Henry said, his voice energetic, though that’s probably how all men respond to burger proposals.

Thank you, Georgia, I thought.

And so we took our separate cars to the south of the city, enduring traffic and hungry children and a glitch in our very set routine.

The last thing I ate was a hamburger with tomato and onion and a root beer. I ate it in a booth with a married man and our two children, who had sword fights with their French fries. We didn’t talk about anything significant. The kids were there and we were sitting in the moment. I was planning on bringing up the wedding, asking if he was serious about being my guest. I had a speech, so as to assure him he’d be there as a prop, not as a date or anything, of course. He’d save me from a bit of humiliation. He’d make Bobby jealous. He’d make me feel less awkward and alone, but none of this sounded good or right to say. The speech highlighted my insecurity and made me rethink asking him at all. His presence would be proof that I hadn’t moved on.

“Wow,” Henry said at our table, pushing away the rest of his fries. “That was something. Thanks for asking us along.” He ruffled Tommy’s hair. “Say thank you, champ. This place is a national treasure.”

“Thank you,”
Tommy said, grinning at his father with a fry in his front teeth.

“Say thank you to Mele, not me.” Henry looked across at me. I tucked my hair behind my ear.

“But you bought it.” Tommy shook a ketchup bottle.

“Yes, but good ideas are harder to come by.”

“Thank you, Tommy’s dad!” Ellie said.

“Thank you, Ellie’s mom,” Tommy said.

Think back to when you were young. You’re walking with some big guy on campus, and while you’re exhilarated in the moment, content with just him, you’re also looking around, hoping other people are seeing you, cementing the image of the two (or four) of you. That’s what it felt like being there with Henry and our kids. There was no better place to be, and I wished everyone could see.

Of course you should provide food. Do you want your babysitter or nanny to be hungry? I don’t know about you, but when I’m hungry I become irritable. So who suffers? Your children.

—SFMC response to “Should you provide food for the nanny?”

I say no. You’ll get stuck in a cycle. We should have never provided food for our nanny in the first place. She is such a large woman. We finally had to sit her down and tell her that tonight would be her last supper.

—SFMC response

I just leave my credit card by the phone and a variety of take-out menus. It’s a simple solution versus a selfish one.

—Tabor Boyard

BAKE THE BABYSITTER

H
enry isn’t at the park today, and Mele feels a bit silly about her outfit. She’s wearing fitted jeans—very fitted, and a V-neck cashmere sweater. Even though her breasts have gone from melons to oranges and seem to be further transforming into week-old tangerines, they’re still respectable, edible.

“Would you ever get a boob job?” she asks Annie, who is sitting next to her.

“Nope,” she says. “But I’m, you know . . .”

“Married,” Mele says.

“Plus implants kind of scream, ‘I just turned forty!’ ”

“That’s true,” Mele says.

“And you’re only thirty. That’s insane.” Annie lays Max down on the bench and proceeds to change his diaper. It’s gross, but Mele can’t stop looking at his bare bottom, his little balls like spoiled grapes, his legs kicking in the air. She feels fortunate to have a little girl—vaginas are so much cuter.

“How are your recipes coming along?” Annie asks.

Mele hears a bit of ridicule in the question. Maybe
ridicule
isn’t the right word though. Pity. That’s what she hears.

“Good,”
she says. And it is good. She’s always loved that about writing—how it gives you an excuse to know something better, or know someone.

“I want you to do my babysitter story,” Annie says. “I inspire Sloppy Joes. Or something spiked.”

Mele laughs. Annie is such a character. Funny and tough, punk rock. She has a deep need to keep in touch with the person she once was (“Are you there, old self?” she imagines her friend asking her reflection. “It’s me, watered down.”). Yes, Annie has told her a lot of stories from her prior life. She thrived off a semiprecious list of youthful antics: heavy drinking, jail (just one night), promiscuous yucky sex, stealing, flashing, having keg parties in her nice suburban home when her mother was the president of the local MADD, the usual, and while all these things are now as distant as a tiny village in Nova Scotia, Annie has a hard time turning her back on the self she has outgrown.

Mele thinks she has a hard time letting it go because then she’d just be “Mom.” She’d be like Georgia, Mele, and Barrett, people who in her prior life, she would have growled at.

She thinks of the incident that happened almost a year ago. That would require something reckless or irreverent, something you wouldn’t think could taste good. Squid—ribboned to look like noodles with butter and garlic and shichimi togarashi. Something like that? Or is that just gross?

“You haven’t heard anything from that babysitter, have you?” Mele asks.

“No,” Annie says. “Looks like I’m in the clear.”

“Jeez,” Mele says. “She sure riled you up.”

“Exercise class. That’s all I really wanted. I wanted to have normal fun.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Sloppy Joes,” Mele says. “Everyone loves them. Embrace it. Be a Sloppy Joe.”

“Are
you trying to find something I inspire or that you think I need?”

“Both.”

Ellie runs up to them, her hand grasping her crotch. “I need to go potty.”

“Are you sure?” Mele asks. She hates when Ellie needs to pee at the park, but during potty training you have to stop, drop, and pee on your child’s whim. Mele has caught on to the pee lies, a technique Ellie uses to get out of the gates and play in the disgusting bathroom, which usually has no toilet paper and a moaning homeless person. She sits on the potty forever while Mele stands in the cramped stall, arms crossed.

Ellie wiggles and really digs in as her answer. “I do.”

“Quickly,” Mele says.