It isn’t what I expected; he isn’t what I expected, but look how sweet he is! Like a tiny little doll that moves!
“He’s so cute!” I look up at Andi delightedly. “Did you see him yawn? I have a name for him.”
Andi leans forward, and I hope she likes it. I hope she approves. I didn’t have any boy names, obviously, but when I was lying here before, this name came to me, and it feels right.
“Callum,” I say proudly. “Cal for short.”
“It’s a beautiful name.” Andi smiles, stroking the baby’s head, and her eyes instantly go all soft and tender. I wonder if my eyes do that when I look at him. I don’t think they do, and I wonder if that’s just because Andi’s older. Maybe that will happen to me in time.
“Does he have a middle name?” she says, tearing her eyes away from him and looking up at me.
Of course he does. I made a promise, and I haven’t forgotten it, even though I never expected him to be a boy.
“Callum Michael,” I announce. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, Emily! I love it. It’s a perfect name for him!”
And I have to tell you, I feel so proud right then.
The Irish nurse, Maureen, bustles over, cooing over Callum Michael. She’s been in a few times already today, and I cannot believe how nice she is, clucking around me like the perfect mother hen. Just being around her warmth and big smile makes me feel taken care of.
“Would you look at the gorgeous boy! And the beautiful mother.” She smiles and, for a moment, I could almost believe her. “Right, young lady. Time to introduce you to some nursing. Did you attend the classes?”
“Nursing?” I look up at her in panic. “I’m not going to nurse.”
“Oh, yes you will,” she says cheerfully, as if she didn’t hear a word I just said. “A lot of mothers feel the same way when their babies are born, but it’s wonderful once you get used to it, and far better for the babies. In the beginning, you’re producing colostrum, which is filled with antibodies the baby needs, and it gets him off to the very best possible start. Let’s just give it a go, I can help the baby latch on.” She reaches out toward me, as if she’s going to unbutton my pajamas or something, and I recoil away from her.
“No!” I yelp. “He’s having formula.”
“But Emily.” Andi seems upset. “Maureen is right, it’s so much better…”
“No!” I say again. God. They’re not the ones having to get their boobs out in public. And the thought of a baby sucking on my nipple? Ewww. To say it grosses me out doesn’t even begin to describe how horrific I think it is.
There is no way I am getting my boobs out. Ever. And no way I am having those huge, distended nipples. You think I didn’t YouTube it already? Gross. I swear, I am grimacing just thinking about it.
“I was raised on a formula, and I’m completely fine,” I say, which is true. My mom once told me that pretty much everyone back then was given a bottle, and it didn’t seem to do me any harm.
“Just bring me a bottle,” I say wearily, “and I’ll feed him.” I look down at him and, as if on cue, as if he heard me talk about food then got hungry, his tiny face scrunches up into an angry red bunch, and he starts to wail in this reedy, thin, baby voice.
“You know what?” I feel slight panic because I’m rocking him to try to make him stop, but the screaming just gets louder. “Can you just take him?”
I see Andi and Maureen exchange a look, but I don’t care. I hold Cal out, and Andi steps up and takes him. Instantly, he’s quiet again. She stands there, rocking him slightly, looking mesmerized, her eyes melting again as she gazes at his face.
“You’ve got the magic touch.” Maureen looks on admiringly, and I don’t care. Whatever. I just want them to go so I can go back to sleep.
Thirty
Are you fucking kidding me? Again? I burrow my head under my pillow, pulling it tightly over my ears, hoping to drown out the ever-present bawling, and praying that he will stop, that somehow a miracle will occur and the baby will fall back to sleep by himself.
The wailing gets louder—he is in a bassinet at the foot of my bed, even though he has a perfectly good nursery, but apparently I have to keep him in my room until he’s three months old. The law, according to my dad. Which sucks, because if he were in the nursery, I’m pretty sure Andi would get up and deal with these awful nights, because she’s the one who seems completely entranced by my baby, and the nursery is next to their bedroom, but my dad says no.
I push back the covers and sit on the edge of the bed, unable to move for a while. My body feels like lead, but I have to stop the crying.
“Sssh.” I stumble to the bassinet and lean over. His face is screwed up tightly, bright red, his fists clenched with rage. I retrieve the paci from where it rests, on the sheet next to his left ear, and put it back in his mouth.
“Ssssh.” He sucks noisily on the pacifier, looking up at me with big eyes, and I lean down and give him my finger, which he squeezes tightly. Cute. If he were quiet like this all the time, maybe things would be a whole lot easier.
* * *
Colic, the doctor says. Unfortunately, you have a colicky baby. So? I said. Give him something. Give him medicine. Drugs. I don’t care. Whatever it takes to stop his screaming.
“It’s not that simple,” she said, explaining that they weren’t sure what caused colic, but that it would probably stop at around three months, and that there were measures we could take that might improve things, but ultimately it was time.
And yes, I know, three months is not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but when you are awake night after night with a screaming child, three months feels like thirty years, and that’s pretty horrific.
I left the doctor’s office with a list of suggestions. We changed his formula to soy, but that didn’t work, and we give him these baby gas drops, but that doesn’t work.
There are two things that work. At night, a pacifier, and during the day, his being walked. I spend hours every day walking around the neighborhood, up and down the canyons, pushing him in his off-road stroller, knowing that if I dare to stop, even a brief rest on a bench, he will start screaming again.
The only good thing about this is I’m getting in shape, but I don’t care. I’d gladly give up a waistline and flattish stomach for a decent night’s sleep and my life back.
You would think that my family would step up and help out a little more. Sophia takes him for walks, which helps, although she says she’s nervous because he’s so small. She keeps saying she’s going to be an amazing babysitter, but he needs to get a bit bigger first, so she isn’t so scared.
Tell me about it.
Andi’s pretty good during the day when my dad’s at work, but my dad has said, repeatedly, that if I’m going to be a mother, I have to be a mother, and it’s not Andi’s job to take over.
I heard them argue about it just the other night. Andi was saying it wasn’t fair, it was too much for a young girl, and she’s happy to help, happy to take the baby whenever, but my dad said absolutely not, that I had made my bed and now I had to learn to lie in it.
I never thought I’d say this, but right now? I totally hate my dad.
When he’s at work, though, Andi always takes the baby. She works in the mornings now, which is when I have to walk him and walk him, but early afternoon, Andi gets him up from his nap, and if my dad’s not around, she’ll keep him for the afternoon just so that I can sleep.
Even then, even with afternoon naps, I am exhausted in a way I never dreamed possible. I don’t always sleep, which is part of the problem. I get on the computer, which is about my only access to the outside world right now, and before I know it, my dad’s pulling in the driveway and I have to take over so my dad doesn’t think that Andi has been—heaven forbid!—helping me out by looking after Cal.
This is not what I expected. None of it was what I expected. For starters, as you know, I was expecting a girl, but male or female, I thought my baby was going to be perfe
ct. It was supposed to be quiet, and cute, dressed in cool clothes, my tiny little partner.
Meanwhile, he’s in onesies from Carter’s, which Andi has bought, and everything’s blue, and green, and yellow stripes, and I don’t care. I just don’t care that there isn’t a single cool item of clothing in his closet. I don’t have the energy to care.
He’s cute when he’s quiet, that’s for sure. Especially since last week. Andi started yelling up the stairs for me, and I practically fell down them because she never yells, and I thought something terrible had happened.
“Look!” She dragged me into the kitchen, where Cal was strapped into this vibrating bouncy chair that was on the kitchen table.
The kid has more stuff than you’ve ever seen. Andi’s gone nuts. Every day she brings back some other fantastic thing: toys that squeak and sing; chairs that bounce; mats you’re supposed to lay him on, on his stomach, so he can strengthen his neck muscles by looking around although Cal just tends to lie there like a grub.
Sophia was sitting at the kitchen table with a delighted grin on her face. “You have to see this!” she said. “Andi? Show her!”
Andi leaned over and started making kissing noises at him. “Hey, baby baby,” she crooned, and his face suddenly broke into a huge smile. He looked from her, to me, to Sophia, then back to her, and it was pretty awesome.
“Awesome,” I said. “Hey, little dude.” And I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. I stood there awkwardly for a minute.
“Want to give him his bottle?” Sophia said. It seems she has become the babysitter earlier than planned.
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m doing some stuff on the computer,” I went back upstairs.
You see, that’s the other thing that I don’t get. Everything I read said being a mother was incredible, that the love you feel is the most intense thing you have ever felt in your life, that you would lay down your life for your child in a heartbeat.
I wish I felt that. I expected to feel that, and honestly, when he was in my stomach and I thought he was a she and she was the Bean, and when I was certain that I would be keeping the baby, and it was my secret, and my baby, and no one could take it away from me, I did feel that.
And I don’t know why I don’t feel it anymore.
Everyone loves this baby, and I just feel pissed off that I don’t. I mean, I do, but … not in the way I know I’m supposed to. I see how Andi coos over him, how she cannot take her eyes off him. I see how she cradles him and rocks him and sings to him, and I have tried to do that, I really have, but I feel self-conscious and weird. It doesn’t feel natural, and maybe, maybe, I’m not the natural mother I thought I would be.
“You are overwhelmed,” the leader of the teen-mom support group said, the one time I showed up. “Which is entirely natural. You are each incredibly brave, choosing to keep your precious children, and you need a tremendous amount of love and support, which is why it’s crucial that you come to our group every week.” She looked around at each of us four girls in there, smiling a beatific smile, this freaky fucking earth mother in her flowing diaphanous skirt, and I wanted to scream at her.
She could sit there and talk about being overwhelmed all she wanted, this old woman, but she had no idea what it was like to be me. She had no idea what it feels like to have your life taken away so abruptly, and by a baby who never stops screaming.
I looked cautiously at the other teen moms to see if any of them could become a friend, but Jesus, no way in hell I would have anything to do with any of them. Jennie was this big ugly moose—and seriously, how in the hell did she ever get laid; Sarah was one of the popular girls, so you could see how she got laid, but she looked shell-shocked at having got into this mess, and River, who looked like the hippie’s granddaughter, beamed a beatific smile right back at her.
The other girls shared. River was the only one who seemed to love every second. Sarah said her parents were basically raising the baby, and Jennie, you could tell, was just thrilled that someone had actually had sex with her.
When it was my turn, I didn’t say much. I knew I wasn’t going to go back. I had nothing in common with any of them, and I might be dying of loneliness, but I’m still not desperate enough to go to that support group every week and reveal my innermost secrets.
We all brought our babies with us, and River’s baby was first to start squawking. She had him in a sling around her body, and while we sat there, cross-legged on the floor, she unbuttoned her shirt and just started nursing.
That was when I almost started giggling, which was totally embarrassing because I know it’s meant to be natural, except it isn’t. It’s just weird to see another girl get her boobs out. And I tried not to look, but I kind of couldn’t help it, and when she switched breasts, she had these huge boobs with enormous nipples, and I seriously thought I might just have a fit of hysterics.
Then Jennie’s baby started bawling, and like a line of dominoes, it set the others off. Thank God, the others reached into their diaper bags and pulled out bottles, so at least I didn’t feel guilty about being the only one not getting her tits out in public.
Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. And I’m beginning to think I might have made a terrible mistake in not doing the adoption thing. Adeline and Greg would have loved this baby. I see Andi with this baby, and I see how an older woman would have loved this baby. If not Adeline, someone else. Babies get adopted all the time, at any age, right?
But how can I turn around and say that I was wrong and they were right? How can I admit I made such a huge mistake, after the fights we had to give me the right to keep my baby.
I will find a way. I have to. My dad gave me such hell about keeping the baby; fights that were like nothing on earth. He said I was irresponsible; I didn’t have a clue what it meant to be a mother, and I would get bored. He asked if I knew what it was like to be woken up night after night, all night, for years.
“I will do it,” I spat back at him. “This is my baby, and I will take care of it.” I cannot say he was right. I will not do that. I will find a way to make this work.
* * *
I am in a deep sleep when I hear it again. At first just a squeak, and then a full-fledged bawl. I open one eye blearily and look at the clock—3:34 A.M. Twenty-two minutes since the last time he woke up.
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.
I get up and walk to the bassinet and I do not mean to do this, I swear, I never meant to do this, but I stand over the bassinet and I scream back at him.
“Shut up!” I shout. “Shut up! Just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Thirty-one
Andi wakes up late. She often does, these days. She wakes up every time she hears Cal scream, which happens every night, starting at around two in the morning, going on every twenty minutes until it is time to get up.
Andi now sleeps with earplugs. And a white-noise machine. But she still wakes up. She has gently suggested Emily remove the pacifier—the pacifier that helps him sleep is the same pacifier that falls out of his slack jaw once he is deeply sleeping, causing him to wake up screaming, roughly every twenty minutes or so, wanting the pacifier back.
Emily won’t hear it. “I’m his mom,” she snapped. “And I think the pacifier’s great.”
So Andi lies in bed, night after night, worrying about Cal. She worries that Emily hasn’t bonded with him, that Emily has no patience, that Emily is so exhausted she may snap, and what will that mean for the baby if Emily snaps?
She hears him scream and wants to go to him, but she cannot, because she knows that Ethan is right.
“You cannot shield her from the responsibility of being a mother,” he said gently. “I know you want to. I know you love him, and you could take care of him far better than her, but the only way she’s going to learn how to do it is to do it.”
“I just want to help her,” she had pleaded.
“You are. And you can. But you cannot take over for her.”
This
past week she has heard Emily screaming at the baby. Numerous times. Then she has intervened. She met Ethan outside Emily’s door, and both of them exchanged worried looks.
“I have to,” she whispered. “I’m worried about what she may do.” Visions of Emily raging as she has raged so often before fill her mind. The picture of Emily holding Cal up and shaking him hard to shut him up makes Andi sick with fear.
This week, Ethan hasn’t stopped her.
They have both gone in to find Emily sobbing.
“Go to bed,” Ethan has said gently to Emily. “We’ll take the baby.”
He has guided Emily back to bed and tucked the covers around her as Andi cradles Cal, carrying him out of the room, Ethan following her with the bassinet.
He has gone downstairs to warm a bottle and come back to sit with Andi as she feeds the baby.
“I’m worried about her,” Andi said two nights ago. “I’m terrified she’s going to snap and take it out on the baby.”
“I hear you,” Ethan said miserably. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We should take the baby at night. Or get a night nurse. A doula. Someone. We can’t let her go on like this. She’s exhausted, and she can’t be a good mother when she’s this tired. It’s not fair.”
“I agree,” Ethan said finally. “You’re right. A night nurse is a great idea.”
“It’s expensive,” Andi said. “But worth it. We can do two nights, and maybe a night nurse for two nights. I’m sure she can handle two or three nights a week, but not every night. You hear how she’s screaming at him. I’m terrified she’s going to…” kill him, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t say it out loud, as if putting it out there might tempt fate.
“I know,” Ethan said. “I know.” He sat on the bed, next to where Andi was cradling Cal as he sucked greedily on his bottle. “Isn’t he beautiful?” Ethan’s whole face softened. “I could sit and watch him for hours.”