“They were full of shit. They said that to me, too, and all I did was lay on a bed while they pulled a baby out of my anesthetized stomach.”
“Bastards.”
“How’s it going with Sam?” Louise asks.
“Okay, I think. I wish someone would come by and tell me I’m doing great at this, though. I feel pretty clueless. My boobs are the Antichrist. Antichrists, I guess.”
“Yeah, my nips are already cracked and bloody, and I just started.”
“Maybe we can compare nips when we see each other.”
“Sure. Or I could send you a picture over the phone?”
“Only if I can send you a picture of my stitched-up perineum.”
We laugh and commiserate over postbirth grossities until Louise has to go for a vitals check.
“Say hi to baby Gertie for me. Tell her her future husband, Sam, is a big crybaby.”
“I’m sure she’ll whip him into shape when they’re officially engaged.”
We hang up, and I pet Sam’s head. “Happy two-week birthday, Sam,” I say. “I will eat a large piece of cake in your honor.” I yell downstairs, “Zach! Can you run to the grocery store to get me a piece of cake?”
What the hell am I going to do when Zach goes back to work next week?
15 Days Old
If there actually is a book of my life, as the Jews believe, then God must have stamped a big ol’ FAIL on today’s entry.
Sam will not eat right. I have scabs on my boobs, and even the nipple shield is not doing its proper shielding duty because it fucking hurts every time he feeds. I can’t stop crying. I’m terrified of my baby’s mouth, and it seems like any time I hold him, all he wants to do is attack me. Is this a sign of things to come? Is Sam going to grow up to be a horrible man who attacks women and thrives on their pain? Or worse: a cannibal? Sick little shit. I know I’m not supposed to say that or feel this way. I’m supposed to adore all of his sweet baby quirks and praise him when he does something right. I shouldn’t hate him for doing something wrong, even though it’s causing me debilitating pain. I should love him because he is my baby, and that’s what moms do: They love their babies unconditionally.
But it is so fucking hard when it feels like he hates me.
Later
Latch. Pop off. Latch. Pop off. Latch. Pop off. Every. Single. Time. It hurts like someone is tearing off my nipple with flypaper.
I call my mom to complain, and she tells me, “I’ve got a case of formula ready for you right here whenever you ask for it.”
“You bought a case of formula, Ma?” I’m livid. “I told you I want to breastfeed!”
“It’s for emergencies. They had it at Costco. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Marcy’s daughter. She’s due next week.”
“Don’t you dare force that on her. Who is Marcy again?”
“I play canasta with her every third Wednesday.”
“And you have to get her daughter a present?” I marvel.
“Of course. Marcy bought you that set of sports team teething rings. She said you didn’t send a thank-you note yet.”
“By all means, give her daughter the formula, then. Good-bye, Mom.” I hang up.
* * *
Odd Success of the Day:
Sam’s belly button scab fell off. And I almost threw up. Am I supposed to save this nasty-ass thing? Don’t some people eat them? Or is that the placenta? I think this is technically part of the placenta. I wonder if Zach would notice if I sprinkled it over his pasta tonight.
* * *
No, I did not do it.
16 Days Old
My friend Devin, the school librarian from work, called to check in today. Two weeks into my maternity leave, and I’m jealous of people at work. This does not bode well for the five months I have to be home. At least I get to spend more time with Doogan. When he’s not running away from the shrieking parasite attached to my boob.
Devin, always the librarian, found a lactation specialist for me only twenty minutes from my house. Her name is Joanne, and she has a storefront lactation shop in a strip mall. I call her, and before I’ve even paid her she talks to me for a half hour about all of the things I’m doing and what I can do to help my pain. She says I can bring Sam in, and she can help me learn how to make him latch more comfortably. I’m strapping him into the car seat the second he wakes from his nap.
17 Days Old
Joanne worked wonders on Sam’s latching technique, but she told me my breasts had “trauma” that would take a while to heal. Little turd has caused me trauma! And now that I’m getting him to latch, I can’t get him to unlatch. He is seriously stuck to my boob right now, asleep. Joanne suggested sticking my finger in his mouth to break the seal, but I’m afraid of cutting him with my nail. I’m afraid of cutting this delicate flower when he is causing me trauma.
See, I’m not entirely evil.
18 Days Old
This morning I opened the door and a box awaited me along with the newspaper. The return address was from a funky-looking kids’ store in Chicago, and inside was a onesie that read, “I love boobies,” and a frightening-looking clown stuffed animal. A note with the gifts read, “I never know what to get people with babies. The shirt thing made me laugh, and the clown scared the shit out of me, so I thought, why not? Bummed I missed the bris! Love, Annika.”
I’m pleasantly surprised she bothered to send me a gift at all. She must have a new, straitlaced boyfriend who gave her the idea. Doogan wandered off with the clown toy after he spent a half hour stuffing himself into the shipping box. Which makes one wonder if Annika mistakenly purchased a catnip-filled toy for the baby instead of an actual baby toy. Win-win if Doogan hides the thing.
FACEBOOK STATUS
Between the onion in the garbage from last night’s dinner, my hormonal sweating through four t-shirts in bed, and Sam’s head smelling like Zach’s armpit, I’d like to suggest that no one come over today.
19 Days Old
Two days and counting before Zach goes back to work as an IT specialist at a local bank. “What are you so worried about?” My mom holds Sam as I drag a pen along the seams of an envelope. Two half-finished thank-you notes jeer at me. “I raised you kids without your dad around, and you turned out decent.”
“I’m not worried about Sam being decent. He barely has a sporting chance, what with being your grandson.” I smirk. “I’m worried about generally sucking as a mom,” I explain.
“Let me let you in on a little secret: All moms suck much of the time. The beauty about being a stay-at-home mom is that there is no one to watch you fail. It’s not like Sam is going to tell anyone. You’ll be back at work before he learns to talk.”
“Mom, you’re wigging me out a little. And yet, you are very wise. You sure you don’t want to move in for a few months?”
“Oh, you’d love that. We couldn’t spend two days in Lake Geneva without the battle of the air conditioner. No, I’ll just be around for support when you need me. At least until I go to San Francisco next month.”
“I can’t believe you’re still going. You have a grandchild now!” I’m worried more about me not having her to help than my mom not seeing Sam, but it sounds better when the baby is the one being the baby.
“He won’t remember. And you’ll make it without me. What if I were dead? You’d have to do it without me anyway. In fact, pretend I’m dead. It’ll be easier.”
“Ma! Why do you always have to go to the dark side?” I ask.
“It’s part of my charm, I guess.”
Doogan looks at me, and I swear I detect a shrug. “She’s your mother,” he says.
I have managed to take care of Doogan for seventeen years. I’ll take that as a good sign. Then Doogan bites me, and I shove him off the couch.
I’m screwed.
20 Days Old
Zach goes back to work tomorrow. I am terrified, scared shitless, and entrenched with fear. I have to be alone with this baby all day, every day, and I don’t kn
ow if I can do it.
“You’re going to be fine. You’ve been doing it already for three weeks,” Zach tries to comfort me as we watch Supernatural on the couch. Sam sleeps peacefully on Zach’s chest. I give him the stink-eye, just in case he can sense I’m not happy with him.
“I haven’t been doing it for three weeks by myself. At first I was in the hospital, and you’ve been here the whole time, playing a supporting role, as has my mom in her morbid kind of way. Plus—fine? I don’t want to be fine. I want to be the best, most kick-ass mother on the planet. And beyond. I want to nurse him lovingly whilst I bake cakes and keep the house so clean you can hear little chimes of sparkle ringing from the countertops. I want Sam to learn sign language and ten other languages and to fit all the right shapes into that ball with the shapes cut out that five different people bought for him. Fine wasn’t good enough for me before I had this baby, so it certainly should not be good enough when we’re talking about the health and happiness of our firstborn son!” This would be the start of many a sleep-deprived diatribe on the subject of mama failure. But Zach will soon be lucky enough to get away from it all for ten hours a day, five days a week. Son of a bitch.
Middle of the Night
Full-on panic that Zach goes back to work tomorrow. Thank God for QVC. I don’t know what I’d do without the hypnotic beauty of twenty-four hours of gemstones.
21 Days Old
FIRST DAY WITHOUT ZACH GOALS:
• Feed, clothe, change, etc., Sam.
• Cut fingernails.
• Paint toenails.
• Bake chocolate-chip cookies.
• Take nap.
• Master Moby Wrap.
Zach is gone, and so far so good. Nothing out of the ordinary, and I did manage to write three more thank-you notes. Perhaps I will send them before Sam’s first birthday.
I spent much of the day practicing intricate wrappings of the Moby Wrap so I can wear Sam around when I go places. Working with at least twenty feet of fabric to somehow transform it into a safe nest in which Sam will lie seems semi-impossible, but I’ve made it my quest for the day. Or maybe the week. Why rush these things.
FIRST DAY WITHOUT ZACH ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
• Blah blah blah Sam.
• Managed to knot my Moby Wrap and watched it fall on the floor.
• Fell asleep while on toilet (nap?).
• Ate half a roll of refrigerated cookie dough (baked in my stomach?).
When Zach arrives home, the house is the same mess it was before he left. My face is still the same mess it was before he left. Zach looks like he just returned from a three-week trip to a spa. I pray for a gigantic, dribbly poo to slither into Sam’s diaper so I can hand it off to Zach, but for once Sam’s baby buns have clammed up. Not that Zach would care. “I missed you so much!” he proclaims to Sam as he swings him around the room.
I should take my act on the road. How much does an Invisible Woman make?
22 Days Old
I am still addicted to my squeeze bottle. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to poo without it.
My Moby Wrap skills are improving. I even imagined Ellen was cheering me on from the TV as I pranced around in it. (Sans Sam. I’m not that good yet.)
THE SEXIEST THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME THIS WEEK:
Zach came home from work tonight while I was nursing Sam. His latch and my trauma are greatly improved, but he’s very touchy about things. If I make the tiniest move, Sam unlatches, starts crying, then I start crying, and this goes on for a good fifteen minutes. It becomes a serious problem when I have to go to the bathroom. Really badly. As I’ve had to for more than an hour.
“How was your day?” I mouth to Zach as he gingerly closes the garage door.
“Good. Yours?”
“I have to poo,” I mouth.
Zach looks confused.
“I have to poo,” I repeat.
“You want some food?” Zach attempts.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I blurt out. “I don’t have time for these Who’s on First shenanigans. I have to take a shit, and I don’t want Sam to stop eating. Help me.”
“What do you want me to do? Bring you a chamber pot?” Zach laughs.
“I’ll give you a chamber pot on your head,” I growl.
“We don’t even own a chamber pot,” Zach argues.
“Then I’ll use a Crock-Pot. Just help me! Come here.”
Zach walks over to our big red chair where I like to sit while I nurse. “Help me up while I keep him latched.” Zach supports my arms as I use the remnants of my stomach muscles to get out of the chair. I attempt to glide over to the bathroom, and I manage to keep Sam happily eating. Once I’m in the bathroom, I realize Zach is in for a treat.
“You have to pull my pants down,” I tell him.
“That’s what she said,” Zach jokes.
“Yuck it up, Chuckles. This may be the last instance you hear those words uttered in your life,” I warn.
Luckily I’m still wearing maternity yoga pants, so it’s not too difficult to pull them down. The next part of the process, however, proves to be a tad more complicated.
“You have to squirt me while I poo.” I’m on the toilet seat now, and I urgently need to go.
“Squirt you?” Zach asks incredulously.
“With my trusty squeeze bottle. It’s the only way pooing doesn’t hurt.”
“Unh,” is all Zach can muster.
“There are stitches down there, and water makes the poo come out easier! Now be a man, and squirt my butt!”
Zach grabs the half-full squirt bottle off the sink and flails his arms around, looking for a place to squeeze it.
“Empty it first, and fill it with warm water. It has to be warm!” I’m trying my damnedest to hold it in, but it’s already been too long. “Faster! I’m ready to go!”
“The water won’t heat up!” Zach shouts as he repeatedly splashes his fingers under the faucet to check the temperature.
“Hurry!” I shriek. Sam doesn’t seem to notice any of the commotion. I imagine he’s probably reveling in my discomfort, as he is wont to do.
“It’s warm! It’s warm!” Zach declares, and fills the bottle to the rim. When it’s full, he turns around and yells, “How do I aim it?”
“I’ll stand up a little, and you squirt at my ass while I poo. But don’t look!”
“How am I supposed to aim it and not look?”
“I’m feeding a human being and taking a shit. Learn to multitask!”
The instant the water starts spraying, I clear out my system in a matter of seconds.
“Done,” I announce.
“All that for a three-second shit?”
I sit back down on the seat, relieved.
“Now who’s going to wipe?” I ask.
23 Days Old
My students just about broke me today. My mom, visiting, found a box on my porch with a note attached. (Does no one ring the doorbell? I would love to speak to an actual human being besides my mother.)
Didn’t want to wake the baby. Your advisory made this for you with Abby in art class, and I had to drop it off. We miss you! Love to Sam!
—Devin
Wrapped up was a decoupaged box covered in pictures of my advisees. Inside were letters, written in the formal style I taught them, wishing me happiness and telling me how much they missed me. I handed Sam off to my mom so that I could read sentiments from children who actually care about me and communicate with me. It was positively abstract to imagine Sam would one day be able to do both.
24 Days Old
I had an appointment with Joanne today. I may visit her every time Sam needs to eat. Perhaps move into the parking lot outside of her office in an RV. My nipples are looking like booby battlefields, and Joanne suggested I put olive oil on the scabs to help them heal. I hope next it’s something like frosting. I’d smell better. And Zach could lick it off. Just kidding! The next time I let Zach near my nipples, Sam will be studying law in college.
Or farm studies. I don’t care what he majors in as long as he’s keeping his distance from my nipples.
The truly exciting news is that I’m done with the nipple shields. Sam figured out how to latch directly on to the real deals. Perhaps I’ll turn the shields into a masterpiece of abstract art and sell it on Etsy. Or better yet, I can put them in Sam’s baby book.
A LETTER TO MY DEAR CHILD
Dear Son,
Here are the nipple shields that I had to wear because you inflicted excruciating pain onto your mother. I WILL NEVER FORGET.
To transition from shield to nip proper, Joanne gave me some cooling pads to place over my nipples. They are essentially Dr. Scholl’s gel pads, but for nips! They stick pretty well, even without a bra on to hold them in place. When I get home, I spend a good five minutes strutting around in front of a mirror pretending I’m in some warped postpartum burlesque show. I file the moment away as one good reason to be home alone during maternity leave.
To: Fern
From: Annie
Dear Fern,
I’m typing this quickly, as Sam stirs in his crib. I know he is going to want to attack my boobs soon enough. Sometimes it hurts so badly I think I’m going to pass out. I wish it would get a million times better, and he would turn into more of a baby than a lump. I never thought I’d say this, but I think Angelina Jolie was right. She said something lumpy about her baby once, and she caught a lot of shit for it. Glad nobody’s interviewing me. Especially because I can’t get rid of this zit on my chest, and I desperately need my hair colored. So many grays! Jolie did not have to deal with these things, even if she did have a lump of a baby. Remember that glamorous breastfeeding magazine cover? Fuck.
“Lumpy” calls—
Annie
25 Days Old
Friday. Five days of being home alone with Sam, and I’m counting the seconds to when Zach gets home from work. Today was very similar to yesterday, as it was to the day before.
1. Wake up (officially, without the goal of trying to fall back asleep, although the desire is still there).
2. Nurse Sam.
3. Put Sam in bouncy seat while I make breakfast.
4. Two minutes later, take Sam out of bouncy seat and hold him as I eat breakfast to prevent him from busting a lung with his screams. While bouncing him.