Babies start perfect. Perfect posture. Perfect skin. No tan lines. Invariably, something happens. It’s only a matter of time.
Last week, something happened.
We’re not sure what. It might have been broccoli. Or a virus. Whatever it was, it caused diarrhea. For days. And days. And days.
The diarrhea caused diaper rash. The diaper rash caused panic. The panic caused us to call the pediatrician on the weekend. Again.
“You just have to wait,” the doctor said. “And didn’t I tell you last time never to call me about a rash on the weekend?”
“But this is really bad,” Melissa said.
I grabbed the phone.
“It looks like she’s wearing hamburger meat underwear,” I said.
Melissa grabbed the phone back.
“It will go away when the diarrhea goes away,” the doctor said.
“When will that be?” Melissa asked.
“There’s no way to know. Could be a few days. Could be a month.”
“I could do your job.”
Click.
After each dirty diaper, and there were a lot of them, we shmeared a thick layer of “Butt Paste” all over Juliet. She screamed while we did it, but stopped once we handed her the tube. She carried the tube around like she knew how much she needed it. There’s a pretty good chance she’s holding it right now.
On what turned out to be the last morning of Juliet’s run of the runs, I was airing her out while giving her a bottle. She lay in my lap wearing only her pajama t-shirt, the only thing in her crib that hadn’t been a casualty of the morning explosion. She looked at me and furrowed her little brow. I rubbed her back gently. She drew back from the bottle.
“This is all your fault,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, whatever I did.”
“Uh-oh,” she said.
She really did say uh-oh. She says that, bye-bye and a-choo. It’s beyond cute.
I stopped tickling Juliet’s back and took my hand out from under her shirt. My hand was completely covered in shit. As was Juliet’s back. The only non-casualty of the morning explosion hadn’t been a non-casualty after all. Uh-oh.
Juliet laughed as I held her with my one clean hand and yanked her t-shirt off with my teeth. I got Juliet into the bath only to realize that I couldn’t leave her there while I washed my hands in the sink, and I couldn’t wash my hands in her bath. It didn’t seem right. I lifted her out of the tub, dripping wet, and held her again with my clean hand while I one hand washed the other in the sink.
Juliet peed.
Perfect.
A few days later, Juliet’s diarrhea stopped. That’s about when mine started. I told Melissa.
“There’s no way you could have gotten any in your mouth, right?”
“Uh-oh.”
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
"Here Comes Sunshine"
It rained and rained. Juliet’s professional pictures got postponed and postponed.
“She’s getting chubby,” I said. “What if she’s going through an awkward phase for her pictures?”
“Chubby babies are cute,” Melissa said.
“She has fat rolls on her knee.”
“You have wrinkles,” Melissa said. “Around your eyes.”
“Da ba da ba ba ba,” Juliet said.
After months of waiting, the sun and the photographer finally made it out on the same day. Juliet had developed a little cantaloupe shaped belly, but she was still mode- cute. Her eyes blue, and huge. Her hair curling above her ears. Her lips full and pouty, like Melissa’s. Juliet is perfect. And I am wrinkled.
We put Juliet in a tie dye green dress and followed our photographer around Old City. We set Juliet down on the side walk by the orange National building, in front of the little pink bakery, and on the cobble stone in Elfriths Alley. Melissa and I made monkey noises to make Juliet smile. But for the first time in a long time, nothing we did made her smile.
I jumped up and down, made funny faces and howled like a coyote. A teenaged tourist told his father I was a “homo,” took a picture of me on his iPhone and put it on the internet. Juliet was not as amused as the tourist. She was hot. She looked tired and cranky. She was not herself. I’m not sure when it happened, but, at some point, Juliet developed a self.
We found a patch of grass in the shade. The photographer suggested we take off all of Juliet’s clothes to cool her off. As I stripped Juliet down to her diaper, the tourist and his father walked by a second time. I smiled as the boy took another picture, and hoped Juliet would finally do the same.
I put Juliet on the grass. She screamed and lifted her legs. Part of being Juliet, we learned, involved hating the feel of grass. Nobody smiled. We gave up on outdoor pictures, and we went home.
Home, everything changed. Juliet cooled down and warmed up. She laughed and babbled. She held up her pointer finger, declaring that she was number one. We all agreed. The photographer said she could be a model. I said I knew. Then I told Juliet that she was growing up so fast. She said, “da ba da da ba.”
Translation: “Daddy, you too.”
“She’s getting chubby,” I said. “What if she’s going through an awkward phase for her pictures?”
“Chubby babies are cute,” Melissa said.
“She has fat rolls on her knee.”
“You have wrinkles,” Melissa said. “Around your eyes.”
“Da ba da ba ba ba,” Juliet said.
After months of waiting, the sun and the photographer finally made it out on the same day. Juliet had developed a little cantaloupe shaped belly, but she was still mode- cute. Her eyes blue, and huge. Her hair curling above her ears. Her lips full and pouty, like Melissa’s. Juliet is perfect. And I am wrinkled.
We put Juliet in a tie dye green dress and followed our photographer around Old City. We set Juliet down on the side walk by the orange National building, in front of the little pink bakery, and on the cobble stone in Elfriths Alley. Melissa and I made monkey noises to make Juliet smile. But for the first time in a long time, nothing we did made her smile.
I jumped up and down, made funny faces and howled like a coyote. A teenaged tourist told his father I was a “homo,” took a picture of me on his iPhone and put it on the internet. Juliet was not as amused as the tourist. She was hot. She looked tired and cranky. She was not herself. I’m not sure when it happened, but, at some point, Juliet developed a self.
We found a patch of grass in the shade. The photographer suggested we take off all of Juliet’s clothes to cool her off. As I stripped Juliet down to her diaper, the tourist and his father walked by a second time. I smiled as the boy took another picture, and hoped Juliet would finally do the same.
I put Juliet on the grass. She screamed and lifted her legs. Part of being Juliet, we learned, involved hating the feel of grass. Nobody smiled. We gave up on outdoor pictures, and we went home.
Home, everything changed. Juliet cooled down and warmed up. She laughed and babbled. She held up her pointer finger, declaring that she was number one. We all agreed. The photographer said she could be a model. I said I knew. Then I told Juliet that she was growing up so fast. She said, “da ba da da ba.”
Translation: “Daddy, you too.”
Saturday, May 21, 2011
"Speeding to a Crawl"
It took forever, but Juliet knows me. She knows her nanny. And diaper changes, feedings and baths. She has always known her mommy. That was probably the first thing she knew. Lately, she’s learning about little things. It started when she found her feet.
Juliet plucks a hair from the carpet. Examines it like she’s doing a DNA analysis. It’s Mommy’s. In the mouth. Then, she blows raspberries.
Juliet touches the stubble on my face with her pointer finger. She adds the texture to the eight month old encyclopedia in her head. She’s building up a whole world in that little head. Our dry cleaning lady told me it was a big head.
Juliet and her big head are gonna crawl any second. She gets on her hands and knees and rocks, laughing. Teasing. She pushes with her hands and moves backwards. She finds a pillow, with tassles. She gets distracted. In the mouth!
More raspberries.
We cancelled professional pictures for the second time. Rain. We want to do them outside, at Elfreth’s Alley. Proof that Juliet grew up in the city, at least a little. Melissa can’t wait anymore. She wanted to do them inside, but the photographer wouldn’t do it. Said the pictures outside would be better. I’d been saying that all along. When the photographer said it, Melissa agreed. Melissa is afraid by the time we get a good picture, Juliet won’t be a baby anymore.
It’s going to happen any minute. She’ll crawl. She’ll walk. She’ll talk and she won’t be a baby anymore. And it’ll be too late.
“We’ll just have to have another one,” Melissa says.
“Three. Tops,” I say. “Right?”
“I want a million,” Melissa says.
Juliet blows raspberries. She pauses, and smiles. A million it is.
Juliet plucks a hair from the carpet. Examines it like she’s doing a DNA analysis. It’s Mommy’s. In the mouth. Then, she blows raspberries.
Juliet touches the stubble on my face with her pointer finger. She adds the texture to the eight month old encyclopedia in her head. She’s building up a whole world in that little head. Our dry cleaning lady told me it was a big head.
Juliet and her big head are gonna crawl any second. She gets on her hands and knees and rocks, laughing. Teasing. She pushes with her hands and moves backwards. She finds a pillow, with tassles. She gets distracted. In the mouth!
More raspberries.
We cancelled professional pictures for the second time. Rain. We want to do them outside, at Elfreth’s Alley. Proof that Juliet grew up in the city, at least a little. Melissa can’t wait anymore. She wanted to do them inside, but the photographer wouldn’t do it. Said the pictures outside would be better. I’d been saying that all along. When the photographer said it, Melissa agreed. Melissa is afraid by the time we get a good picture, Juliet won’t be a baby anymore.
It’s going to happen any minute. She’ll crawl. She’ll walk. She’ll talk and she won’t be a baby anymore. And it’ll be too late.
“We’ll just have to have another one,” Melissa says.
“Three. Tops,” I say. “Right?”
“I want a million,” Melissa says.
Juliet blows raspberries. She pauses, and smiles. A million it is.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
"All That, She Wants"
Juliet squeals. I open one eye and see that it’s still dark outside. I guess that it’s two or three in the morning. It’s not. It’s 5:30. Juliet wants to get up, and Juliet likes to get what she wants.
“Wife,” I say.
Melissa rolls over and moans. She usually leaps out of bed at Juliet’s first yelp. Most days, I don’t even hear either of them. I roll over and feel the empty space in bed. That’s how I know my ladies are awake. Not today. Today, it’s Daddy’s turn.
I fill the coffee maker with water and try to figure out how many scoops of coffee to add. Somewhere between multiplication and division, Juliet becomes apoplectic. She wants to get up. I want coffee. We can’t both win.
I’m in Juliet’s room. Juliet is sucking on her bottle like a savage, eying me with a furrowed brow. She’s furious that I took so long. She’s planning to hold it against me until she’s 18. I look to the corner of her changing table, where I would have put my coffee cup, if I had it.
I carry Juliet into the living room and put her on a blanket with some toys. I head back to the coffee maker. As soon as I’m out of sight, Juliet shrieks. She doesn’t want to be alone. I’m afraid if I keep giving in, I’ll make her a brat. And I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll hate me. If I don’t drink a cup of coffee, I’m afraid neither one of us will survive until sunrise.
I bring my mug over to the floor where Juliet is begrudgingly amusing herself, chewing on a book. She drops “Moo Baa La La La” and lunges for my coffee. She wants whatever I have, particularly if she’s not allowed. Even as I write the rough draft of this post, she’s grabbing for my pen. I don’t give it to her, and she cries. Real tears.
We wear Juliet in the Baby Bjorn even when it kills ours backs. We keep Melissa’s old Blackberry charged because Juliet wants a working cell phone. We let her chew on the camera, the remote control and our noses. Whatever she wants. We want her to like us. I’m afraid we’re creating a monster.
Juliet lunges for the pen again. She screams and I give it to her. She smiles, and drops it and cries. I sip my coffee. I don’t know what she wants. But she does. Everything. Until we give it to her.
“Wife,” I say.
Melissa rolls over and moans. She usually leaps out of bed at Juliet’s first yelp. Most days, I don’t even hear either of them. I roll over and feel the empty space in bed. That’s how I know my ladies are awake. Not today. Today, it’s Daddy’s turn.
I fill the coffee maker with water and try to figure out how many scoops of coffee to add. Somewhere between multiplication and division, Juliet becomes apoplectic. She wants to get up. I want coffee. We can’t both win.
I’m in Juliet’s room. Juliet is sucking on her bottle like a savage, eying me with a furrowed brow. She’s furious that I took so long. She’s planning to hold it against me until she’s 18. I look to the corner of her changing table, where I would have put my coffee cup, if I had it.
I carry Juliet into the living room and put her on a blanket with some toys. I head back to the coffee maker. As soon as I’m out of sight, Juliet shrieks. She doesn’t want to be alone. I’m afraid if I keep giving in, I’ll make her a brat. And I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll hate me. If I don’t drink a cup of coffee, I’m afraid neither one of us will survive until sunrise.
I bring my mug over to the floor where Juliet is begrudgingly amusing herself, chewing on a book. She drops “Moo Baa La La La” and lunges for my coffee. She wants whatever I have, particularly if she’s not allowed. Even as I write the rough draft of this post, she’s grabbing for my pen. I don’t give it to her, and she cries. Real tears.
We wear Juliet in the Baby Bjorn even when it kills ours backs. We keep Melissa’s old Blackberry charged because Juliet wants a working cell phone. We let her chew on the camera, the remote control and our noses. Whatever she wants. We want her to like us. I’m afraid we’re creating a monster.
Juliet lunges for the pen again. She screams and I give it to her. She smiles, and drops it and cries. I sip my coffee. I don’t know what she wants. But she does. Everything. Until we give it to her.
Monday, April 18, 2011
"Tell Me, Who Are You?"
Juliet will be seven months old tomorrow. We’re going to take a picture. She’ll hold a sign saying, “I am seven months old today.” I’ll hold one too. It will say, “So am I.”
We've eased into a schedule that seems to be sticking. Juliet gets up at six and goes to bed around seven. In between, she naps twice, eats five times and poops once. Sometimes, twice. That's her routine, and she runs like clockwork.
Everything else about her changes daily.
She’s not even a baby anymore. A baby is something else. Juliet has already learned to sit up and smile and mean it. She’s not a baby. She’s a person.
She loves sleeping on her side and the Baby Bjorn. Facing out, always. She likes to touch windows and mirrors. She doesn’t get either. I explained to her that a window is a wall that you put up when you don’t want a wall. I hope that she never figures out mirrors.
Juliet likes to rip paper, and crinkle grocery bags. She likes the sleeve off my Old City Coffee cup on Sunday mornings. She gnaws on it for hours, like a puppy. A lot of things she does are like a puppy. Yelping, for example.
The other day, Melissa fed Juliet baby peas. She took one bite and gagged. Melissa tried to give her another spoonful and she made an angry face.
“She learned to make an angry face,” Melissa said.
“She learned to be angry,” I said.
Loud, sudden noises infuriate her, even more than being hungry or tired. The thing she likes the least is being alone. She cries every time, even if it’s only for a few seconds. She wants us all of the time. Or our Nanny, who Juliet told me is the opposite of loud, sudden noises.
“I thought I was the opposite of loud, sudden noises,” I said.
“I thought I was,” Melissa said.
“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet said.
On our anniversary, Juliet stayed at my Mom’s house. Melissa and I had drinks at home, before dinner. Like we used to. W e had Irish Coffees with dessert. We didn’t use to do that, but we were celebrating. Not our anniversary. Just a night out. A night dressed up. A night to stay up past ten o’clock. A night of Juliet sleeping at my Mom’s house.
“You can call if you want,” I said during the walk home.
“I said I’m not going to call, and I’m not,” said Melissa. “Do you want to?”
I smile. We open our apartment door. We change out of our nice clothes, into the sweatpants that live on the floor, next to our bed. I don’t mean to, but I wander into Juliet’s room. I pick up violet, the talking dog, and I smell her.
“Where are you?” Melissa yells.
She walks into Juliet’s room and finds me, bent over Juliet’s crib, sniffing her sheets. I don’t explain. Melissa wads a sleep sack up to her nose and inhales it.
“Ahh,” she says.
“Ahh,” I say.
“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet says.
We are seven months old tomorrow. And we’re growing up fast.
We've eased into a schedule that seems to be sticking. Juliet gets up at six and goes to bed around seven. In between, she naps twice, eats five times and poops once. Sometimes, twice. That's her routine, and she runs like clockwork.
Everything else about her changes daily.
She’s not even a baby anymore. A baby is something else. Juliet has already learned to sit up and smile and mean it. She’s not a baby. She’s a person.
She loves sleeping on her side and the Baby Bjorn. Facing out, always. She likes to touch windows and mirrors. She doesn’t get either. I explained to her that a window is a wall that you put up when you don’t want a wall. I hope that she never figures out mirrors.
Juliet likes to rip paper, and crinkle grocery bags. She likes the sleeve off my Old City Coffee cup on Sunday mornings. She gnaws on it for hours, like a puppy. A lot of things she does are like a puppy. Yelping, for example.
The other day, Melissa fed Juliet baby peas. She took one bite and gagged. Melissa tried to give her another spoonful and she made an angry face.
“She learned to make an angry face,” Melissa said.
“She learned to be angry,” I said.
Loud, sudden noises infuriate her, even more than being hungry or tired. The thing she likes the least is being alone. She cries every time, even if it’s only for a few seconds. She wants us all of the time. Or our Nanny, who Juliet told me is the opposite of loud, sudden noises.
“I thought I was the opposite of loud, sudden noises,” I said.
“I thought I was,” Melissa said.
“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet said.
On our anniversary, Juliet stayed at my Mom’s house. Melissa and I had drinks at home, before dinner. Like we used to. W e had Irish Coffees with dessert. We didn’t use to do that, but we were celebrating. Not our anniversary. Just a night out. A night dressed up. A night to stay up past ten o’clock. A night of Juliet sleeping at my Mom’s house.
“You can call if you want,” I said during the walk home.
“I said I’m not going to call, and I’m not,” said Melissa. “Do you want to?”
I smile. We open our apartment door. We change out of our nice clothes, into the sweatpants that live on the floor, next to our bed. I don’t mean to, but I wander into Juliet’s room. I pick up violet, the talking dog, and I smell her.
“Where are you?” Melissa yells.
She walks into Juliet’s room and finds me, bent over Juliet’s crib, sniffing her sheets. I don’t explain. Melissa wads a sleep sack up to her nose and inhales it.
“Ahh,” she says.
“Ahh,” I say.
“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet says.
We are seven months old tomorrow. And we’re growing up fast.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
"It Sucks Being a Mom"
The other moms were impressed when Melissa told them I said that. They thought I got it.
But I didn’t get it.
I didn’t get it when Melissa cried about going back to work three days a week. I didn’t get it when she wanted to drive around Cherry Hill looking for my Mom and Juliet when they were only 15 minutes late coming home from a walk. And I didn’t get it when I wasn’t allowed to say the real number of minutes before she started to panic.
Being a mom is different than being a dad. It’s harder.
The other night, I got a glimpse. Melissa was out. Juliet was crying, refusing to eat. When Melissa fed her, Juliet grabbed the spoon and plunged it into her mouth. Fist deep. With her other hand, she shoveled back the overflow of oatmeal lava running down her chin. She licked her lips and the bowl and Melissa’s nose. That’s how she gives kisses. For me, she cried.
I tried the bath. She laughs the best there. She likes when you use the rubber duckie to spray water in her eyes. She likes eating the bath book, or the washcloth. That night, she didn’t like anything. She didn’t like me. She only liked crying.
She stopped when the power went out.
Silence. Darkness. And the fear that it was only me and Juliet. No mommy to save us. Not even electricity to give us a fighting chance of surviving until she came home. My first thought was that disaster was imminent. My second thought was that my first one should have been to pull my daughter out of the tub.
I held her against me, my t shirt getting as wet as Juliet. We dripped quietly in the dark. Juliet giggled.
I worked my way through Juliet’s room using with my big toe like a blind-guy cane. With my free hand, I gathered her towel, pajamas, diaper and wipes. I felt around for the tube of butt cream and picked it up with my mouth.
I laid the whole mess on the living room floor carpet. I changed Juliet in the light from the moon, stars and Ben Franklin Bridge. She was quiet as I fumbled with the tiny buttons on her pajamas. She got it. She empathized.
Juliet was clean, dressed for bed. Happy. Melissa was going to be impressed with this. I hadn't even called her. Juliet sensed my confidence growing, and resumed the fit she had been having before we went unvoluntarily of the grid. I bounced her and rubbed her back. Her tears dribbled onto my cheek.
Several thoughts too late, again, I realized she was hungry. The formula was in the kitchen. The kitchen was in the dark.
I calculated each step to the kitchen, sliding more than stepping. I felt the toaster on the counter, I thought. I felt around for the formula. Juliet wailed. It was hopeless.
I reached high in a cabinet where we had stashed the Shabbat candlesticks that my Mom had bought us when we moved into the apartment. They were on the top shelf, pushed to the back, next to a box of candles and long matches. The whole shebang. I lit the candles.
It was enough light to read the directions on the formula, and to measure it out. Juliet stopped crying when she saw the bottle shaking. She panted and reached for it with both hands.
On the couch, with the lights from outside to my right and the candles to my left, I could see Juliet’s mouth open wide before the nipple was even close to it. She ate angrily. But by the time Juliet had almost finished her bottle, her brow had unfurrowed. Her eyelids had drooped, and her hand had fallen off the bottle and dangled over my elbow.
I carefully carried the candles and Juliet to her room. Juliet didn’t flinch when I laid her in her crib. The candlelights danced in the dark. I exhaled for the first time in hours.
The power returned a coupe of minutes later. I looked at the microwave clock. It had been only twenty minutes. All of them had been as petrifying as the first one. The one where I realized that my baby was in a tub in the dark, and I hadn't done anything about it yet.
Maybe I had experienced twenty minutes of being a mom. Twenty minutes of feeling like every decision was critical. Twenty minutes of wishing I could know, for a second, that everything was fine.
Twenty minutes of finally understanding why Melissa could barely wait fifteen before sounding the alarms and sending out the search party.
And still not really getting it.
But I didn’t get it.
I didn’t get it when Melissa cried about going back to work three days a week. I didn’t get it when she wanted to drive around Cherry Hill looking for my Mom and Juliet when they were only 15 minutes late coming home from a walk. And I didn’t get it when I wasn’t allowed to say the real number of minutes before she started to panic.
Being a mom is different than being a dad. It’s harder.
The other night, I got a glimpse. Melissa was out. Juliet was crying, refusing to eat. When Melissa fed her, Juliet grabbed the spoon and plunged it into her mouth. Fist deep. With her other hand, she shoveled back the overflow of oatmeal lava running down her chin. She licked her lips and the bowl and Melissa’s nose. That’s how she gives kisses. For me, she cried.
I tried the bath. She laughs the best there. She likes when you use the rubber duckie to spray water in her eyes. She likes eating the bath book, or the washcloth. That night, she didn’t like anything. She didn’t like me. She only liked crying.
She stopped when the power went out.
Silence. Darkness. And the fear that it was only me and Juliet. No mommy to save us. Not even electricity to give us a fighting chance of surviving until she came home. My first thought was that disaster was imminent. My second thought was that my first one should have been to pull my daughter out of the tub.
I held her against me, my t shirt getting as wet as Juliet. We dripped quietly in the dark. Juliet giggled.
I worked my way through Juliet’s room using with my big toe like a blind-guy cane. With my free hand, I gathered her towel, pajamas, diaper and wipes. I felt around for the tube of butt cream and picked it up with my mouth.
I laid the whole mess on the living room floor carpet. I changed Juliet in the light from the moon, stars and Ben Franklin Bridge. She was quiet as I fumbled with the tiny buttons on her pajamas. She got it. She empathized.
Juliet was clean, dressed for bed. Happy. Melissa was going to be impressed with this. I hadn't even called her. Juliet sensed my confidence growing, and resumed the fit she had been having before we went unvoluntarily of the grid. I bounced her and rubbed her back. Her tears dribbled onto my cheek.
Several thoughts too late, again, I realized she was hungry. The formula was in the kitchen. The kitchen was in the dark.
I calculated each step to the kitchen, sliding more than stepping. I felt the toaster on the counter, I thought. I felt around for the formula. Juliet wailed. It was hopeless.
I reached high in a cabinet where we had stashed the Shabbat candlesticks that my Mom had bought us when we moved into the apartment. They were on the top shelf, pushed to the back, next to a box of candles and long matches. The whole shebang. I lit the candles.
It was enough light to read the directions on the formula, and to measure it out. Juliet stopped crying when she saw the bottle shaking. She panted and reached for it with both hands.
On the couch, with the lights from outside to my right and the candles to my left, I could see Juliet’s mouth open wide before the nipple was even close to it. She ate angrily. But by the time Juliet had almost finished her bottle, her brow had unfurrowed. Her eyelids had drooped, and her hand had fallen off the bottle and dangled over my elbow.
I carefully carried the candles and Juliet to her room. Juliet didn’t flinch when I laid her in her crib. The candlelights danced in the dark. I exhaled for the first time in hours.
The power returned a coupe of minutes later. I looked at the microwave clock. It had been only twenty minutes. All of them had been as petrifying as the first one. The one where I realized that my baby was in a tub in the dark, and I hadn't done anything about it yet.
Maybe I had experienced twenty minutes of being a mom. Twenty minutes of feeling like every decision was critical. Twenty minutes of wishing I could know, for a second, that everything was fine.
Twenty minutes of finally understanding why Melissa could barely wait fifteen before sounding the alarms and sending out the search party.
And still not really getting it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
"Leaving"
In the beginning, I acted like leaving for work was hard. Like I was upset about missing Juliet’s daily developments. I wasn’t. I was happy to escape the crying and the constant liquid shit explosions that necessitated load after load of wash. I wasn’t leaving. I was running away.
Things are different now. Juliet knows me. She smiles for me. Sometimes, she reaches for me. Leaving her every morning is the worst part of my day.
I can’t imagine what it will be like for Melissa. She goes back to work in a week. She’s been here every day since Juliet was born. Juliet smiles bigger for Melissa than for anyone. Melissa is going to cry. Juliet too.
We got a great nanny. We’ve had her in for a few test runs. She leaves notes that say, “Juliet loved singing ‘If You’re Happy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands.” She reads Juliet the Bunny Kisses book, and she has pictures of Juliet in her phone. Her friend told us last Saturday when they came to babysit.
Somehow, from among the not so stiff nanny competition in the greater Philadelphia area, Melissa had found two great candidates: our nanny and Marcy. When I first met Marcy, I had said that I could immediately see her as part of our family. She’d had that profound an effect on me.
Marcy had previously worked for two families. The first had a toddler and a ten year old, an incredible but rewarding challenge, Marcy had said. The second had twin baby boys. Marcy stayed with them for two years before moving to Berkley. The twin’s father passed away, and Marcy came back to help the mom. They’re still very close, she had explained, sitting at our dining room table, holding Juliet in her arms. Everyone smiling.
Our nanny’s references raved about her. They said to hire her before someone else did. But we didn’t. We risked losing our nanny so that we could check Marcy’s references.
Marcy’s references weren’t as enthusiastic as our nanny’s. The twin’s mother turned out to be Marcy’s sister. Melissa found her on Facebook. Marcy’s sister didn’t have any kids. She’s never been married. Her husband didn’t die.
Marcy’s other reference turned out to be the number to PYT, a burger place in Northern Liberties. The manager there was supposed to lie and tell us that Marcy was a great nanny. But under the pressure of Melissa’s cross examination, he admitted that he had no kids, but felt terrible about having to fire Marcy for being perpetually late. He’d said he’d do whatever he could to help her get another job. Melissa hates lateness, even more than she hates liars.
Marcy didn’t get the job. She isn’t returning messages.
We had been ready to trust her with our daughter, to do what we would do, if we were doing it. It was the biggest mistake either of us had ever almost made. But now we know, when it comes to our daughter, we have to be paranoid. Ever worried. Expecting the worst, waiting by the phone, listening for the garage door. We have to be what we’d said we never would. We have to be our parents. And the irony is that it was Marcy, not our parents, who taught us that.
Things are different now. Juliet knows me. She smiles for me. Sometimes, she reaches for me. Leaving her every morning is the worst part of my day.
I can’t imagine what it will be like for Melissa. She goes back to work in a week. She’s been here every day since Juliet was born. Juliet smiles bigger for Melissa than for anyone. Melissa is going to cry. Juliet too.
We got a great nanny. We’ve had her in for a few test runs. She leaves notes that say, “Juliet loved singing ‘If You’re Happy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands.” She reads Juliet the Bunny Kisses book, and she has pictures of Juliet in her phone. Her friend told us last Saturday when they came to babysit.
Somehow, from among the not so stiff nanny competition in the greater Philadelphia area, Melissa had found two great candidates: our nanny and Marcy. When I first met Marcy, I had said that I could immediately see her as part of our family. She’d had that profound an effect on me.
Marcy had previously worked for two families. The first had a toddler and a ten year old, an incredible but rewarding challenge, Marcy had said. The second had twin baby boys. Marcy stayed with them for two years before moving to Berkley. The twin’s father passed away, and Marcy came back to help the mom. They’re still very close, she had explained, sitting at our dining room table, holding Juliet in her arms. Everyone smiling.
Our nanny’s references raved about her. They said to hire her before someone else did. But we didn’t. We risked losing our nanny so that we could check Marcy’s references.
Marcy’s references weren’t as enthusiastic as our nanny’s. The twin’s mother turned out to be Marcy’s sister. Melissa found her on Facebook. Marcy’s sister didn’t have any kids. She’s never been married. Her husband didn’t die.
Marcy’s other reference turned out to be the number to PYT, a burger place in Northern Liberties. The manager there was supposed to lie and tell us that Marcy was a great nanny. But under the pressure of Melissa’s cross examination, he admitted that he had no kids, but felt terrible about having to fire Marcy for being perpetually late. He’d said he’d do whatever he could to help her get another job. Melissa hates lateness, even more than she hates liars.
Marcy didn’t get the job. She isn’t returning messages.
We had been ready to trust her with our daughter, to do what we would do, if we were doing it. It was the biggest mistake either of us had ever almost made. But now we know, when it comes to our daughter, we have to be paranoid. Ever worried. Expecting the worst, waiting by the phone, listening for the garage door. We have to be what we’d said we never would. We have to be our parents. And the irony is that it was Marcy, not our parents, who taught us that.
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