Monthly Archives: August 2010

Posted inEmotional Growth

The Girl Who Cried “Help!”

By Comments:5 Comments

Four-letter words flow easily off of my tongue, but one four-letter word eludes me. It always sticks in my throat, rendering me a stuttering fool, kind of like Fonzie when he tries to say “I was wr-wr-wron-wrong.” Though not really an obscenity, it always struck me as one. My personal four-letter hurdle is “h-h-hell-help.”

Asking for help has always been the hardest thing for me to do. I never learned how, and now all of my stubborn refusal has bitten me on the ass.

Growing up, my family never asked anyone for help with anything. We always considered ourselves completely self-sufficient. When we went on vacation, we had the Post Office hold our mail rather than inform our neighbors and ask them to pick it up. If we needed to go to the airport, we’d drive and pay for 10 days’ parking rather than ask someone for a ride. If our air conditioner broke, we’d wait a week for a repairman even though our next-door neighbor was a willing a/c technician. In short, no one was allowed into the inner workings of our family, and we had to keep this wall up during every moment of possible vulnerability.

Even within my family, the message was clear that we were not to ask for help. Kids need help with lots of stuff – homework, problems at school, colds and flu. Because education reigned supreme in my father’s mind, it was ok to ask for homework help. But it soon became apparent that new math and my father’s slide-rule engineering degree proved incongruent. Since he went to college, my dad was the go-to-guy for homework, but my mom read books, so I went to her for English help. But when a sixth-grade crossword puzzle produced an impasse (5-letter word for “tired” ending in “y”) that couldn’t be solved until school the next day and affected my grade (“weary”), I stopped turning to Mom for help with English. Then I made the mistake of asking my dad for help with a paper, and I got a big red slash for using the phrase “the reason being” – his signature phrase, his edit. So I was on my own with homework.

When I was nine years old, one of the neighborhood girls, my friend up until the day before, decided she hated me. To this day, I don’t know why. She was popular in the neighborhood and got all of the neighborhood kids to join her in bullying me. So people would bump into me with their sleds, harass me at the bus stop, make fun of my weight, my clothes, the bag I brought to school – they pulled out all of the typical torture stops. The girl was taking piano lessons from my mom at the time. I told my mom about her intimidation campaign. My mom listened, but she said, “I just don’t see it. She’s so nice when she comes for lessons.” Once I interrupted her lesson and she said “Hi Maria,” like she didn’t hate my guts, and that nailed it for my mother. My mom didn’t know why I made up the story, but she didn’t believe it. So that was the last time I asked her for help in social matters.

And then there were colds and boo-boos. When I was little and I got a boo-boo, my mom came through with the healing kiss, time and again. But that was the alpha and omega of her nurturing skills. If I got a cold, or God forbid, nausea, blame always took precedence over recovery. “It’s because you went out with a wet head yesterday!” she’d scold, or, as I stood over the commode, anticipating the imminent upchuck, she’d grill me, “Well, what did you eat? What did you have for breakfast? What about lunch? Didn’t I see you with some ice cream this afternoon? Milk turns to cheese in your stomach, you know!” Thinking about food sped up the process and I could never answer those questions, even when they continued after I’d flushed. And then she’d give me the appropriate medication and I’d spend the rest of the day in bed, awakened for intermittent temperature checks. Nobody sat with me, or stroked my head or read to me. I just laid there, thankful I didn’t have to hear about all the ways I’d brought this upon myself.

So I stopped asking for help. From anyone. The only exception to this rule kicked in when I got laid off or found myself in otherwise dire financial straits. I hated to ask my father for anything, but he’d consistently provided money throughout my life, and I knew he had plenty and would don a miniskirt and vote Democrat before he spent a penny, so I figured it was my due. And he came through. He complained every step of the way about “subsidizing” me, like I was ethanol, but he did write those checks. I used to explain that he was just investing in Maria futures on the commodities market, and he’d reap the benefits when my value skyrocketed. I stopped asking a long time ago, but so far, he’s received zero return on his initial investment.

But I never asked anyone for help with anything else. People sometimes offered, and I sometimes accepted, and I felt ok about it. I always did something to pay them back – pizza and beer for helping me move, gifts for bartending at a party – because I thought it was incredibly generous of them to offer. I never understood that this is what people do.

Mostly I did stuff myself. When my car was out of commission, I didn’t ask for rides, I took cabs. When Rose was born, terrified of making a fatal parenting mistake, we hired a doula. (Hiring is different than asking and doesn’t count as seeking help.) And when I was sick or had a sprained ankle and needed something around the house, I’d get up and get it. Matt would ask me why I didn’t ask him to get it. The truth was that it never occurred to me. I never asked Matt to help me with anything, until I got really bad morning sickness, and then I asked him to carry my laundry down to the washer, but I’d go down and put the load in myself.

Over the course of pregnancy and motherhood, I realized that sometimes I did need help. And sometimes I’d ask, but I’d been the strong, silent type for so long, that I experienced a kind of reverse “Boy Who Cried Wolf” effect. Because they’d never heard me ask for help and I wasn’t very good at doing it, no one took my requests seriously. A couple of weeks ago, while extremely pregnant, I needed help with day-to-day activities but instead of sending a sincere request for help, I posted it on Facebook followed by a punchline. So no one responded, except to say they liked the joke.

So when I had the first preeclampsia scare; when the doctors said to stay in bed and count kicks; I did, but then I got up and had dinner and cleared the table. And when it happened again this past week, I spent all day in bed with a headache, nausea, cramps and sciatica while my in-laws sat in the living room wondering why I was being so “bitchy.” Matt even said they’d talk about me when they got home. I was too sick to care, and besides, it’s inevitable they talk about Matt’s Yankee wife sometime. (“Well she IS from New York, bless her heart. What do y’all expect? Manners and sweet tea?”) When the sick feeling wouldn’t go away by evening, I called the doctor and she sent us to the hospital for monitoring. It was kind of nice. They told me I was having contractions so that made me feel a little more legitimate, and it was the first time Matt and I were alone all week. After a few hours, they said I was ok and let us go home. Now, I thought, now they’ll finally let me lie down.

But the next day it was the same thing. Everyone expected me to take care of them, and when I went to lie down, they’d let Rose come in and jump on the bed, and I’d have to protect myself from her belly flops. (Her flops, my belly.) I had a doctor appointment that afternoon, but that doctor was delivering a baby at the hospital so they approached me in the waiting room and told me to go to Labor and Delivery. Matt, who’d taken Rose to the dentist, picked me up, and again, we headed to the hospital. Rose couldn’t believe her luck – she’d never been allowed to accompany us there before. When we got there, they hooked me up to monitors again and we waited and waited. While I fought back tears from my blinding headache, Matt complained about the cost of this visit, how long we’d waited, and then the pain from a head butt Rose had inflicted.

The doctor finally showed up and again, I was ok. She told me to take it easy. I guess this was finally enough for Matt. He cared for his family for the next two days and then drove them to the airport when I asked him to take the ride in my place. We got a babysitter for Rose and I rested. I saw my doctor that day and she thought it was overwork, not preeclampsia, that put me in the hospital. And then she suggested bed rest, if it was feasible. I said I’d find a way. We got childcare for Rose for the rest of the week, and I’ve been resting. I’m typically only able to maintain about 30 minutes of verticality before I must lie down again. I’m not sure if I was this tired before and I just pushed myself or if it’s a cumulative exhaustion, but I must say I’m enjoying it. And my family is finally taking my requests for help seriously.

Posted inBook Excerpt

Book Excerpt: The Stick Game

By Comments:6 Comments

That’s it! The gold glow rising from the green depths – my quarry. I hold my nose and jump in. I hear two more splashes behind me, but I’m the first one down. Where is it? All I can see is green. Oh, wait, there it is! I reach out, feel its smooth wood. Got it! Clutching it like the Olympic torch, my fist breaks the surface before I do, but everyone sees. I got the stick!

I swim around to the ladder, climb up on the dock, dripping on the turf rug, and we start again. This time I get to take it down. Hmm, dive or pin drop? Pin drops take you deeper. Standing at the edge of the dock, facing the beach, I hold the stick in one hand, plaster my hands to my thighs for optimum aquadynamics, and drop, pointing my toes straight down. I feel the bubbles around me and when the water feels coldest, I let go. I float up and hang on the dock, looking up at the row of expectant faces. I pull myself to the ladder and climb up. It’s my turn to watch.

Donna’s whole body twitches. She spots it, dives; a few more kids jump after her, and she’s got it. Donna’s the best swimmer in our lake. She always beat me when we raced on Family Day, and I always admired how strong and swift she was in the water. The lake goes right up to her backyard, so she swims all the time, without a lifeguard. We live across the street from the lake. My mom always tells my dad we should have gotten a house on the lake, and he says “Oh, Viki, please, you know how expensive that would be?” and waves her away.

Everyone goes to the beach anyway. We walk down the road in our flip-flops, rolling my big inner tube in front of us, past Donna’s house, past Karen’s, past the people who live next to the beach but never go. We see the whole neighborhood there, grownups and all. Donna and her sisters, Cynthia, Rob, Alison, Dan. Cathi and I get there and we wade to our knees and then jump into the cold. But it’s not cold for long, and with the sun warming our faces, it always feels good to be in the water. When my cousins visit and we take them down here, they blow air out their noses and say the lake smells. It does. It smells like lake. Green, cool, and wet. We like it.

And then we swim out to the dock and play The Stick Game. We use an ice cream stick or an Italian Ice spoon, someone takes it down, and we go after it. Whoever gets it takes it down next. We play all day, or until we hear the bells.

“Jing Jing! Jing Jing!” Everyone runs for the edge, the front of the dock dips almost to the water but then everyone dives in and heads toward the beach. White wakes can’t catch up with us as we race for shore. We ransack our pockets or beg our parents and run up the ramp to wait outside the white truck on the sizzling pavement. We’re pretty cool from swimming but sometimes someone will order a Bomb Pop, Fun Dip, Bottle Caps, a Snow Cone and a Chocolate Éclair and the water under our feet will get hot, burn off and then we all jump from foot to foot, waiting for our Toasted Almond or Strawberry Shortcake and candy.

One by one, we walk down the paved sandy ramp, hands clutching bundles of ice cream and candy, we sit on our towels to eat. No one swims while the ice cream man visits or for a half hour after, because we’ll get cramps and drown. That’s when the moms put their babies in the water, in front of the yellow rope with the blue and white floats. Sometimes the grownups swim then. My dad swims across the lake and back. But we all sit on the beach, in twos and threes, licking orange push ups until we see that plastic Fred Flintstone or Yogi Bear or bite the chocolate off Nutty Buddies as we drip dry.

When our ice cream’s gone, we open our candy. Candy doesn’t count toward our half hour out of the water, so we eat while we wait. I have a purple ring pop and Cathi’s got giant Sweet tarts – the chewy kind. Chews

“What days are you going to the fair?”

“I think Thursday and Saturday. My dad wants to go to the movies on Friday.”

“We’re going Saturday too. Maybe you can come with us.”

“I’ll ask.”

At the fair, it’ll be me and Cathi or me and Alison, Rob will walk around with his friends, Cynthia with the stuck-up pretty girls, Donna and Corinne with their sisters. Same thing at school, except for Donna and Corinne. They’re in different grades, so they split up at school.

Then our half hour’s over. One by one, two by two, we throw our trash in the can and head straight for the water. When we get to the dock, Rob says he had a cherry Italian Ice, so we’ve got a new stick, stained pink. Spoons are the best sticks — fat and easiest to see. It’s his stick, so he dives off the dock and takes it down.

Posted inEmotional Growth • Parenting

Hitting the “Pause” Button

By Comments:2 Comments

And I could have done so many things, baby
If I could only stop my mind from wondrin’ what
I left behind and from worrying ’bout this wasted time

“Wasted Time” — Don Henley and Glenn Frey

Ah, if I could only stop my mind.

I know I’m not the only one who’s wished to stop my mind. Thinking, worrying, fretting – it’s so natural yet so counterproductive.

Almost since conception, this pregnancy’s necessitated a daily nap, just to survive the day. This nap must coincide with Rose’s afternoon nap, just after the babysitter drops her off. Rose typically sleeps for two hours. I’m grateful for her nap for many reasons, but mostly because it takes me up to an hour and a half to fall asleep, if at all. So I need two hours to take a half-hour nap. I always thought it was funny when magazines urged working people to “close the door to your office and take a ‘power nap’ for 20 minutes.” That would be impossible for me, and further, they tout this strategy as a stress buster. I find it hard to believe that someone who’s that stressed out could fall asleep in 20 minutes. But boy, more power to ‘em.

I’ve always wanted to have narcolepsy, like my dad. The idea of sleeping anytime, anywhere sounds so appealing to me. Yeah, it’s a little inconvenient to fall asleep at the dinner table, but think of all those z’s they get! Imagine sleeping on planes, trains and automobiles! Imagine falling asleep without any effort!

Sleep is not my lot in life. I’m still learning how to do it. A friend of mine told me how she’d stroked her babies’ ears as they dozed off. Her grown children still stroke their ears as they fall asleep. “You’ve got to give them something,” she said, “Otherwise, how will they learn to sleep?”

My parents didn’t know that trick, but I made it a top priority when Rose was a baby. I stroked her bangs and forehead, a gentle physical suggestion to close her eyes. It worked. We always know she’s ready to sleep when she starts playing with her hair.

But I had to learn the hard way. And needing a daily nap has taught me a lot. Sometimes it’s harder to stop my mind during the day than at night, when exhaustion can overrule an active mind. So right before my nap, I execute a brain dump. I try to capture every item swirling through my brain and neatly organize it on my smart phone or computer. Sometimes I have a to do list, a shopping list and a story idea in my head, and maybe something to tell my husband, so I create appointments and tasks so I’ll have reminders for the to do, record the shopping list separately, and add the story idea to another list. Then I’ll email my husband with the question or nag, send it, and I’m much more relaxed. But sometimes the juices flow too forcefully to stop there, so I always fall asleep with a familiar, comforting, TV show playing. Since they stopped running “The Golden Girls” during naptime, I’ve been using my “Northern Exposure” DVDs in the afternoon and “Cheers” at night. For some, the TV is too much stimulation, but for me, the television gives me something mindless and relaxing to focus on and helps to get me out of my head. If that doesn’t work, I turn on the fan for the white noise. And I’ve made many a last-ditch effort work by telling myself I would just lie there and whatever happened, happened.

But it’s been a bit more difficult since I’ve become a full-time writer. When I had a day job, I could mindlessly complete it, sign off and use all of the methods I mentioned to fall asleep. But once I focused solely on my business, I had a lot more to think about. What’s more, I care about my business much more than was necessary with my day job.

Rose is going through this TV addiction phase. God, I hope it’s a phase. She’s always watched TV while waiting for the babysitter, because I had to work. She might watch too much TV for her age, but when she first recited the alphabet to us at 18 months, Matt asked where she’d learned it. Rose said “From Elmo.” Now she’s learning to recognize letters from “Super Why.” Enough defending my parenting. I brought it up because sometimes “Sid the Science Kid” is so engrossing that she’ll refuse to get dressed in the morning. So I learned to put the TV on “pause,” explain to her that she won’t miss anything, and we can go get dressed. And she’s cool with that.

So now when I need to nap I take a cue from Rose’s TV strategy. If business ideas and “to dos” and whatnot won’t shut off as I’m lying down, I tell myself that it’s the middle of the day, and nothing will be lost. Everything is just on “pause.” I can choose to work on it later, or not. But I won’t forget it and I do not need to think about it now.

“Pause” works for other things too. My best friend’s in the midst of a family crisis right now. But she’s at a turning point in her life and wants to decide which way to go. Thing is, she’s got enough swirling around her head without worrying about where to go from here. So I told her to hit the “pause” button. She must focus on the crisis at hand, and when the stress abates, she’ll be able to think about her own big picture.

But as I give advice, I realize that I must take it as well. I need to hit the “pause” button every once in a while. Yesterday I’d planned on not working and doing something fun. It was the day after we threw a big party and I knew I’d be exhausted. But I had work to do, so I wound up working anyway. I laid down at 12:00, thinking I’d shower and pick up Rose at 12:30. I opened my eyes at 1:08. Groggy, I picked Rose up and we came home and, after some resistance, she napped so I could sleep again. We slept for four and a half hours yesterday. When I awoke, I was still concerned about completing this blog and the rest of my work, but I realized I had just needed the pause.

This morning I went back to work and completed my big project, then set out to write this post. I realized that without yesterday’s pause, I’d have had no conclusion. Now I do. So I must take those necessary pauses seriously, especially as I get closer and closer to giving birth. As the big day nears, my energy’s waning but my ambition’s not. I keep trying to convince myself that I’ll go back to work right away, because there are so many things I need to do, but I may just have to put everything on pause for a little while, and if I do, I have to accept that that’s ok too.

Posted inEmotional Growth

Birthday Break

By Comments:

Today is my birthday, and we hosted a big party. I spent all day working on the party. I had intended to finish the post I started for today, but failed. I apologize. But I’d really like to share the things that this year brought me with all of you. I’ve mentioned gratitude lists in this space and this is my birthday list for this year. I will post a full entry tomorrow. Thanks for understanding. This year, I’m most grateful:

For this pregnancy. Matt was right. We stopped trying and it happened. Thank you, God and very funny.

For my first birthday call ever from the woman who gave birth to me.

For a great experience at my first real conference and the three chances I’ll get at selling a book this year.

For the strange serendipity of losing my day job, which facilitated the pursuit of my dream job, 16 years late but better than never.

To Matt and Eric for building the fence, so I no longer stress out when Rose plays in the backyard.

And finally, to all the people who read this blog. I’m picking up readers every month and I’m no marketing genius, so that’s all thanks to you. I can’t express how much it means to know you’re out there and you never fail to motivate me. Thanks so much, everyone!

Posted inmarriage

If I Only Had the Stones

By Comments:2 Comments

First, let me apologize to my male readers. I had started another topic, then I got angry at my husband and wrote this to soothe myself. In it, I make some generalizations about your gender that may not apply to everyone, but certainly seem to describe the vast majority. I invite you to post any and all angry comments and I will attempt to respond, but, in my defense, let me just say that in my advanced gestational state, without the aid of alcohol, mood stabilizers or daily doses of “The Golden Girls,” I have very few comforts available to me and writing is the most effective. Screaming works too, but I don’t want to explain that to the cops again. In any case, the following is the fruit of my fury.

I’m getting a sex change. Nothing physical — I just want to adopt a masculine attitude. I’m picturing one of those bad sci-fi scenes where two subjects sit in giant inverted test tubes wearing silver yarmulkes, connected by lots of wiring. Mad scientist pulls the big switch, and I start acting like a guy.

Six years of relationship and three years of marriage have taught me a lot about men. No matter where I fall on the learning curve, the fact that men rule the world continues to baffle me. The only explanation I can surmise is that women have the babies, and pregnancy floored us long enough over the millennia for the men to initiate a hostile takeover.

One conclusion I’ve been able to draw is that men’s rise to the top was not about competence. It was about attitude. For example, a man can miss the deadline for garbage pickup three weeks in a row, then, the fourth week, when he manages to haul the miniature landfill out to the curb as the truck rolls toward his driveway, pat himself on the back saying, “Great! I made it just in time!” Whereas a woman who’s missed one pickup will say, “Dammit, I can’t believe I missed it! Tuesday’s always been garbage day. What the hell is wrong with me?”

The day before yesterday, I took my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter to Walmart. I had planned to take her to a kids’ coffee shop beforehand, so I could work and she could play, but when we got there, the place was closed. I’d promised her play, so I knew she wouldn’t adapt to a change in plans very well, but Walmart was a block away and the nearest play place was miles in the other direction, so I told her we’d play later but we had to shop first. “Kidz ‘n’ Coffee!! Kidz ‘n’ Coffee!!” she whined, as I reiterated that it was closed and there’s nothing I can do to change that. In retrospect, to make life easier on myself I should have bitten the bullet, taken her to play and then backtracked and shopped later, but practicality is one of my strongest drivers, and the thought of all that wasted schlepping drove me directly to Walmart.

We got to the store’s door and Rose pointed to the stand-up carts. “I want that one! I want that car cart!” I told her no. “Why?” she asked.

“Because last time you couldn’t handle it and I had to put you inside the cart. You’re just not grown up enough for that cart.”

“YES I AAAAM!” I dragged her into the store, strapped her in a regular cart as she continued her protest and started up the aisle. I grabbed a bag of potato chips. “I want those chips!” she whined, pointing to another bag.

“Honey, Mommy’s buying these chips to try them. We’ll get those chips at Costco next week.” We headed to the kids’ department for some sippy cups.

“DORA!” she cried as we passed a Dora the Explorer backpack. “DORA!” she cried as we passed a Dora the Explorer T-Shirt. “DORA!” she cried as we passed the Dora the Explorer pajamas. “Wouldn’t it be sweet if I could sleep in Dora jammies?”

“Honey, Grandma’s coming to visit soon and you know how she likes to buy you things. Let’s leave some stuff in the store so she can buy them when she comes. Besides, we’re here to get you more sippy cups.”

“I want Vana’s cuppies!” she said, pointing at a pink cup she’d seen her friend use.

“You have two of those at home, and we came for more straw cups.”

“I want princess cuppies!” she cried. I grabbed the straw cups and headed up the shoe aisle. “I want those! I want those! I want those!” she pointed, as we made our way up the aisle.

“Ok, let’s pick one and we’ll buy it,” I said, having intended to buy shoes in the first place. “Do you like these, these or these?”

“The purple ones!” she yelled.

“Ok. Mommy will buy them.” She began to undo her sandals.

“I want to wear them!” Sigh. Of course she did.

“Ok, Honey, you can wear them in the store, but when we check out, you have to take them off so we can pay for them.”

“Put them on!!” From shoes, we headed to toys. (How stupid am I?) But we needed a bubble machine for next week’s party and that’s where we’d find it. Only we didn’t. I wheeled her all around the toy department – always a minefield of desire – and, frustrated at the absence of bubble machines, lost patience with the constant “I wants.” I took a desperate stab.

“Ok, Honey, you know what? Grandma’s going to want to buy this stuff for you when she comes, so let’s make a list for her. Everything you see that you want, we’ll put on the list and this way when Grandma comes, she’ll know what to buy you.”

“Ok, Mommy.” Hallelujah. How can people not believe in God?

So that’s what we did. She named stuff, I’d say, “It’s on the list,” and she’d say “Ok.”

Finally we got to the grocery aisles, the real reason we were there. Since nothing much caught her eye, she started whining and complaining just to keep herself occupied. She gets this from her dad. I offered her a snack. As I reached for her goldfish, my body jerked as sharp pains wracked my belly, top to bottom. Contractions. At Walmart. With an unruly child. Father, why have you forsaken me?

I’m eight months along, so I noted that I still couldn’t breathe, which meant the baby hadn’t dropped, and though they doubled me over, the contractions weren’t that strong, so I concluded that this was not labor. I still needed groceries, so I continued shopping. And Rose continued whining. Digging for snacks, I found the earplugs I’d packed in her bag for loud parties. “Rose, I asked you to be quiet and you won’t, so I’m going to put these in my ears until you can quiet down.”

“Noooo! No earpwugs!”

“Sorry, Sweetie. I have to, but hey, if you can stay quiet and talk in whispers for say, a count of 30, I’ll take them out. One, two…”

She made it to 36, and I removed the plugs. Ouch! In between contractions, I managed to pick up the groceries and check out. We’d planned to play and I’d promised Chuck E. Cheese if she’d behaved, but she hadn’t, Mr. Cheese was off the table. But we needed lunch and she needed to play, so amidst continuous contractions I told her we’d go to the McDonald’s with the Playplace. But I was so distraught by that time that we had to swing by the gourmet donut shop and pick up a dozen leavened mood elevators. Then we went to McDonald’s and played as planned.

I got to sit at the table, eat and send emails with my phone. By the time we left McDonald’s, the contractions subsided but I’d developed a headache. We headed home as I thought about the warnings I’d received at my last doctor visit. They said I should call if I got a headache and noticed a slowdown in fetal movement. Hmm, baby’d been quiet for about a half hour. That’s not unusual but he’s usually active after I eat. Hmm. I guess I should call.

By the time we got home and I got the cold stuff put away, I thought I would collapse. I put Rose to bed and picked up the phone. The doctor’s assistant said to lie down, drink lots of cold water, take Tylenol for the headache, and count fetal movements. We were shooting for 10 movements within an hour. If I didn’t feel 10 movements, I was to go to the hospital. So I lay down and did what she said, as much as I could, but Rose refused to nap in the other room. She kept calling me and I kept telling her I had to lie down, so she had to stay in her room. I called Matt, explained my condition, and told him to come home. “I can get a bus in an hour and a half,” he said.

“Well, if I have to go to the hospital it’ll be within the next half hour.”

“So you want me to take a cab?” Math major. “Ok. I’ll get a cab.”

Baby Boy Fisher came through with 14 kicks in a half hour. Relieved, I called the doctor. They said good, but continue to rest. Thanks to his cab driver’s religious objection to the express lanes, Matt finally got home about an hour after I’d called. He kept Rose occupied long enough for me to cry myself to sleep, and an hour later, I awoke feeling much better.

Today, Matt took Rose to the gym and on errands so that I could have some writing time. I sent him to Costco specifically to pick up the coupon items I couldn’t get last trip. I’d been talking about this errand since Friday, repeatedly stressing that the coupons expired today, so I needed it done this weekend. I’d seen some stuff there that I thought he’d want to see, so I thought he could take a look and pick up my items at the same time.

This morning, he called from Home Depot – before Costco. “I got everything and I can’t think of anything else we need. Was there anything else?”

“No, Honey, I emailed everything I wanted you to check. It’s on your Blackberry.”

An hour later, he called again. “We just got to Costco. (It’s across the parking lot.) Rose was being so bad, I forgot the flyer in the car. What did you want?”

“The coupon stuff. You can’t get the discounts without the coupons.”

“Well, she’s being such a pain I don’t think we can get anything.”

“Then come home.” I hung up. Incompetent piece of shit.

Two days ago, I somehow managed an unruly child, checked for every item on our list, and completed the grocery run while suffering uterine contractions and somehow, my husband was able to ferry the same unruly child around Home Depot for an hour after he got his three items, but unable to grab a book of coupons – the major reason for the trip – as he stopped by the car before Costco. By then, he couldn’t handle our unruly child. So he called me for salvation. When I couldn’t produce that miracle, he gave up. Not a thought toward disappointing his extremely pregnant wife. No regrets at all. And when he got home, he expected me to sympathize with his parental strife as I embraced him with permanently open arms.

This is why I want to be a man. If I was a man, I wouldn’t feel obligated to meet my responsibilities. I wouldn’t have to pull my weight. If I was a man, I could have given up on Walmart with the first “I want!” and gone home to bed, groaning and rubbing my tummy. We wouldn’t have groceries, and I likely wouldn’t have had a preeclampsia scare, but most importantly, I would not have inconvenienced myself in the slightest and I wouldn’t have any regrets.

If I was a man, I could go out into the world with an encyclopedic knowledge of sports history and statistics, a complete lack of time management skills, no sense of responsibility beyond the maintenance of my physical comfort, and an inflated sense of accomplishment whenever I managed to complete a menial task. And I would claim my inexplicable place as a member of the dominant gender. I could quit multitasking, quit caring, live according to my own schedule and expect my wife to take care of everything else. Facial hair would no longer be an issue. I would never suffer the indignities of gestational incontinence, menstruation, or queen-sized pantyhose.

Nor would I be allowed to cry during movies, discuss my feelings, giggle or drink Cosmos in public. I wouldn’t be able to comfort my kids like only a mom can, request accurate directions or match my own clothes. But at this point, I no longer give a shit about that stuff. Wow. It’s happening. I just got the urge to adust myself.

Epilogue

Matt spent the rest of the day busting his ass to assemble Rose’s big-girl bed; complete an accounting test riddled with technical glitches; install the final fence gate and complete a rate analysis for the 19 offices on his work docket. To his credit, he completed the work, test and bed, set the posts and built the gate and disassembled Rose’s crib and moved it to the baby’s room. And he called poison control when Rose ate a two-day-old discarded chicken McNugget she’d found in an old happy meal box. If you’re wondering, poison control said it probably wouldn’t hurt her, but we’d know if it forced itself out of either end. All of this work following the Costco incident functioned as his saving grace. If he’d spent the rest of the day watching football, we still wouldn’t be speaking, but right now I’m going to kiss him goodnight.