Maternity Leave (9781466871533) Read Free Page A

But Doogan is half Siamese. What if he’s like those cats in Lady and the Tramp ? ‘We are Siamese, if you please.’ What if I have to choose between Sam and Doogan?” I panic.
    â€œObviously you’d choose Sam.”
    â€œWhy obviously? I only just met Sam. I’ve known Doogan seventeen years, and—”
    â€œDoogan is a cat, Annie. I love him, too, but Sam is our baby, remember?” I well up, and Zach tries to backpedal. “I’m sure it will all be fine. Doogan is an awesome, mellow cat. I’m sure Sam will be an awesome, mellow baby.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” I sniffle.
    â€œPositive.” Zach kisses me on the top of my head.
    â€œHe better be,” I warn. Is it my imagination, or did a maniacal laugh just sound from the bundle in Zach’s arms?
    Later
    My mom stopped by the hospital to meet her first grandchild. Sometimes I feel like my mom is secretly filming a sitcom of her life when she says things like “I’m not going to cry … I’m not going to cry … I’m going to cry!” Zach documents the moment on camera, and I envision us airing the footage at Sam’s bar mitzvah. If either of us makes it that long. I’m still having heaps of trouble getting him to nurse. The stress has forced me to indulge in the splendor of the hospital’s food offerings. It’s like ordering room service, if budget motel chains offered room service menus with not a single choice of an entrée you actually wanted to eat. I sent Zach down to the cafeteria twice to pick up pudding parfaits. In general, I tend to avoid formless desserts, but pudding in a cup, layered with Nilla wafers and spray-can whipped cream feels like an absolute delicacy. Plus, I’ve got to bulk up if I’m ever going to get this breastfeeding thing right. That’s my new perspective on breastfeeding: I’m going to treat it like a sport. I’ve got to train. I’ve got to practice. I’ve got to fuel up. And someday I’ll be one of those women with a six-year-old boy hanging off her boob on the cover of a magazine whom people both respect and think is endlessly creepy.
    Now if I can only take a dump. Going to the bathroom is just about the most terrifying thing on earth. I know I should poo, but there are stitches down there that could erupt, creating an ass chasm the likes of which the world has never known. My only friend is this strange little squeeze bottle whose specified purpose is to be aimed at my butt while I’m using the toilet. Is that why this bottle was invented? Was there someone at a hospital-supply design company whose designated job was to create an ass-spraying squeeze bottle? If so, bravo to them, because he did a bang-up job. I don’t know why I assume it was a man. Men should do something right by women in the land of maternity, and by gods if this squeeze bottle wasn’t it. I wonder if it has a name. The ass-juicer? Butt-squelcher? Hole-sprayer?
    Zach has just heard me laughing out loud at myself in the bathroom and assumes I am crying.
    â€œStill no poo, honey?” he calls from his chair.
    That just may be the sexiest thing that someone’s said to me this week.
    To: Annie
    From: Fern
    Annie!
    OMG! You had the baby! He is so cute. You look awesome. Beyonce’s got nothing on you. Or Princess Kate. Who just had a baby? I can never keep track. Nor do I care. My four are keeping me busy with various ailments. It seems like Dov is always barfing, Hannah is always pooping, and Jacob has it coming out both ends. Oh the joys of kids! You’ll see what I mean.
    We’ll be back in town in a couple months. I wish we could be there now, but I’m stuck out here in sunny California where everyone thinks 50 degrees is going to give them frostbite. Pussies! I miss Chicago. And you!
    Let me know what you need. Send me an Amazon wishlist or Toys R Us or whatever, and I’ll send you some