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My liquor cabinet, praise be, is not.
I open a bottle of Appalachian Red because why not? I blast Tupac and Pearl Jam and angry Nirvana because it suits my mood.
I drink, and when that doesn’t work, I try smoking a cigar.
I’m gonna be hungover as fuck tomorrow, but what the hell do I care?
Shivering on my back porch, the concrete floor cold against my bare feet, I let out stream after stream of smoke as night falls over the mountains.
“I’m doing the right thing,” I say to no one.
No one’s all I got left.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Annabel
It’s a double whammy, being dumped and ending your maternity leave in the same week.
One event would’ve been enough to knock me sideways.
But both? I wanna wave a white flag and quit life for good.
I wake up on April first, a Thursday, at three AM. It’s not like I can sleep much, anyway. Since I left Blue Mountain, I’m finding it hard to sleep or eat. I force myself to eat because, well, I’m Maisie’s sole source of nourishment. So I gag on bowls of plain Cheerios and force down grilled cheese sandwiches at night.
Sleep, though? I can’t force myself to do that.
Even so, your alarm going off at a time with a three handle is brutal. But I need to pump, shower, get myself ready—what the fuck am I gonna wear?—eat, and pump again, just in case, before I head into the office.
Oh. And I need to set out all the bottles Maisie’s going to need for the day. Maybe I should take more breast milk out of the freezer? I hope she’ll take the bottle from someone new. She did well with mom and Mrs. B., but you never know.
I find myself cursing the universe in general, and American parental leave policies in particular, as I pump on the couch, water from my wet hair dripping down my back and soaking the one dress I have that sorta-kinda fits and is sorta-kinda office appropriate. I slug coffee and I pray Maisie doesn’t wake up, and I can’t help but think this whole no-paid-leave thing we have in the States is complete and utter bullshit.
I miss working, don’t get me wrong. In my humble opinion, being home with a baby is just as much work—hell, even more—as being in the office is. I tip my hat to stay-at-home moms. Truly.
But I have to work, so off to work I go.
Even though I am so not fucking ready. And I got way, way more leave than most women do. Still, at five months old, Maisie is nursing around the clock. She’s mostly sleeping through the night. My body doesn’t belong to me yet, and neither does my time.
I’m trying to wean Maisie, slowly but surely, but I’m terrified of getting mastitis. Especially right now, when I have so much going on.
So yeah. I’m going to have to pump four—yes, four—times during the day (note to self: don’t forget to grab extra breast pads in case I get stuck in a meeting or on a call). While I’m supposedly girl-bossing the shit out of my job. While also checking in with my nanny, who’s only watched my baby once before during a two-hour trial run (note: write her a check for the week), and wondering how the hell I’m going to make dinner (shit, I need to go grocery shopping) and do bath time in the hour I have with my daughter before she goes to bed.
Then I have to unpack and label the breastmilk I pumped, clean the pump parts, and pack it all back up again for tomorrow. Then I guess I’ll wake up at three AM again.
I tear up just thinking about it.
This would be so much easier if my job were flexible, and I could work from home full or part-time. At least until my baby is older. That way, I could take breaks throughout the day to nurse her, hold her. I could be around. But I’m quickly learning that, for a lot of women like me, being around at home and being present at work are mutually exclusive concepts.
It’d be easier if I could rely on quality childcare that’s available to me without paying a fortune or jumping through hoops.
But again, that’s not something that exists in the States.
Man. Becoming a mom is kinda mobilizing me. I’m realizing just how high the deck is stacked against us. I’m incredibly privileged, and this is still the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done. I could afford to take a five-month leave. I can afford to have a woman come into my home and care for my baby. I can count on my job being there for me when I’m heading back to work.
I know many, many families don’t enjoy these luxuries.
But that’s just it. They shouldn’t be luxuries.
