I walked to the nursery to pick him up. He had brown pajamas and a white beanie on that made him look like a tiny Viking. I gave him a bottle and started to pack for the day. I try to strap him to my chest in the Omni Breeze Dream Carrier, but he’s too squirmy for any of its four ergonomic, lumbar-supported, breathable positions and it gets tangled. It looks like I’m wearing a straitjacket.
I put Holden in the Yoyo. Finally, I had a lead. I glanced at my finger—a yellow diamond ring the size of Jupiter, evidence that the trip to Texas mattered. Queenie hadn’t delivered a breakthrough, but she’d given me a newfound determination. Holden and I wouldn’t have another day drifting aimlessly around the city. We had a mission. “We’re going to find Daisy. Aren’t we, little koala? Yes. Yes, we are.”
Holden babbles, smacking his palms together. “What’s that? You think I’m crazy?” He looks at me, a whiff of gas. “Well, that is your opinion, little man.”
—
TheJuju Beanmoms have lives almost identical to my own, all stuck in the postpartum sludge. And yet, I cannot help my visceral aversion to talking to them.
Audrey, an alpha mom, lives in the redbrick tower directly across from ours and is very up on theJuju Beanscene. She used to do strategy for a famous chef who got #MeToo’d and now she consults part time from home. The first time I met Audrey, she cornered me near the mailboxes and cocked her head at the Dunkin’ bag at the bottom of my stroller.
“Hey, I noticed you eat mass-produced gluten. And you’re still breastfeeding?”
“No. I actually bake them myself with all organic ingredients in my convection oven. I just put them in this bag.”
Audrey looked confused. “Oh.”
She had soft laugh lines and oversize aviator glasses hanging on a vintage Orioles T-shirt that her baby nipped at. “Stop that, Sloany. Stop it.” Sloane did not stop.
The next time we ran into each other, Audrey told me she had a high-risk pregnancy. “I got pregnant at forty,” she said. “With my own egg, before you ask—”
I felt bile building. I wanted to yell, “Who cares?” I am still wearing ice diapers and bleed when I pee. I am an animal that was split down the middle and sewn back together. Audrey placed Sloane back in her UppaBaby Vista V3, “where luxury meets comfort.”
What was wrong with me? Maybe if I gave Audrey a chance, if we went to get pinot grigio and spicy Brussels sprouts, I’d end up liking her, but neither of us has the time to do that, so I dislike her, because it’s easier and I am exhausted.
Then there was the other issue with befriending Audrey. If we ever really became close, I’d have to tell her that sometimes, during late-night feedings, her husband, Stu (or Stuart?), stares out of the window of his office, into my baby’s room, as I pump. Ever since a spate of break-ins, the yard between our buildings is lit with floodlights, so even though it’s the middle of the night, Stu gets a full-frontal view.Every time I talk to Audrey, I get tongue-tied. How to tell her that her husband has seen my nipples?
That morning, Audrey posted that a bunch of theJuju Beanmoms were planning an IRL meetup for Yoga & Chocolate in Chelsea. The magnesium in the chocolate is supposed to help the body’s muscles relax and accelerate the brain’s neurotransmitters. Or some shit like that. Several moms commented that they wanted to make sure the chocolate was vegan. (It was.) A couple of others said they didn’t feel comfortable consuming sugar while breastfeeding. Others equated cacao to caffeine, which was basically like smoking crack. Fine, we’ll just do yoga. No chocolate.
“See you Tuesday?” Audrey said when we ran into each other outside the package room. We each waited for our piles of Amazon deliveries.
“Um…Yeah…What’s Tuesday?” I asked. Your husband has seen my nipples.
“Yoga & Chocolate? You RSVP’d yes onJuju Bean.”
I did? I couldn’t tell her I had no recollection of this, so instead I said, “Totally…Yep. It’s in my calendar.” I hadn’t kept a calendar since I went on maternity leave. Roman and I have an intricate system of Post-it notes to remind each other of pediatrician checkups, dentist appointments, an exterminator the neighbors used for their moth infestation, et cetera. But Audrey seems like the kind of mom who keeps a calendar, so that is the kind of mom I want her to think that I am, too.
“Don’t expect a Yoga Vida class, but it’s serviceable,” Audrey said, balancing a Bonjour Fresh meal delivery box on the back of her UppaBaby.
I watched her walk away with a hint of affection. Here was a woman who went from working for one of the world’s top chefs to assembling a box of the sagging, precut ingredients into a Parmesan-crusted chicken for two.
—
There is no reason for the driver on the M14 crosstown bus to make me collapse my stroller, except that it is technically an MTA rule, and maybe he was bullied as a child? Even if I were deft enough to cradle Holden, who has better than average head control for his age, and collapse the BabyZen Yoyo stroller with the other hand, while climbing the stairs to the bus, I’d still need another hand to tap my phone. The story of my life in New York, always needing another hand. I try to swipe my phone without dropping my baby or the stroller, when Sue calls via FaceTime. A woman behind me laden with red plastic shopping bags lets out an impatient groan. The driver eventually rolls his eyes, waving me on. “Appreciate that,” I say, noticing Sue’s photo fade in my hand.
I find a seat, put the stroller back together, and put Holden back inside. I am sweating, out of breath. The bus hasn’t moved. I call Sue back on FaceTime, trying to remember if it is very early or very late there. Her face fills the screen. I aim the phone into Holden’s stroller. “Say g’day to Grandma Sue.” We haven’t worked out what Holden will call her. “That needs some work,” Sue says. We don’t have time to talk. A man in a security-guard uniform reading theNew York Postshoots me a look.
That is the way it goes with Grandma Sue. She does her best, but she’s on the opposite side of the Earth. We are so far apart from each other, divided by not only oceans but waves. Sue’s emotions tethered to updates from oncologists, results of clinical trials. Ours, coiled and sprung at the opposite ends of life.
“Hey, Sue. Sorry…I’m on a bus…Can we talk later? We miss you.”
“Go on. I’ll let you go,” she says.
And she does; she lets us go.
—
By the time I power walk six blocks to yoga, I am a mess. The other parents, in pre-baby athleisure, sit in lotus pose, their babies squirming on mats in the sunny studio with the redbrick walls. The instructor enters and paces barefoot. “Take a deep breath in. Whether you entered the space feeling serene, peaceful, composed…” she says. Her eyes scan all the other moms. Then her eyes land on me and she gives a tiny smile. “Or you rushed here, frazzled, stressed, burned-out…”
