“He can’t even stand up yet.”
I shoot Roman a look. “He’s close! Closer than some thirty-two-week-olds. I swear, some of these babies are just blobs. But not my snuggle bear, are you, little koala? He’s hitting all his milestones early and it’sbecauseI’ve been working with him on his fine motor skills every week. His instructor actually trained in the Reggio Emilia methodinReggio, Italy.”
“You’re not serious?TheReggio Emilia?” Roman says, teasing me.
I wonder if I can murder him with a chopstick. I put on an accommodating voice. “Can we give it a week or two? Just until I settle back into my work schedule?”
He’s half listening. “Next weekend? She could come with us to the zoo.”
No, Roman. No, Daisy will not be joining us for an all-day outing to the Bronx Zoo, followed by lasagna on Arthur Avenue. “I told you, she works on weekends, and she gets enough of Holden during the week.” I kiss Holden, whose eyes trail me as if he is following every word. “Not that anyone could ever get enough of you, little koala.”
Roman lets it go. “Okay,” he says. “The rugby’s on.” He sits on the sofa and turns on a replay of a game on BBC World. For the firsttime, I am grateful for rugby. I am grateful for my husband, who is slightly softer now and who squints a little when he reads texts and whose eyes somehow look kinder with crinkles at the edges. My husband, who is drinking an IPA on the sofa, and who will misplace his wallet in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Five
• • • • •
It takes me anhour to get dressed for work. The blouses won’t button over my boobs. The pants won’t get over my hips. But even if everything fit, even if I had my pre-baby body and could pull on all of that Madewell and Club Monaco, I stare into this abyss of navy and khaki workwear and I feel like I am looking at a monument to my old life. I give my overstuffed closet of clothes a big bear hug and lift all of it out en masse off the rack. I throw it all into Glad bags, disposing of my old wardrobe, my old life, as if it were hazardous waste. I spot a book that Penelope gave me when I was pregnant.Orgasmic Birth: Your Guide to a Safe, Satisfying, and Pleasurable Birth Experience. I throw it in with the clothes.
Holden is asleep in his MamaRoo swing. I work fast and frenzied, disposing of things that I cannot have in my apartment for even a second longer. When he wakes up, I strap him to my chest and drop all of my clothes and maybe the dumbest book ever published downstairs in the bin. I am sweating and out of breath when I finish. The construction workers next door look at me like a cautionary tale between drywall runs. I sit on the floor and guzzle the cherry-red Gatorade forgotten in the back of the fridge.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I realize I now have nothing to wearto work. I find a stray pair of Adidas track pants. I open the living room closet, which Roman uses. I pick out one of his blue dress shirts, the ones he gets on special, three for seventy-five dollars.
I am exhausted and we haven’t even left the house. I race around gathering everything Holden will need for his day and put him in the Yoyo. We walk to the Union Square subway station and I teeter down the stairs holding the stroller sideways, trying not to trip. The man behind me tries to pass, grunting loudly. We both miss the train. He shakes his head at me. I mouth, “Sorry.” Why was I sorry?
Lately, it seemed like I couldn’t go anywhere without an altercation, an opera of emotions that triggered the worst in humanity and always ended in tragedy. Or, in our case, having to wait fifteen minutes for the next train. By the time we get to 527 Park, I notice that Holden is missing a shoe—and they were expensive, the leather Jacadi moccasins Penelope gave him. Why did babies even need shoes?
When I get upstairs to the condo, Daisy is standing on the stairs, finishing up the morning call-and-response. (“Are you committed to breaking this societal chain with me? To not being a victim?”) She winks when she sees us, wrapping up as the women stand, reciting, “To everything I’ve lost, thank you for setting me free.” I feel like I’ve already lived a full day and am late for another full day, but Daisy’s movements are so slow and sleepy, as if she has nowhere in the world to be. She signals with a finger and Bianca appears, handing me a Guatemalan blend pour-over in a Yeti flask. Daisy takes Holden out of the Yoyo and puts her cheek against his.
“Hiiiiiiii. It’s a big day. We’re going to have an epic day together, aren’t we?! Fairy tales and sonnets will be written about this day, little koala!”
Could she get her own animal name for my son? Another paper cut as I watch them, gearing up to spend my day in a cubicle while they have a day to inspire sonnets.
“Uh, yeah. You know about the Hytone cream, if he gets the rash?”
“Em, chill. It’s all logged into the system downstairs.”
The system? What system? Before I can ask, Daisy flags down Viktor, who is wearing medical scrubs and hooking up a row of moms, relaxing on leather lounges, to IV drips. Brit’s eyes are rolled back in her head, she is so relaxed. “Y’all, this is like a little ray of sunshine goin’ right up into my veins.”
I pull Daisy into a hallway. “Um, what’s all that?”
“IV therapy. Hydration, immunity, weight loss, stress, detox. You should try one after work sometime. It is heavenly.”
“Are you sure that’s, uh, a good idea?”
“Em, it’svitamins. Your aura is real off today. Look, I get it. You’re stressed, it’s understandable. But maybe make time for an antioxidant infusion?”
“I can’t.”
“A B12shot, then?”
“You know what? I’m good.”
“It will give you energy for your day,” Daisy says, walking back into the great room and smiling at Viktor, who walks to a tray with a spread of prefilled injection pens—Ozempic, Mounjaro, Wegovy.
“I don’t really want to give my energy to this job…” But Viktor is already dabbing my arm with an alcohol swab. “There ya go.” I feel the vitamins enter my veins, blood rushing through my body. Daisy always knows what I need.
I take Holden back. He has slimmed out lately, his legs seemingly an inch longer and leaner every day. I squeeze him so hard, he spits up. I wipe it away with my palm and squeeze my face to his. “Noses. Noses.” I say this and he knows that means that we put the tips of our noses together until it looks like we have one eye. “Cyclops. Cyclops…” I say this into his one knowing eye and he chuckles. We are connected. We are the only person in our galaxy. When I finally detach my nose from his, Daisy takes him.
