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I fish my phone out and pick a semi-healthy dinner based on the quickest delivery available. I eat alone on the couch, and while I’ve never minded a quiet evening in before, now I feel like something is missing. Someone. Two someones, actually.
Having dinner while talking to actual humans. Nora reading a story to her baby brother while John gently rubs my feet. I’ve missed our morning walks, and our goodnight texts.
I miss him. I miss them. My family.
I stare down at my belly. “Would you forgive Mommy for being a little reckless with her heart?”
The baby kicks.
“Yeah?”
I stare out at the dark windows. Maybe tonight is too late to make life-changing decisions. I’m coming off two incredibly stressful weeks, which weren’t really indicative of how my life would be as a single mom and I’m too tired anyway.
When I finish the food, I don’t even have the strength to bring the empty take-out boxes to the kitchen. I leave them on the dusty coffee table to collect dirt like the rest of my furniture.
Tomorrow is Saturday, I’ll clean then. I know, I know, I said the same thing last weekend and then ended up working two days from home without pause. But the SEC inspection is over now, so I’ll make the time tomorrow.
Upstairs, I take a quick shower, wanting to change into clean clothes. But when I open my underwear drawer, I find it empty. My lower lip wobbles. I’m a mess. I feel like an irresponsible teenager who can’t take care of herself. How am I ever going to look after a defenseless, tiny human if I can’t even tend to myself for a couple of weeks on my own?
No. No. I need to calm down. Hormonal mood swings aren’t really my friends. When the baby comes, I’ll hire a backup cleaning lady, if necessary. I’ll have a support system, a nanny, family. My parents live close by and are eager to be grandparents. And John will be there for the baby whether we’re together or not. So I’m completely fine.
Then why do I feel so miserable?
I sniffle and, still wearing a robe, descend to the basement. I discover a load of clean laundry in the dryer that’s been rotting in there for who knows how long. I transfer everything into a basket and shuffle around in search of a clean pair of panties. When I can’t find any, I march upstairs with the basket under my arm and tilt it over the couch, scattering my once-clean-now-stale clothes like rags all over the place. Just the look the living room was missing to resemble a total dumpster.
At least I find a pair of panties and begrudgingly pull them on. As I stalk up the stairs in a rage, the underwear chafes my skin within two steps because it no longer fits. I ordered a new maternity-friendly, organic cotton brand but the package got lost somewhere in delivery hell.
As I sit on the bed, commiserating, my eyes land on the packaged crib resting against the wall. The one I ordered on Black Friday. The one I intended John to assemble.
I shrug, and in a delirious, presumably hormones-induced moment of folly decide the crib can’t be that hard to assemble.
That’s how, instead of going to bed as would’ve been sensible, I stand up, drop the robe, and pull on functional sweats.
I’m Marissa Mayer, first of her name. Columbia computer science graduate. CEO of a successful start-up, COO of an even more prosperous FinTech app. Soon-to-be mother of a tiny human. I can be a responsible adult. I can buy my own groceries, find a work-life balance that functions, and keep my house clean—or hire more help to keep it clean. And I can assemble a flipping crib on my own and not feel like all joie de vivre has been sucked out of me because John isn’t here with me.
I approach the crib with intent and set to tear the box open. But the package is wrapped in so many layers of Sellotape, I can’t find a way in.
Determined to build the darn thing, I run to the kitchen, grab a pair of scissors, and storm back upstairs, attacking the crib box. I free it of all the packaging material and lay the components on the carpet.
With the instructions in hand, I set to work.
One hour later, I’m slumped on the floor, defeated. I’m surrounded by bolts, screws, and wooden panels that just won’t fit with each other in any shape that makes sense, contrary to what the instructions would have me believe.
I throw the manual aside and stare at the surrounding chaos. I’m beaten.
I dump the two pieces of wood I was trying to join and stand up, kicking random debris from the crib around to make a way to the bed. Okay, this is just a temporary setback. I only need a moment to regroup. I’ll close my eyes for a second, take a short meditation break, and then I’ll finish assembling that darn crib if it’s the last thing I do.
50
MARISSA
I wake up under a blanket I don’t remember pulling over myself. I jolt upright, looking down at my clothes. I’m wearing the same sweats from yesterday. How long did I sleep? Judging from the bright sunlight filtering through the blinds: all night and then some. I inspect the floor next, expecting to see the crib’s wreckage and instead, find a perfectly assembled white crib, identical to the picture on the box. A beam of light falls on it, making it look almost like a celestial apparition.
I blink.
Did the mamas-to-be fairies come in the night to cut me a break?
I throw the blanket away from my legs. On the way to the bathroom to wash my face and clear my head, I stop dead in my tracks as I spot the laundry basket I capsized on the couch last night resting on my dresser, my clothes neatly folded inside.
