now.”
Julia missed me. She wished I could walk her to school and pick her up from school like I used to, but she was acting cheerful for me. She had her own key now. My friend Janet, mother of Julia’s best friend, Emily, took Julia to and from school on days when Michael was out of town. Julia ran upstairs by herself, unlocked the door, climbed in bed under the covers with me, woke me with a kiss on my cheek, and told me about her day. Then she ran to the kitchen, ate a snack, and climbed back under the covers with me to do her homework.
This was my favorite time of the day. I loved having Julia close to me. She finished her homework under my covers, and got up to eat another snack. She was eating a lot these days. I thought she might be depressed, but I was so depressed I was sure I’d make her feel worse if I asked her about it. When he was in town, Michael made dinner—quesadillas, mac and cheese, pasta—and they ate in the kitchen together while I lay in bed listening to their conversations.
Michael was patient, nurturing, and consistent. He shopped for food. He cooked. When he wasn’t touring his shows, he woke up in time to make Julia breakfast and walk her to school. He helped Julia with her homework. He went to the parent-teacher conference and the fourth-grade publishing party. He took her to Hebrew lessons. He coached her soccer team and spent most Saturday mornings with the West Side Soccer League. He listened patiently to my vacillating feelings of hope and hopelessness.
Michael behaved like a total grown-up. Like a saint. Fucking perfect. Who the hell was this guy? I didn’t recognize him. I missed real Michael. Michael the trickster. The irrepressible, irresponsible, overgrown college kid who disappeared to play guitar and write songs and sleep crazy hours, and came back out of his cave when he was ready to be in a family again, when he was ready to make love again. Michael didn’t have time to be himself. He was too busy taking care of me and Julia. He and I had both lost our selves to this pregnancy.
I was humiliated by being an invalid. Humiliated by Michael’s ability to love this unborn baby when I could not. Overwhelmed by his generosity. Indebted to him. Jealous of his not having to lie in bed on his left side drinking Gatorade, which I found detestable no matter what flavor or color Julia picked out for me. I resented him for changing into someone else, someone who was unrecognizably patient and perfect and reliable and predictable and selfless and mature. Envied him for wanting this baby so instantly and completely. And of course I despised myself even more for having these contemptible feelings.
Three weeks ago I found out that I am pregnant.
Two weeks ago, I contemplated and rejected a late-term abortion.
One week ago I was put on bed rest.
I accepted my role as a miniature hospital, protecting a fragile life by lying on my left side and drinking Gatorade.
I told a few more people that I was pregnant. Congratulations from everyone I spoke to. Even when I judiciously divulged—to close acquaintances, to women I thought of as feminists—that I was unhappy, that this was terrifying, they laughed and teased and congratulated me again. “Lucky you! You thought you were infertile all these years, and you just had to find the right guy, and you didn’t even have to take fertility drugs.”
I could talk to my sisters and a few close friends who neither judged nor congratulated me.
Michael bought me a book of 1,500 baby names from Barnes and Noble. I read it and asked him to get me another book. “Isn’t there one name in fifteen hundred you like?” He got me a baby name book with 2,739 names. This was great reading for an expectant mother who has to lie in bed all day. It had stories and history and etymology for every name. Each name conjured up a different child for me, so I got this idea that I could determine who this kid would be by naming her. Julia and I looked
Julia missed me. She wished I could walk her to school and pick her up from school like I used to, but she was acting cheerful for me. She had her own key now. My friend Janet, mother of Julia’s best friend, Emily, took Julia to and from school on days when Michael was out of town. Julia ran upstairs by herself, unlocked the door, climbed in bed under the covers with me, woke me with a kiss on my cheek, and told me about her day. Then she ran to the kitchen, ate a snack, and climbed back under the covers with me to do her homework.
This was my favorite time of the day. I loved having Julia close to me. She finished her homework under my covers, and got up to eat another snack. She was eating a lot these days. I thought she might be depressed, but I was so depressed I was sure I’d make her feel worse if I asked her about it. When he was in town, Michael made dinner—quesadillas, mac and cheese, pasta—and they ate in the kitchen together while I lay in bed listening to their conversations.
Michael was patient, nurturing, and consistent. He shopped for food. He cooked. When he wasn’t touring his shows, he woke up in time to make Julia breakfast and walk her to school. He helped Julia with her homework. He went to the parent-teacher conference and the fourth-grade publishing party. He took her to Hebrew lessons. He coached her soccer team and spent most Saturday mornings with the West Side Soccer League. He listened patiently to my vacillating feelings of hope and hopelessness.
Michael behaved like a total grown-up. Like a saint. Fucking perfect. Who the hell was this guy? I didn’t recognize him. I missed real Michael. Michael the trickster. The irrepressible, irresponsible, overgrown college kid who disappeared to play guitar and write songs and sleep crazy hours, and came back out of his cave when he was ready to be in a family again, when he was ready to make love again. Michael didn’t have time to be himself. He was too busy taking care of me and Julia. He and I had both lost our selves to this pregnancy.
I was humiliated by being an invalid. Humiliated by Michael’s ability to love this unborn baby when I could not. Overwhelmed by his generosity. Indebted to him. Jealous of his not having to lie in bed on his left side drinking Gatorade, which I found detestable no matter what flavor or color Julia picked out for me. I resented him for changing into someone else, someone who was unrecognizably patient and perfect and reliable and predictable and selfless and mature. Envied him for wanting this baby so instantly and completely. And of course I despised myself even more for having these contemptible feelings.
Three weeks ago I found out that I am pregnant.
Two weeks ago, I contemplated and rejected a late-term abortion.
One week ago I was put on bed rest.
I accepted my role as a miniature hospital, protecting a fragile life by lying on my left side and drinking Gatorade.
I told a few more people that I was pregnant. Congratulations from everyone I spoke to. Even when I judiciously divulged—to close acquaintances, to women I thought of as feminists—that I was unhappy, that this was terrifying, they laughed and teased and congratulated me again. “Lucky you! You thought you were infertile all these years, and you just had to find the right guy, and you didn’t even have to take fertility drugs.”
I could talk to my sisters and a few close friends who neither judged nor congratulated me.
Michael bought me a book of 1,500 baby names from Barnes and Noble. I read it and asked him to get me another book. “Isn’t there one name in fifteen hundred you like?” He got me a baby name book with 2,739 names. This was great reading for an expectant mother who has to lie in bed all day. It had stories and history and etymology for every name. Each name conjured up a different child for me, so I got this idea that I could determine who this kid would be by naming her. Julia and I looked
Similar Books
