Wiped! Read online

  “Yeah, that’s true,” I respond. “She is. She’s a baby.”

  Uncomfortable silence.

  “Well, I’m going to go check on her and do some of her laundry,” Nanny Mimi says.

  “Okay, then. Thanks!”

  I have been on blind dates in which the conversation is less stilted and forced. Am I supposed to tell Nanny Mimi what to do? What is there to tell her, really, except to feed my baby, change her diaper when she’s wet, and keep her alive? She’s a nanny! She knows that stuff.

  I have other worries. Should I brush my teeth and hair before Nanny Mimi sees me? Does she think I’m fat? My friend Vivian, who had given birth six weeks before I did, had a nurse live with her and her husband for the first three weeks. One day last week I had been whispering on the phone to Vivian, who asked me why I was acting all strange.

  “Um, the nanny is right in the next room,” I whispered.

  “I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?” Vivian said. “We would hide upstairs whenever the nurse was around.”

  I’m sure I hadn’t been saying anything even remotely interesting to Vivian, but I still felt like I was talking to a boy for the first time, with my parents hovering around eavesdropping, whenever Nanny Mimi was within hearing distance of any of my conversations with friends.

  I knew nothing about Nanny Mimi, except that she came highly recommended, had worked with newborns for eight years, and was taking care of the most important person in my entire life.

  The Fiancé and I had met Nanny Mimi when I was six months pregnant, at a coffee shop. That had been our first uncomfortable meeting with many uncomfortable silences. We had prepared, well, nothing to ask her, except whether she had worked with babies before, if she would be available October 17, the day the baby was coming home, and what her salary expectations were.

  Nanny Mimi is thirty-eight and very attractive, which posed more pressing concerns. Not only was she older than me (how can I boss around someone who is older than me?), she obviously knew way more than I did about babies, because I knew almost nothing about babies. What if I suggested something that she didn’t agree with?

  I had also worried that the Fiancé would pull a Jude Law on me. I’d heard stories about men ditching their wives for nannies. They couldn’t all be myths, could they? How would I ever explain to my friends and family that the Fiancé had thrown me over for the nanny? But I had (mostly) gotten over that worry. I mean, if the Fiancé did ditch me for the nanny, he would have much more explaining to do than I would.

  I didn’t know if Nanny Mimi had a boyfriend, enjoyed reality television, thought Leonardo DiCaprio was hot, loved cookie-dough cheesecake, and was obsessed with handbags. You know, the things everyone should know about another person to see if you really could get along and be friends. Was she even supposed to be my friend?

  Nanny Mimi also made me feel guilty about everything. I felt guilty for wanting to hold my baby when Nanny Mimi was around, because that’s what she gets paid to do. I felt guilty turning on the television, because I didn’t want her to see me in the middle of the afternoon watching bad talk shows. I felt guilty every time I asked Nanny Mimi a question, like “Has the baby eaten?”

  If the baby pooed while I was holding her, there was no way I could feel comfortable passing her over, even though changing her diaper is what she was supposed to do. Or could I? I felt guilty that we had no food in our fridge for Nanny Mimi. I felt guilty that she made our bed every day, even though we never asked her to and it wasn’t in her job description. (But, I admit, I also enjoyed it. Though I’d thought about telling her, “You don’t have to make our bed!” I hadn’t. It is so much nicer getting into bed when someone else makes it for you—kind of like living in a hotel.)

  I also felt guilty hiding out in my room, with the door shut, to take a nap. I didn’t want her to think I was being rude or lazy and didn’t care about the baby. Basically, I had no idea how I was supposed to act around her. I had no idea if there was even a new politically correct term for “nanny.” Do I introduce her to my friends as “the nanny”? Do I say, “This is my nanny”? Do I say, “This is the baby’s nanny”? Or do I introduce her by her name? Argh. I knew nothing about the etiquette of having a nanny.

  I also worried about whether Nanny Mimi felt as awkward around me as I did around her. I definitely didn’t want Nanny Mimi to think I was a bad boss, though I wasn’t sure how she could perceive me as a bad boss considering I hadn’t asked her to do anything yet. Unless not asking her to do anything made me a bad boss. Argh. Argh. Argh.

  In any case, I know I have to put on a bra before saying good morning to Nanny Mimi. I definitely am not at the point where I feel comfortable walking around braless in front of her, which, frankly, considering it’s my home, I would like to do. But, like at a first sleepover with a guy, I keep my bra on around her at all times. I enter our walk-in closet in our bedroom and find the most comfortable granny bra and put it on under my T-shirt. I’m still wearing the bras I bought and wore when I was pregnant. I’m happy my boobs are still larger than they were pre-baby, even though I’m not breastfeeding. That’s right. I’m bottlefeeding the baby.

  Breastfeeding was another discussion the Fiancé and I had had while I was pregnant—in about two minutes. Actually it was I who decided I wasn’t going to breastfeed, because I knew, from other mommy friends, what happens when you breastfeed. I knew if I breastfed, no one else could feed the baby in the middle of the night and I couldn’t leave the house for long periods of time because the baby would need my boobs. Also, the thought of a pump freaked me out. While it doesn’t bother me when other women pull up their tops in restaurants, I couldn’t picture myself being one of those women. I didn’t really want the Fiancé’s friends to see my boobs. I didn’t really want my father to see my boobs.

  Of course, I did take into consideration the argument that you lose the baby weight more quickly when you breastfeed. How could I not? But, I figured, the argument was a wash. I mean, I could lose weight by breastfeeding, or I could leave the baby with someone else, because she wouldn’t be tied to my boob, and go to the gym.

  Before heading out of the bedroom, I look at all my pre-pregnancy clothes hanging in the closet and think, “I miss you, clothes. I miss you. You have no idea how much I miss you.”

  8:40 A.M.

  “Hi, Mimi,” I say, trying to sound cheerful but sounding flat.

  “Hi, how are you?” she says, actually sounding cheerful. She is always cheerful, and that kind of weirds me out. How is it she can sound so cheerful knowing she’s going to have to be with the baby all day long, a baby who just sleeps, screams, eats, and needs diaper changes? The thought of taking care of my own baby for an entire day freaks me out, and I’m her mother!

  “Great! It was a good night. She fell asleep around four,” I say.

  “Well, she has her days and nights mixed up still. She’s a baby.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s a baby,” I say.

  Uncomfortable silence.

  “Excuse me,” I say shyly, while I grab a spoon out of the drawer to eat a bowl of cereal. I’m even afraid to ask Nanny Mimi to move out of the way so I can get my own spoon out of my own drawer in my own kitchen!

  Nanny Mimi is at the stove, boiling a pot of bottles. Our stove has never been used so much as it has been since the baby arrived. Before the baby came home, I think we made soup on the stovetop once. And we used to use it to light our cigarettes. Now Nanny Mimi, the Fiancé, and I are constantly boiling bottles in water to sterilize them. Also, we are constantly making formula, buying formula, and running out of formula. Maybe it is easier to breastfeed. It’s certainly cheaper if you breastfeed, and you’ll never find yourself running to a twenty-four-hour grocery store, like we had to do the other night, when we ran out of formula.

  It’s become a joke when I make the formula, taking out the measuring cup, measuring the exact amount, and mixing the white powder with boiled water, before pouring the mixture into the bottles
. “Look!” I’ll say to the Fiancé. “I’m cooking!” He’ll roll his eyes.

  Well, it is kind of like cooking, I don’t care what he thinks.

  Just then—thank God—I’m rescued from making any more small talk because from the baby monitor in the kitchen we hear the baby stirring in her room. Not that we actually need a baby monitor. Our condo is that small. The baby could sneeze at one end of the condo and we’d hear her from the farthest end.

  Nanny Mimi races out of the kitchen to go fetch the baby. I finish my cereal and call the Fiancé, who picks up immediately.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  “You never said good-bye this morning,” I moan.

  “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Oh. How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Like shit.”

  “Me too. I have two black eyes from walking into the wall. I’m still not sure how that happened.”

  “I’m going to get fired if I don’t get any work done. I’m making major mistakes on multibillion-dollar deals here,” the Fiancé responds, as if we are in a competition to see whose problems are worse.

  “My eyes hurt they’re so tired,” I tell him. “And I have two black eyes!”

  “I don’t even remember getting to work today,” he continues. “So how is the Devil Child?”

  “Hey, thanks for asking about me, dude,” I think. “She’s just getting up now,” I tell him. It kind of annoys me that he calls the baby “the Devil Child.” I mean, sure, she is a Devil Child and I sometimes call her the Devil Child, but I’m her mother. I can call her whatever I want.

  “Okay, so I guess I’ll call you later?” says the Fiancé. He sounds exhausted, as if the very effort of forming a sentence feels like running a marathon.

  “Okay, bye,” I say.

  Obviously, the Fiancé isn’t in any mood to give me sympathy. But that’s okay. I’m not in the mood to give him any either. We’re in this baby thing together, aren’t we? Except why do I feel like I’m in it more?

  9 A.M.

  I need compassion. I’m a walking zombie. And I almost broke my nose. Honestly, I’m so tired that if you asked me my name, I would have to think about how to answer. Who would give me the sympathy I need after walking into a wall and surviving another night with the baby? Of course! My mother. I feel like a child who has a child, a woman in a generation of women who have babies but still need their mommies. My mother would give me the sympathy I so deserve. She’s my mother after all. She loves me. She’s been a new mother herself, having had four babies. She would know how I feel. Plus, giving me sympathy is her job.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say when my mother picks up.

  “Hi! Hi! Hi!” she says excitedly, like she hasn’t heard from me in months, and not just since yesterday. Ever since I became a mother, I’ve called my mother daily. Pre-baby, I could go days, weeks even, without calling my mother. This is only one of very many things that have changed in my life.

  My mother does sound thrilled to hear from me, unlike some people, and that cheers me up.

  “So how’s the baby?” is her first question.

  Oh. Wait. I get it. I realize instantly that my mother is not, in fact, so thrilled to hear from me. She’s only excited to hear about the baby. I’m no longer cheered up. “Oh, she’s fine. I think I broke my nose,” I tell her.

  “So what’s the baby doing now?” my mother asks.

  Hello? What? Did my own mother not hear what I just said? The part about me—her only daughter—almost breaking her nose? “Did you hear what I said? I walked into a wall last night because I was so tired. She was up practically the entire night. I have two black eyes. There was blood everywhere. I almost went to the emergency room.” I hear my voice rising.

  I was a drama queen in my pre-baby days. That hasn’t changed. Why doesn’t anyone seem to care about me?

  “Ooh, poor, poor baby,” my mother coos. Okay, maybe she finally heard me. “So is she sleeping now?”

  Again, that “poor, poor baby” wasn’t for me. It was meant for the baby.

  “God, I miss her,” my mother continues. “Maybe she had a tummy ache? Maybe she was hungry? Maybe her diaper was wet?”

  Maybe she’s just a bad, bad baby, I say to my mother. Okay, I don’t really say that. I don’t say anything. I just sit there, silently, holding the phone to my ear, letting my mother carry on about her first grandchild. What’s the point of saying anything? It’s not like I’ve done anything remotely interesting in the past twenty-four hours anyway. Clearly, I no longer matter. I had done what I was supposed to do in life, which is provide her with a grandchild. No matter how well I had done in school, no matter what my career accomplishments were, my mother had never been so proud of me as when I gave birth. And really, studying for exams was way harder than getting knocked up. What had been the point of getting A’s in school? What had been the point of going to university? What had been the point of working so hard at my career if it all gets forgotten when you give birth?

  Whatever. Clearly, I’m nothing more than a baby machine now.

  10 A.M.

  Along with two black eyes, a mother who no longer cares about my well-being, a fiancé too tired to say more than three words to me, and a new nanny who I have no clue how to talk to, I also have a Diaper Genie.

  I don’t know what’s more painful: my almost broken nose, making small talk with the nanny, feeling like no one cares about me, or this thing that looks like a garbage can that is supposed to make my life easier but is, in fact, making it hell.

  The Diaper Genie is one of those baby items that every other mother I knew had told me I needed to have.

  Well, it’s been six weeks and we have yet to use this must-have baby item because we can’t figure out how it works. We managed to put in the Baggies, but whenever we turn the top, the Diaper Genie won’t do what it’s supposed to do, which is magically show up with a new Baggie, making the old Baggie filled with a dirty diaper disappear into the ether.

  This is not a Diaper Genie. This is a Diaper Bitch.

  It has become sort of an obsession though. Every day I fiddle with the Diaper Genie, but I always become as frustrated as someone watching a three-year-old trying to tie his shoelace. How has the biggest worry in my life come to be wondering where the new Baggie is?

  We’ve been using plastic grocery bags to put the dirty diapers in. And until I can figure out how this thing works, we will continue to do so.

  I’m feeling blue. I kick the Diaper Genie, which makes me feel a little better. So I kick it again.

  10:30 A.M.

  Pre-baby, I’d probably still be sound asleep now. Pre-baby, I would have spent last night with friends at a bar. Pre-baby, I’d be at work in an hour or so, writing fun columns for the newspaper I work for, about fashion, style, trends, and new bar and store openings. Pre-baby, I would be talking to friends on the phone throughout the day about their dates and sex lives. Pre-baby, the Fiancé would have missed me during the day and would have already called me three times by now to tell me so. Pre-baby, I’d worry about whether I was too bloated to wear my new designer jeans that I had spent half a month’s rent on.

  Post-baby, I change from sweatpants to sweatpants and worry about a nonexistent plastic Baggies to put the baby’s dirty diaper in.

  11 A.M.

  I decide to call Ronnie, my best mother friend. She has three kids, so I know she’ll be glad to listen to me moan about living with a newborn. She’s been there, done that. Maybe she even knows how to work a stupid Diaper Genie.

  “Hey, it’s me!” I say.

  “Hey, how are you?”

  “Great! So—”

  “Listen, I can’t talk right now. Kyle has a cold, and Brad has a playdate, and I have to make lunch for them. Poppy also needs to be fed.”

  “Okay, call me later,” I say.

  “Kyle! Stop that right now! Okay, I’m going to count to three! What did you just say
to me?”

  “Are you talking to me?” I ask.

  “No, I got to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Clearly, Ronnie is busy being a mother. A decade ago, Ronnie and I would talk on the phone for hours. We’d go to bars late at night and pull all-nighters studying for exams. Now she’s married with three children and scheduling playdates and making lunches and counting to three.

  I can’t imagine having three children at my age or any age. I don’t even know how I’m going to deal with the one I have now. I don’t really even understand the concept of a playdate. I should ask Ronnie what exactly a playdate is.

  11:05 A.M.

  I decide to call Heather, one of my closest friends, who also writes for a newspaper. She’s single and fabulous and will have a ton to tell me about what I’m missing in the outside world, a world that I used to embrace with a passion. I want to know what’s happening in her life, who she’s fucking, and, I’ll admit, I want to brag about my newborn and how cute she is. Sure, Heather may be out fucking guys and going on dates and not walking into walls, but I have a baby.

  “Hey, it’s me!” I say when she picks up, saying her name. Wow, she sounds so professional. I can’t remember the last time I answered a phone saying my name. I can’t remember the last time the phone rang for me.

  “Hey, how are you?” she asks.

  “Great! So what’s—”

  “Listen, I can’t talk right now. I have a deadline and then a meeting. Can I call you later? Actually, can I call you tomorrow? Because I have to rush and meet someone for lunch. And then I have an interview to do after that. God, I have so much to do. I got to go. I got to go! My editor is giving me the evil eye.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying not to let disappointment (or is it envy?) drip from my tongue. Why do people pick up the phone when they’re too busy to talk? Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to me? I didn’t even get a chance to tell her how cute the baby is. I didn’t even get the chance to pretend that life was A-okay. And why didn’t Heather even ask how the baby was? I mean, isn’t that kind of rude?