Maternity Leave (9781466871533) Read Online Free PDF Page A

sheet over Sam’s car seat but reconsider when I realize it probably would not be the safest thing to do. Plus, I left my plastic sheet at home. Zach is about to set Sam’s carrier down a mere two seats away from Curlboy, so I violently snap at him with my fingers and make a scrunched-up expression that says, “Do exactly as you’re told, and you’ll get ice cream afterward.” Then I use my best head-jerking skills to redirect him to a chair equidistant from the two sickies. No one else better come into the waiting room while we’re here, or I’ll have to recalculate our seating.
    Coughie and Curlboy are called in first, and I breathe a little easier (albeit not very deeply, so as to avoid inhaling nascent germs). Ten minutes later, a nurse pokes her head out of the door leading to the exam rooms and calls out, “Sam.” A ping of recognition hits me that Sam is, in fact, a real person with a name attached. We bring him into room four, and the nurse instructs us to undress him down to his diaper. I try to work quickly, sensing her impatience, but I’m still new to the litany of teensy snaps. Eventually, he of the shriveled, black belly-button monstrosity is undressed and ready to be weighed. I rest Sam into a bucketlike scale, resulting in a wail of mythical magnitude. “Six pounds ten ounces,” the nurse reads.
    â€œThat’s more than he weighed when he was born,” I note to Zach. “That means when he’s sucking on my boobs, something’s coming out.”
    Dr. Zale examines Sam soon after, but I can’t hear much of what she tells us. Aside from the sheer volume of Sam’s screaming, I’m still dumbfounded that my body is actually working correctly, that milk is coming out of me and nourishing this baby enough to make him gain weight. Maybe I am capable of providing for a human. At least three ounces’ worth, anyway.
    To: Louise
    From: Annie
    Lou, I’m sorry I haven’t returned any of your calls. You told me I would be a zombie shell of my old self once the baby was born, and you were right. I seriously think bits of my skin are peeling off. I look that bad. Just behead me now. I’m sooooooo tired. I actually had to delete some of the o’s in sooooo because I fell asleep while holding down the key. And then Sam woke me up. Why is he always doing that? Help! I know you can’t. I know you’re home with Jupiter and baby #2 is going to fly out of you any second, so I have no right to bitch because you will have two people to prevent you from sleeping. I wish I had listened to you when you told me how hard this is.
    I’m guessing the answer is no (you get an I’m about to have a baby pass), but do you want to come to Sam’s bris on Tuesday?
    It’s BYOP. That was supposed to stand for Bring Your Own Penis, but I realized that makes no sense. Will I ever make sense again?
    XOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
    Annie
    Louise and I have worked together at Parker Middle School for ten years. So far she is one of the only people who admitted things aren’t going to be all baby powder and handmade blankeys. I hope that was just her patented sarcasm talking.
    6 Days Old
    My mom came over today to help plan the bris. Everyone has their theories and opinions on circumcision, as is evident by the hilarious comments on Facebook. One guy from my high school referred to it as “the worst day of my life,” while another shrugged it off as “a snip and a nosh.” I’m choosing to do it because it’s a Jewish custom, and supposedly mohels do the cut better than most hospital staff (according to the cautionary tales of my colleagues, and I do love a good cautionary tale about penises). Plus, my aunt Edie already ordered the lox platter. Zach, while not a Jew, is on board the circumcision train because he doesn’t want any locker room trouble for Sam later in his life. To which I ask: Are guys