Maternity Leave (9781466871533) Read Online Free PDF

really looking at one another’s penises so closely that they can detect whether someone is circumcised or not? Why aren’t they hiding in the showers or trying to discreetly put on their underwear while awkwardly shielding themselves with their towels like girls do?
    The bris is supposed to take place on the eighth day of life, because thousands of years ago someone figured out it is the day the baby will feel the least amount of pain, or something like that, proving once again that people of yore did a much better job of understanding their kids than I am managing today.
    Did I mention my nipples are dying?
    Zach’s moms sent a rather bizarre baby basket today, although I’d expect nothing less. After his mom, Dawn, and dad, Stewart, divorced when Zach was sixteen, his mom went back to school to get her master’s in creative writing. While there, she met a women’s studies professor, Mimi, with whom she fell madly in love. They’ve been together, professoring it up in Seattle, ever since. At our wedding, Zach’s dad and two moms walked him down the aisle. Zach’s dad remarried almost instantly after the divorce to a woman I never got to know very well. Sadly, his dad died five years ago of lung cancer, and his stepmom seemed to think we were going to argue over who got his money. All Zach wanted was his dad’s collection of Johnny Cash memorabilia, and he had to fight her on that, even though she always seemed annoyed that his dad spent their money on the collection. The Cash (Johnny, not money) eventually became Zach’s, and we now keep our communication with the stepmom to a holiday-card minimum.
    Dawn and Mimi are a fun couple to visit, although extremely tidy to the point where staying with them becomes more chore filled than our nonvacationing lives. I’ve never wiped a bathroom counter after using the sink, but leaving extra water droplets on the tile is a no-no. If only they could see the horror show that is our toothpaste-globbed, watermark-tainted bathroom sink these days. I guess I won’t worry about it until their visit next month. In the meantime, we can enjoy their gift basket of feminist baby-raising literature, oatmeal-colored, organic, dye-free onesies, and mother’s milk tea that tastes a little like tree bark pancakes. How did anyone discover this stuff ups breastmilk production if they had to taste it first?
    Later
    Having my mom here was the most magical six hours of my new life. She held Sam, and I showered without fear of him waking up or Zach coming into the bathroom with a question (although showering with my healing ass was still horrifying). Not that Zach’s doing a bad job. He hasn’t complained about changing a single diaper, even that time he threw up in his mouth a touch, but he is under the impression that I know more about parenting a newborn than he does. Just because I grew this little pumpkin doesn’t mean I know how to water and feed it and trim its vines or whatever, and by vines I mean his fingernails. Sam’s pediatrician joked that some ignorant parents think biting their kids’ nails off is a good idea. I pretended I wasn’t one of those parents. Is this natural to other women? Is there something inherently wrong with my physiology?
    To: Annie
    From: Annika
    Hey Annie—
    Thanks for the invite to the bris! Is it OK if I bring my new boyfriend, Anders? Do we need to bring anything? Pigs in a blanket? Cocktail Wienies? Band-Aids?
    Hugs!
    Annika
    Annika is a close friend from college. At least, we were close when we were in college. We lived together a couple of years, took random classes like ceramics and Finnish together, dated several of the same hipsters, and formed a band called the Pee Sharps. Annika was the lead singer, and I played lead guitar. I was never very accomplished, but the chords I did know I played very well. Repeatedly.
    Toward the end of school, Annika decided she had no interest in