A Long Morning

Ladies, hate to break it to you, but when it comes to preventing stretchmarks, Cocoa Butter isn't going to make a damn bit of difference. It all comes down to genetics and luck, so save your money. Trust me. I learned the hard way. Although, by all means, feel free to tell your partner that it will help, and make him or her indulge you with a sensual rubdown. Anyway, last night, after pondering the stretchmarks on my belly -- which I swear look like Freddy Krueger raked his claw across me -- I had a nightmare on Elm Street. In it, the evil villain (with the face only a mother could love) was tweaking my nipple with those terrifying long-ass nails. So, In my bleary, pain-ridden delirium, I swatted him away. I woke up. Freddy Krueger was gone, and instead, my outraged baby girl was chewing on my boob. She pulled off, yelled at me, and then went back to work on perfecting her medieval torture techniques. The day went downhill from there.

Anyway, B had to be at work really early, which meant that I wouldn't get to snatch an extra half-hour of sleep, check email/facebook, or brush my teeth. Suffice it to say, I was not happy about this, and acted like a total bitch a little out of sorts: When he came whistling out of the bathroom after his morning shower, I told him that the smell of his aftershave made me want to curl up in a ball and vomit. And so, he countered that I looked like a beached whale. Ah, marital bliss.

So, we yelled at each other while M ate her Cheerios. She glared at us, threw her spoon on the ground, and screamed. B left. I cried. It was going to be a long morning

I took M into her playroom where she knocked all the books off her bookshelf, played with her Fisher Price Piggy Bank for a few minutes, scampered over to where I was sitting on the purple courderoy beanbag chair, pulled up my tank top, unhooked my bra, chewed on one nipple while playing with the other, got angry with me when I offered her a sippy cup full of milk instead, grabbed both my boobs and motor-boated. Yes, we're having some issues.

When she finished torturing me nursing, and I put my boobs away, she pointed to my chest and screamed hysterically. By this age, most babies have chosen a special 'lovey' -- or, in child-development speak 'transitional object' -- like a stuffed bear or a blanket that is meant to help comfort them throughout the day when they go off to nursery school... or college. Even though we've introduced her to Cow-Cow, Minnie, and Diggory Dog, my daughter has chosen my boobs. That's going to go over very well in a few years when we ship her off to preschool, and she needs something to help calm her down at naptime.

Anyway, when I refused to take my boobs back out for her to play with, she went totally nuclear: At first, her meltdown was limited to a few furious foot stomps, but since I'm a badass former preschool teacher, and know better than to let that sort of behavior get to me, I kept my boobs tucked away. Seeing no reaction (and no boobs), she came over and smacked me. When she drew back her pudgy little hand to hit me again, I gently but firmly held her arm and said calmly, "I don't like when you hit me. It hurts. Stop." But she pulled her arm away and did it again. Harder. When that didn't work, she hurtled herself to the floor, kicked and screamed, and tried to hit me in the belly when I went to pick her up. In the middle of all this, my phone rang.

Now, M has always loved my cellphone. Especially when it rings, because the ringtone is this catchy little number that makes her bop around and smile. Well, as soon as my began to trill, M stopped foaming at the mouth, sat up, and said "Et zeh!" While I didn't recognize the number, I answered -- if nothing else, to distract M from her aggravation, since she usually will pick up her toy telephone while I'm on my cell and pretend we're having a conversation in-tandem. So, while I hit the 'ANSWER' button, I handed M her special phone, and she granted me a snaggle-tooth smile.

The voice on the phone was hesitant, brittle, and unfamiliar to me, although I immediately knew that it belonged to an older woman. She introduced herself as my friend Denise's mom, explained that she found my number in her daughter's phone book, and asked if I had heard about Denise's passing.

We talked for a while -- M was surprisingly accommodating as she babbled away on her toy phone next to me. I told Denise's mom how much I loved her daughter -- what a good friend she was to me during my time at the preschool where we worked together -- and how much I missed her. I shared with her that sometimes, when I'm really missing her daughter, I'll call Denise's cell phone just to hear her cheerful voice message -- "Hey, I'm out and about, but if you leave me a message, I'll return your call later!" -- and this comforts me even though I know she won't call me back. At least not in this lifetime.

Anyway, when Denise's mom heard that I was mama with a toddler and a baby on the way, she offered to send me some of Denise's children's books to add to our literary collection. I told her that I would be honored to have them, since I remember how much Denise treasured her 'at-home children's library.' I glanced over at M, who had hung up her toy phone, and was now happily ensconced in pulling apart our second copy of Are You My Mother. So, while I gave Denises's mom our mailing address (and snatched a small piece of paper out of M's mouth,) I made a mental note not to share any of Denise's books with M or Little Homie until they outgrow the charming stage of chewing on all things cardboard and paper. Some things are replaceable. Denise's books aren't.

As Denise's mom and I finished our conversation, and I watched M toddle back over to her toy phone, it suddenly struck me -- hard and fast, like a roundhouse kick to my belly -- that this poor woman was living every parent's worst nightmare: Her baby girl was dead. As my eyes swam with hot tears, I wondered if she pictured Denise as the 48 year old woman who taught school for many many years, or the teenager who drove around the South Bay too fast, listening to loud music with her friends, or the 8 year old assiduously studying her spelling words for the big test on Friday, or the toddler kicking and screaming on the floor. And as I looked over at M, now joyfully punching the big plastic number buttons on her toy phone, the fatigue and frustration I felt earlier melted away, as I realized that Denise's grieving mother would probably give everything she had for one long, difficult morning with her baby girl.