"You must sign up for daycare at this address," says one friend, with urgency. "If you do not sign up now," he hints, darkly, "bad things may happen...."
This is a friend for whom high-stakes drama is a constant. His own children are at the local middle school, and his descriptions of this well-regarded school resemble something from HBO's "Oz." "The bathrooms are so horrid," he says, "that the children actually hold in their waste all day long." He allows us to infer what might be found in the bathrooms: corpses, bloody syringes. Then: "Imagine trying to learn with so much discomfort! Every day!"
You can't ask this friend about the possibility of hiring a nanny. "I just think it's good to have peer monitoring among the care providers, and you can't get that if there's just one nanny...." His ellipsis speaks volumes; I can't help but recall the novel "The Perfect Nanny," based on an actual case, in which an aggrieved sitter snapper and slaughtered her little child-clients.
My husband is maybe more vulnerable to this kind of discussion than I am. My husband would like to get everything exactly right. He reads about how much better breast milk is than formula, and I see a haunted look in his eyes. Maybe, he says, we could purchase frozen breast milk from generous mothers? Even if it would cost--perhaps--ninety dollars per day? His anxiety is short-lived; he becomes distracted by a piece about mothers who drink *their own* breast milk. But I know the question of our future-infant's diet will return soon, and return with a vengeance.
This is a friend for whom high-stakes drama is a constant. His own children are at the local middle school, and his descriptions of this well-regarded school resemble something from HBO's "Oz." "The bathrooms are so horrid," he says, "that the children actually hold in their waste all day long." He allows us to infer what might be found in the bathrooms: corpses, bloody syringes. Then: "Imagine trying to learn with so much discomfort! Every day!"
You can't ask this friend about the possibility of hiring a nanny. "I just think it's good to have peer monitoring among the care providers, and you can't get that if there's just one nanny...." His ellipsis speaks volumes; I can't help but recall the novel "The Perfect Nanny," based on an actual case, in which an aggrieved sitter snapper and slaughtered her little child-clients.
My husband is maybe more vulnerable to this kind of discussion than I am. My husband would like to get everything exactly right. He reads about how much better breast milk is than formula, and I see a haunted look in his eyes. Maybe, he says, we could purchase frozen breast milk from generous mothers? Even if it would cost--perhaps--ninety dollars per day? His anxiety is short-lived; he becomes distracted by a piece about mothers who drink *their own* breast milk. But I know the question of our future-infant's diet will return soon, and return with a vengeance.
I'm studying the difference between four weeks and four months. At four months, apparently, your baby will recognize your face and give you a big smile. Also, he will (sometimes?) allow you to finish speaking before making small babbling noises.
My husband hears this and enjoys it. But then his attention floats to the staircase, and visions of domestic horror dance in his head. All those stairs, up and down, every morning. With a tiny, wriggling, additional life. Should there be carpeting? Should we simply relocate--permanently--to the first floor?
There aren't answers. Eventually, there's a shrug, and the conversation shifts toward the grocery list. And time marches on.
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