Carrie was sitting on the couch in the loft talking to a woman who appeared fairly ordinary. Becca had straight blond hair and the sort of long, thin nose that makes you think it could suck martinis out of a glass on its own. She’d just moved into a new apartment in the East 70s and was explaining the pros and cons of hiring a decorator—“One friend couldn’t get this decorator to stop buying things, it was awful”—when suddenly she was interrupted by a five-year-old girl in a frilly dress and a black ribbon in her hair. “Mommy, I want the tit,” demanded the child.
“Alexandra!” (Why is practically every kid named Alexander or Alexandra these days?) Becca said in a stage whisper. “Not now. Go and watch videos.”
“But he’s having titty milk,” said the child, pointing to a woman who was nursing a baby in the corner.
“He’s a baby. A little bitty baby,” said Becca. “You can have juice.”
“I don’t want juice,” Alexandra said. She actually had her hands on her hips.
Becca rolled her eyes. She stood and hauled the little girl onto her lap. The girl immediately started fussing with her mother’s blouse.
“Are you still . . . breast feeding?” Carrie asked, as politely as possible.
“Sometimes,” Becca said. “My husband wanted to have another child right away, and I didn’t. It’s so much work having a kid in New York. Isn’t it, you little monster?” She gazed down at her child, who was now sucking her thumb, staring up at Mother, waiting for the unbuttoning. The child turned to Carrie, fixing her with an evil eye. “Titty milk. Titty milk,” she said.
“Come on, Alexandra, I’ll take you to the bathroom,” said Becca. “We keep meaning to stop this now, don’t we?”
The child nodded.
Becca wasn’t the only mother at the party having problems getting an appropriate grip on her relationship with her child. Off in the bed
room, Julie, a small, dark-haired woman who manages a restaurant, was perched next to her six-year-old son, Barry. Barry is an adorable child, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his mother, with his dark curls. But he didn’t look happy. He clung to Julie ferociously; when someone else tried to talk to her, he crawled all over her. “Oh, get off me. You’re such a pain,” Julie said to Barry, but she didn’t really do anything about it. Barry won’t play with the other children, nor will he let Julie talk to any adults. Later on, Carrie found out that it’s always like this with the two of them—they go to parties, sometimes adult parties, and talk only to each other. She also learned that Julie keeps a mattress in Barry’s room; most nights, she sleeps on the mattress. Julie’s husband sleeps in the other room. They are planning on getting divorced.
“Well, that’s pretty normal,” said Janice, a corporate lawyer, who is one of the few psycho moms who has no problem admitting it. “I love my son,” she said. “Andy is eleven months old. He is a god, and I tell him every day. The other day I found him in his crib saying, ‘Me, me, me.’
“I was driven to have a baby since I was thirty,” she continued. “So when I finally had him [she’s now thirty-six], I was like, This is my calling in life. I’m a mom. I wasn’t going to go back to work, but frankly, after three months, I knew I had to go back to work. I’m in his face too much. In the park, I’m jumping up and down in front of him—the nannies think I’m crazy. I kiss him a thousand times a day. I can’t wait to get home to give him a bath. His body makes me crazy. I never felt this way about any man.”
Janice went on to say that if she sees Andy glance at another child’s toy, she has to go out and buy it for him. One time she thought he was looking at something called the exer-saucer. She finally found it on 14th Street, and she was running down 14th Street with it on her head because she couldn’t get a cab and she couldn’t wait to bring it home to him. “People were literally pointing at me on the street,” she said. “Everyone thought I was insane. Then I get home and I give it to him and he starts crying.”
Why is she like this? “It’s something about New York,” she said. She shrugged. “It’s competitive. I want my son to have everything everybody else has, and more. Plus, I always wanted a boy. Sons always take care of their mothers.”
THE NANNY CAMERA
In other words, after years of men who won’t make commitments and can’t be depended on, a son becomes a man substitute. “Oh, yeah,” said Janice. “You can’t trust men. You can’t trust anyone who isn’t your blood.
“My husband is really a second-class citizen,” she said. “I used to be pretty crazy about him, but then the baby came along. Now, if he’s like, ‘Could you please get me a Diet Coke?’ I tell him to buzz off.”
Meanwhile, a small, wary crowd had gathered in the middle of the loft. Wobbling a bit was a tiny girl wearing pink ballet slippers and a tutu. “Brooke insisted on wearing her ballet outfit today. Isn’t it adorable?” said a tall, beaming woman. “When I tried to put pants on her, she started crying. She knew. She knew she had to wear her ballet outfit today so she could put on a performance, didn’t she, pumpkin? Didn’t she, pumpkin?” The woman stooped, her hands clasped to her chest, her head cocked, and her face frozen in a large fake smile inches from the child’s face. Then she began making odd gesturing motions.
“Blow a kiss. Blow a kiss,” she said. The little girl, smiling fixedly, brought her little palm to her mouth and then whooshed out air between her lips. The mother screamed wildly.
“She curtseys, too,” Amanda said with some derision to Carrie. “She does tricks. Her mother got Brooke on the cover of one of those baby magazines, and since then, she’s gone nuts. Every time we call her, she’s rushing Brooke off to a ‘go-see.’ She’s with a modeling agency. I mean, she’s cute, but . . .”
Just then, another mother walked by, holding the hand of a two-year-old boy. “Look, Garrick, table. Table, Garrick. Can you say table? What do we do at a table? Eat, Garrick. We eat at a table. Can you spell table? T-a-b-l-e. Garrick, rug. Garrick. R-u-g, rug, Garrick . . .”
Amanda started making onion dip. “Excuse me,” said Georgia, a woman in a checked suit. “Onion dip? Just be sure to keep it away from the kids. The salt and fat makes them nuts.” This sentiment, however, did not prevent her from dipping her finger into the heinous concoction and sticking it in her mouth.
“Hey, have you guys checked out the Sutton Gym?” Georgia asked. “It’s fabulous. You have to take Chester to the Sutton. It’s like a David Barton gym for kids. Has he started to talk yet? If he has, maybe we could make a playdate. Rosie is nearly one, but I want to start her on improving playdates.
“I also recommend the baby massage class at the 92nd Street Y. Very bonding. You’re not still breast feeding, are you? I didn’t think so.” Georgia extracted another glop of onion dip. “Say, how’s your nanny?”
“Fine,” Amanda said, glancing at Packard.
“She’s from Jamaica. We’re lucky to have her,” Packard said.
“Yeah, but are you sure she’s taking good care of little Chester?” Georgia asked.
“He seems fine to me,” Packard said.