Isabella wanted Izzy to have the best of everything. The best source of food and nutrients. The best pediatrician. The best schools. She and Oliver were even preparing to shift their work schedules so they would never have to use a nanny.
Goodness, I hope I can live up to my sister’s wishes.
“Would you like some help?” Christina offers, and I nod dramatically.
“Help would be greatly appreciated.”
The nurse lifts Izzy out of the bassinet, and I glance down once more at the phone that’s still in my hands. Remy’s text still sits prominently on the screen.
But the crying baby heading my way quickly becomes my priority.
Which, I guess, is the way it should be. And while there’s a part of me that would relish support from someone like Remy, I know my truth.
From here on out, it’s just Izzy and me.
Saturday, October 5th
Maria
When I was about seven months pregnant with Izzy, I watched a documentary where a forty-year-old woman ran a marathon, one week after her six-week postpartum checkup, with her baby in a stroller.
She made it look so easy. Like, she was all healed up and just crushing the whole motherhood thing so much that she had time to fit running 26.2 miles into her schedule.
Naïvely, after seeing that, I thought I’d be rocking and rolling just like her when I reached this point. Like my six-week postpartum appointment was going to be some kind of momentous occasion where I’d feel victorious.
Hence, why I thought I could fit it in during Dr. Maddox’s Saturday hours, on the same day as a listing appointment with a new client, and somehow juggle it all with a big-ass smile and happy baby to boot.
Ha. The joke is very much on me. And I now know that documentary woman was either a psychopath or a robot.
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I tell Izzy, but her cries only get louder, bouncing off the walls of the small exam room in piercing waves.
To her? It is most definitely not okay. Apparently nothing is okay right now in Izzy’s little life.
Her cries only get louder, and I pull the flimsy paper gown around myself, trying to hold it in place with my right hand as I rock her stroller back and forth with my left.
Izzy’s been cranky around this time every day for the last several days in a row, and no matter what, I never know how to fix it. It’s as if she’s opposed to the angle of the sun—except she’s inside in a room without a window.
Gah, I just wish there was a way to know what’s upsetting her.
I rock the stroller faster and faster until the hiccup in her cry is less shaky, and I glance at the clock yet again. The doctor is evidently running behind this morning, and for someone on as tight of a schedule as I am, it’s the last thing I need.
Izzy’s pacifier falls to the side, and I grab it as quick as I can and push it back into her mouth. Her eyes are fluttering just enough that I know sleep has to be somewhere on the horizon. It’d be helpful if the horizon seemed a little closer, seeing as I’d like to spread my legs for my physician without holding a baby at the same time and then make it across town to my listing appointment without trying to tell my client “The hardwood floors are original!” over the sounds of Izzy’s wailing.
Her eyes blink heavily, and I have to caution myself not to rock the stroller faster with my eagerness. Finding something that works with a baby is a lot like finding something that works with sex. Don’t go faster, don’t go harder, don’t change the rhythm—don’t move a fucking muscle that you’re not currently moving.
And what exactly do you know about sex these days? It’s only been eleventy billion years since you’ve had it.
I hear the doctor chatting with a nurse outside the door and grit my teeth while appealing to the universe. Please, I beg of you. Let them come into this room as quietly as they possibly can. Like church mice, in the middle of a priest’s sermon, with the Virgin Mary herself standing at the altar.
As Dr. Maddox and her nurse continue to chat about a new upscale Japanese restaurant in SoHo, I will Izzy to take the plunge into dreamland. Back and forth, back and forth, I watch as the tension in her tiny body finally leaves on a whimpering sigh. She’s still in the twilight stage of sleep, but I can attest to the fact that she’s due to pass out—we partied all night together last night—and her body’s needs should take over soon. At least, I hope.
I really, really hope.
Finally, there’s a knock on the door, just two quick raps of knuckles and then the door is swinging open, and it all occurs without startling Izzy. Thank everything! I shift back onto the table and rearrange my gown—a practice in modesty I don’t really understand, given the fact that the whole purpose of this appointment is for the good doctor to spend some time between my legs.