I give her a thin smile back. It sucks that I can’t seem to make myself totally immune to her disappointment. She’ll never stop hinting—rather obviously—until I give her grandchildren. And that’s plural, because while she’s annoyed that Eugene hasn’t produced more, she’s also accepted that it isn’t going to happen. I don’t know why it’s become my duty—she should freeze his assets until he procreates more!—but it makes me feel like an unused baby-making machine at times.
“If this one”—Mom indicates me—“ever gets around to marrying and producing some grandchildren for me to bounce on my knees. Ideally before I become too old and arthritic.”
“Mom, you’ll never be arthritic,” I say, switching to Korean and doing my best not to be sarcastic. Mom strides like a model in her high heels and has an army of masseuses and assistants to make her life run smoothly.
“You never know, dear. I’m not getting any younger,” she says.
“None of us are.”
“Obviously. Now stop talking back to your mother. It’s unbecoming.” She turns back to my friends. “Ivy? Tony? Do you mind if I take pictures of the babies? I want my husband to see them.”
Oh, crap. No, no, no…
If Dad sees Mom holding the babies, he’s going to tell me to get married and pop some out. Dad can be weirdly greedy about grandbabies. He is even unhappier than Mom that Eugene hasn’t produced more than one child. He told Eugene so at a family dinner once in front of his wife, and Eugene responded that it wasn’t due to a weekly lack of trying. My brother doesn’t seem to care that I didn’t need to know the frequency of his attempts, because that’s gross—although thinking back on it, I think he lied. He doesn’t have the time to do that sort of activity with his wife.
So that made Dad even more determined to marry me off, ideally to some virile young stud—I mean, a young, wealthy, overeducated chaebol heir with a high sperm count, a very private piece of information that I’m certain Dad’s people can unearth, because they’re scary like that. He wouldn’t care that I don’t want to have a merger husband and merger babies.
“Go ahead,” Tony says, apparently oblivious to my desperate telepathic message asking him to say no.
“Thank you.” Mom turns to Ms. Lim, who pulls out her phone and snaps a few pictures. “Send the best ones to my husband. Tell him we’re doing fabulously. Also tell him Yuna’s well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mom turns back to Ivy. “Do you have nannies yet?”
“Not yet. We thought it might be best for us to enjoy our time with the babies.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t, but dear, how can you enjoy the babies if you don’t sleep?”
“Tony and I are taking tur—”
“It sounds romantic and wonderful to say you’re going to do it yourself, but in reality, it’s awful. Sleep deprivation is a killer. It destroys marriages and puts wrinkles on your otherwise pretty face. Not even facials and Botox can fix them.”
“Mom, I’m sure Ivy’s thought of everything,” I say.
“Everyone thinks they’ve thought of everything until they realize they haven’t. It’s especially true of new parents.”
“Hiring nannies feels like a lot of work,” Ivy explains. “All the background checks and everything. It makes me a little nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous, my dear. All desirable things require work. I can still point out the wrinkles I got from lack of sleep after I had Eugene and Yuna.”
Here we go again, I think with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Her war stories and battle scars. Maybe I should tell her that since I don’t want to get wrinkles, I don’t want to have babies. Which means I don’t need a husband.
“Babies never, ever sleep through anything, in my experience. And after four days of no sleep, I gave up and hired a nanny. But with you, you have twins. There’s no guarantee they’re going to wake up at the same time to be fed. For all you know, they might alternate. And if they alternate, they’re going to wake each other up.”
Horror slowly dawns on Ivy and Tony’s faces. Yup. That’s my mom, the Edgar Allen Poe of new maternity.
“If you want, I can bring the nannies who took care of Minho. That’s Eugene’s son. I don’t think you met him.”
“I don’t think they’ve met Eugene,” I add.
“And if they’re not to your liking, I have a list of trilingual nannies I made for Yuna’s children, so they can naturally acquire three languages. Since Yuna’s being uncooperative, I don’t mind letting you use them instead, Ivy.” Mom smiles sweetly.
I try not to roll my eyes. She’s trying so, so hard to make me feel bad about not getting married and giving her all the grandchildren she wants. But if I tried to satisfy her need for grandchildren, I’d have to pop out enough to fill a symphony orchestra.
“We’ll definitely think about it. Thank you,” Ivy says.
“All right. Then I won’t bother you anymore about that, because I’m really here to cuddle with the babies.” Mom kisses Sebastian’s forehead. “Afterward, Yuna, you and I are going to have dinner and discuss some things.”