I had been home for two days and had graduated from baby incubator to milk dispenser. I settled the baby in his pack ’n’ play, and then I collapsed on the sofa. Just when I thought I might catch a moment’s rest, the dog came running at me full force, jumped up, and grabbed a boob in her mouth. I pushed her away and she nipped at my shirt again. I loved my dog. I didn’t want to become one of those women who neglected her animal when the baby arrived, but I had to draw a line. I was not going to breastfeed a canine. Satchie Red, who had always mostly ignored me, now, for the first time in her life, wanted attention. There would be no rest. Instead, I got up to eat while I had the chance, making sure I had enough sustenance to provide for my baby vulture’s next ravenous feeding.
When he began to wail, I picked him up and brought him to the Papasan chair in the nursery, where I sat cross-legged, stuffing my giant raw nipple into his mouth. Chris had somehow completed the renovations while I was in the hospital. I have no idea if he hired a crew or if he did it himself in between hospital visits and work, or if it was divine intervention, but I wasn’t going to question it.
The house felt fresh and crisp. As far as I could tell, nothing was in imminent danger of falling down anymore. We even had a door! It was as though at the exact moment my son was ripped from my womb, some sort of equilibrium within the universe had balanced everything out. The baby had been sucking the life force out of me, Chris, and the house, but now our child was here and all was calm.
I looked down at the faint dent on my son’s forehead, running my finger over it. It would be gone soon. He had been pressed up against the Monsters for so long that his neck muscles had strengthened, and he could already hold up his head on his own. He had the bluest eyes and wisps of blond hair on the tippy top of his head, and was the spitting image of the baby in the photograph on his dresser dated 1933, the year my father was born.
When we were done nursing, I gathered him close and began the slow, painful process of coming to a standing position. My foot caught in the chair and I lurched forward, baby in arms. There was no stopping the momentum. Cupping his head with my hands to break the blow, I slammed my knee down hard on the wood floor. Two gigantic milk-filled breasts bounced on top of him, smooshing his face. There was a thud and then we were both still. I lifted my body, preparing for the worst. Six days old—had I killed him already? I looked at him. I could swear the kid raised one eyebrow as if to say, “What the fuck, lady?” But he wasn’t crying—not until he saw my face, which was twisted in horror. It dawned on me that this human being was depending on me for guidance. My reaction dictated his. This was parenthood. I met his big blue eyes. “Don’t worry, kid, I’ve got this. We’re going to be okay.”
With fifty people set to come to my house the next day to have a party for my baby’s penis, I asked Chris to meet me for lunch at a café. I was free from my shackles, and even though it took almost an hour to pack the diaper bag and dress the baby, I was emotionally rejuvenated. I took tiny, excruciating steps, every unplanned movement, sneeze, and twitch feeling like it would tear my healing scar open. Recovery was slow, because of both the surgery and the months of bed rest that preceded it, but I was allowed out of the house for as long as I wanted.
Chris and I sat at an outdoor table at the café, Remington sleeping beside me in his stroller. With the gestational diabetes gone, I ordered all varieties of carbs: panini, chips, sweetened iced tea. Local folks I hadn’t seen in months, who had no knowledge of my ordeal, peered into the carriage to get a glimpse of the baby. That fall day, sitting in an outdoor café with my little family was everything I had ever wanted.
The Brooklyn Jews arrived in waves, filling the house with coats, gifts, and boxes of rugelach. With every new arrival, the house bulged with kinehoras and mazels until Chris wondered out loud if the family room could support the weight. The women went to work in the kitchen, unwrapping, plating, stirring, and cooking, their long skirts swooshing as they chopped, sliced, and set the silver. Husbands milled around on the deck admiring the view, asking Chris questions about our expansive yard, our garden, and the integrity of the barn. For the most part I stayed in the nursery, listening from afar and signing official documents the mohel produced. But eventually I couldn’t resist venturing out. The hum of the house was protective and welcoming. My father’s cousins, neighbors from down the road, my friends from the ’hood all showed up, including Watson, who stood on the steps and declared, “It’s not that bad up here.” I gave both him and his wife long hugs as their kids scampered in.
Chris’s mother was surprised to see so many people squeezed into our old farmhouse. She stood just out of the way in the hall, wanting to help but not quite sure how to enter the cyclone of activity. I understood her hesitation. It was like to trying to jump onto a moving Tilt-A-Whirl, only with knives and herring flying around.
When the time came, my brother called for me, and I carried the baby across the worn brown carpet into the living room, surrounded by friends and family. No one seemed to notice or care that the room was stuck in a seventies time warp. One by one, I looked around at each of their faces as they chatted, gesticulated, and threw back glasses of celebratory wine. My two worlds had finally collided in this space overlooking the Shawangunk Ridge; Brooklyn had come to me. There was laughter and love in that room.
Everyone quieted down as I handed the baby to the mohel. I moved toward the back because I was told it’s too much for a mother to bear, but in the end, my baby, the taste of sweet wine on his tongue and not a little bit of numbing lotion on his nether region, did not make a peep. It was over in a jiffy, and he was back in my arms. I showed him off to the crowd as my mother’s friends formed a protective circle around me, not consciously, but because each one of them considered me her own.
Now it was a full-blown party, and joy permeated every rickety corner. My brother was introducing himself to anyone he didn’t already know, trying to find out their political affiliations. Mud-soaked children ran up and down the driveway, as my mother pushed lox and sable like a meth dealer. “You want a little? You’re doing me a favor. Take it.” As I watched the festivities, I noticed that Jackie was missing. I had a feeling that, like an angel who came into my life just when I needed her, I would be hearing from her a lot less.
By the time everyone was ready to leave, I was exhausted and my pain medication was wearing off, but I rallied to express my gratitude and say goodbye. With fifty guests, we had gotten creative with the parking, and many had lined up their cars in the field across the street. Watson was the first to reappear speckled with mud after saying his goodbyes.
“Minivan’s stuck. I have to get out of here. It’s going to be dark soon.”
“Watson, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon.”
“Don’t be nitpicky. There are no streetlights here. We need to get out. We need to get out now.”
“Okay. Let’s not panic.”
“We may have to sleep over. Do you have space for us to sleep over? It’s Erev Yom Kippur, you know.”
As I was heading toward the door, my brother appeared. “My minivan is stuck. I’m spinning my wheels.”
Soon others came back making the same declaration. It was amusing at first, but the lightheartedness faded as the sun dipped below the mountains.
Chris brought out metal grates for traction, country folk took the wheel, and everybody pushed. Mud splattered, grass flew, tires roared, and engines whirred. The men took turns rocking the cars back and forth, to no avail.
“Get the diesel,” I called to Chris.
“Big city editor has a diesel, you believe that shit?” my brother Mark quipped to Watson.
Chris came back with the diesel, blocked the road, and hitched chains to one minivan at a time. My father’s cousin, a feisty older woman draped in cashmere and silk, took the wheel of one of the cars. “Keep it straight, keep it straight,” she was advised, and to this day she swears she did, but I have a photo saying otherwise. People began arguing strategy. My brother took over his own steering wheel as four other men pushed. “Go, go, go,” they shouted, but just as we thought his car was free, Mark slammed his brakes, afraid to pull out onto the road. “In the city we don’t floor it without looking.” His wheels began to spin again, and we had to start over.
One by one the cars were pulled free and sent on their way. I stood and witnessed it all, in no condition to be useful other than to provide moral support peppered with the occasional sarcastic commentary. With the last car on solid ground, Chris came to my side and put his arm around me as we watched my closest friends and family depart. It was hard to see them go, especially Watson, who had promised to come up and visit again sometime. “I could see it happening,” he said, giving me a final hug goodbye.
My husband pulled me close, my face pressing against his mud-covered shirt. I laughed and tried to struggle free, but he held me tight in his grip. We had a long way to go to heal our relationship, especially with the stress of a new baby, but I had faith we would persevere.
Watson honked his horn as he pulled away. I thought of The Ten-Second Seduction. Covered in mud, hitched to a man who sells power equipment, with a post-pregnancy body to boot, I was no longer a contender to be the seductress of Ulster County. It didn’t matter. There was a whole new life unfolding before me. The past was behind me. It was a past filled with beauty and pain, and not a small dose of uncertainty. It was a past brimming with the delicious memories of my father, and though I wanted to hold on, I knew I had to let go if I was going to create a worthwhile future.
The last red streaks of daylight were fading behind the mountain. My father was there, watching all of this, laughing. I heard his voice crystal clear: “You see, Kabeen, I told you, it’s all been taken care of.”
I studied the curve of Chris’s cheekbones. His face had a new hardness to it. He was strong and solid. As though he were part of the conversation with my father, he said, “Things always have a way of working out.”
I reached up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned and met my lips. Then he headed toward the diesel while I returned to the house to find my son. My mother-in-law was cuddling Remington, sitting and chatting with the last few guests in the family room. Standing before her, she placed him in my waiting arms. I cradled him to my body and carried him to his room, where we sat nursing on the Papasan. Through the closed door, I could hear the sweet din of laughter.