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It’s often the wives who catch baby fever first, but things worked backwards for us. Even before our wedding day, we both knew that Chris wanted children more than I did. As a young, optimistic bride-to-be, I felt so full and complete in my love for my husband I never understood the need to invite another living being into our familial bliss.
Then after the wedding, after the powerful bonds of Chris’s anger reared their ugly head, I couldn’t fathom subjecting an innocent child to that degree of volatility.
But Chris came from a rather large family. (In spite of his parents’ pure hatred for one another, they managed to produce four children). And once you had gotten him so involved in that Truth Warriors movement with their somewhat rigid concept of biblical masculinity, he grew more and more convinced it was time to start a family of our own.
We had quite a few arguments about it at first. What about law school? What about rent? Childcare? I was adamant that I wouldn’t give up working for Reginald. Because as that winter thawed into spring and spring burst into summer, I grew fiercely loyal to my friend, and no amount of sermons or books on wifely submission could convince me to give up my job at the bookstore when it was so clear that my employer needed me. We were kindred spirits, Reginald and I, more than either of us realized at the time. Then again, Reginald was far more perceptive than I am, so maybe he knew before I did.
But still, I refused to give up my nights at his store in order to rock a baby to sleep. I’d never forgive myself for letting Reginald down like that.
If my obstinacy displeased my husband, who’d listened to those CD sermons on biblical masculinity (and the complementary definition of wifely submission) so many times he probably had them all memorized, he didn’t show it. “I’ll watch her in the evenings.” Chris was already convinced our first child would be a little girl. He’d even settled on the name Grace. “That way you can get out of the house a few hours a night, and it will give me and her some one-on-one time together.”
“What about Saturdays?”
“I could watch her all day. I wouldn’t mind.”
Leave it to the dad to forget about a baby’s basic need for survival. “What if she’s nursing?”
I thought I might have won the argument, but Chris’s grand idea was to ask Reginald if I could bring a baby to work with me, and Reginald was so supportive he bought us a two-night stay at Davenport, one of Spokane’s most romantic B&Bs — honeymoon suite, fancy champagne, everything.
We didn’t get pregnant at Davenport. In fact, my body seemed in no hurry to get pregnant whatsoever. But the extra time gave me a chance to adjust to the idea of becoming a mother. Once I got in the habit of going out every evening to work with Reginald in his store, I found myself bored the rest of the day with very little to do other than stare at piles of laundry I didn’t have the gumption to fold and put away. Maybe a baby would do me good. I was also beginning to realize that the reason my scribbles would never be worthy of publication was because I had so few life experiences to draw from. I wasn’t ready to talk about depression, and I couldn’t publish anything about my upbringing without invoking a lethal dose of maternal wrath. (I still have no clue how Amy Tan manages to write what she does.) Maybe having a baby would grant me some additional life experiences that might one day work their way into a novel.
By the time fall rolled around, everyone was infected with baby fever — Chris, myself, and Reginald too. After treating us to that B&B, even though our luxurious stay didn’t result in the sort of exciting announcement he’d been hoping for, I think he felt somewhat responsible for the blessed event whenever it did occur. It was endearing. He was already talking to a contractor to have the back office converted into a nursery. I’ve never witnessed somebody age in reverse, but that’s what this as-of-yet unconceived child did for Reginald. He came from a Catholic background, and I made him cry when I asked him to become our child’s godfather.
He gave me a raise (since I would soon be eating for two) and refused to let me lift any of the heavy boxes when we got a delivery in. I’m sure that store of his — and the cost of keeping me employed — left him several thousand dollars in the hole at the end of every month, but he had the money to spend on it and he was doing what he loved.
I hate that I haven’t gone to see him in so long. It’s wrong of me. It really is. Now that I’m back in town, I owe him a visit. He’s the only one who loves Grace as much as I do. Considers her as his honorary godchild even after everything we went through.
Poor Reginald.