Chapter 12
Twelve
Eight months later
Becca
Nico giddily pushes two buggies at once around the baby section, loading them with onesies, blankets, and a really expensive breast pump.
And still, we have enough left over for a crib.
I shake my head as I choose between two bafflingly complex baby monitors. “If Mama knew we traded Waterford crystal water goblets for sippy cups, she’d lose her mind.”
“Let’s spare her the details,” Nico says, eyeing a baby-wearing harness, then tossing it into the buggy.
Mama hasn’t been interested in any of the details about our life for about eight months.
I’ve been sending her updates. My first doctor appointment.
The first time we heard the baby’s heartbeat.
The progression of fruit-related measurements.
“Baby is now the size of an avocado.” Or, “Baby Mango can’t wait to meet you. ”
No responses from her.
Daddy has been supportive, though. He and I have met for coffee and treats at Four and Twenty Bakery three times since Mama stopped talking to me.
He told me that they are “working on things.” I got the sense that he meant they were working on more than Mama’s attitude with me.
My daddy, a man of few words, seemed to be signaling to me that they were going to couple’s therapy. Didn’t see that coming.
I guess Mama will reach out when she’s ready. Hopefully before this baby turns 18.
It happens as I squat down to get a better look at the price tag on one of the cribs.
“Damn, why’d they put the tag way down here on the leg? Making a pregnant woman squat…oh!”
The water breaking is just like it happens on a sitcom.
Except, there’s so much of it. And everything starts to shift.
“Um…Nico?”
“Baby, are you stuck again? Here, take my hand…oh shit!”
Nico has come over to help me stand up, thinking that I’ve gotten myself stuck somehow, only to be surprised by the puddle of water at our feet.
“Baby?”
I don’t know if he’s asking about our baby or addressing me. I go with, “Yes, Nico. The baby is coming.”
Baby Valentina is born on February 14. She arrives in three pushes after an epidural that’s so good I jokingly propose a poly family with the anesthesiologist.
As the little one lies on my bare chest in the recovery room, Nico counts her ten fingers, her ten toes, and then starts all over again.
“I can’t believe she’s here,” I say.
Our daughter has Nico’s brown eyes and dimpled chin. She has my grumpy face when people talk too loudly when I’m trying to sleep. Her feathery hair sticks straight up and looks like mine, but I’m told it’s too soon to tell what her actual hair color will be.
Nico is vigilant as I doze off, lulled to sleep with the sound of tiny baby breaths, her little fist wrapped around my finger.
“She’s the best baby I’ve ever seen,” he whispers.
“Ten out of ten,” I say sleepily. “Would recommend.”
It may be that our life will never be the same as it was before, but so far, it’s looking pretty damn great.
We spend 48 blissful hours, the three of us in our tiny hospital room, learning each other, knitting together our little family.
We learn that Valentina is the kind of baby who fights sleep, struggling to keep her big eyes open and alert, not wanting to miss anything.
I learn that breastfeeding is a lot more difficult than what the books tell you, despite mothers having done this successfully for millennia without manuals.
But when Valentina finally learns to latch on, we find out this is a sure-fire way to get her to sleep.
This may not bode well for when I have to go back to work, but we’ll figure it out. In that way, I’m lucky. The firm has a room set aside for mothers who need to pump at work.
Childcare is still a question mark. None of the all-day childcare places meet Nico’s personal standards. Either they’re not clean and organized enough for him, or they’re too expensive. After doing the math, any paid childcare is going to eat through over half my wages.
Fortunately, I have a month of paid family leave to figure it out.
When we drive back to the apartment, I’m looking forward to a quiet bedroom, with no nurses coming in and out to check on the baby and me.
I’m jolted fully awake when we pull into the parking lot to find none other than my parents’ BMW idling in the visitor’s spot.
“Don’t worry. I got this,” Nico says.
I rest my hand on his forearm. “It’s fine. Let me handle it.”
They step out of the car as we park, both of them watching us with some kind of look on their faces. Cautiously optimistic?
“Mama. Daddy,” I say.
My mother is the first to speak. Obviously.
“Your daddy and I went to see someone, and they told us…”
My father, Christopher Warren Wright III, who I don’t think has ever apologized for anything in his life, steps in. “We’re sorry for the way we handled things. And if it’s okay with you, we’d like to meet our granddaughter.”
My father has a way of getting straight to the point. What I’m gathering here is that my parents spoke to someone, a professional, it sounds like, to counsel them on things. Maybe on lots of things.
“Of course,” I say, not quite ready to accept their apology.
I may never forget how my mother acted leading up to the non-wedding, but now that Valentina is here, something has shifted with all of us.
This is what matters. This baby girl needs to grow up in a stable, loving home.
That’s been Nico’s number one thought, remembering how he grew up with so few adults he could rely on.
As for me, well, my mother and I may never be best friends.
I may always be envious of other mothers and daughters who seem to be on the same wavelength, or who at least understand each other.
No, we’ll never have that. But Valentina does not deserve to be collateral damage.
Nico, carefully keeping an eye on us, removes the car seat holding Valentina and brings her over to where we’re standing. He has the energy of someone carrying the crown jewels.
I hold my breath as my mother leans over the baby, reaching for her.
My father gently places a hand on Mama’s arm. “Not yet. I read somewhere about how you have to be careful until the baby gets vaccinated.”
Mama clucks, “Oh come on, now. I’ve got all my shots.”
Daddy lowers his chin and looks at her over his glasses. “Big picture, Mary Pat.”
I have never in my life heard my father say the phrase “big picture.” Nor cite any type of article about child rearing. But then again, I never expected my parents to seek out professional help.
Mama catches the look on Daddy’s face, and she pulls back. The fuse is snuffed. She recenters herself, clasps her hands together, and smiles at Valentina, whose big eyes are watching her, gathering data.
“She’s beautiful. She looks just like you, Nico.”
I nod. “Her hair might change color, they said. Her eyes, too.”
Mom pats my arm, the first affectionate touch from her I’ve had in a while. Maybe since Nico and I got engaged. “I always said you two would make cute babies.”
Did she? I look over at Nico, whose head is tilted. He catches my glance and smiles. We share a silent conversation. Did she say that? Sure, sure. We’ll let her have that.
I think about inviting them inside to talk. I think about asking Daddy to elaborate on what he meant. What he and Mama had been working on together.
“I got an invitation to the baby shower,” Mama says. “I’ve never been to one that was hosted after the baby was born. Never even heard of such a thing.”
“It’s pretty common nowadays,” I say, trying not to sound like a correction, just a fact.
“And I never in my life have I seen a baby registry for a store like that.”
I’m so tired that my blood pressure doesn’t even go up at my mother’s mild prodding about my choice of baby gift registry at an all-handmade store online. I’m so tired I could fall asleep standing up.
I study the way my mother’s face softens when she looks at Valentina.
“Maybe in a few weeks, before the baby shower, we’ll bring Valentina over for some grandparent time,” I say.
I feel Nico’s eyebrows rise in my peripheral vision. But I mean it. I want our child to have a chance at a real grandparent relationship. Daddy smiles, and his shoulders relax a little.
Mama touches one of Valentina’s blanket-covered feet, addressing the baby and not me.
“Of course, you’re coming to see me first. I think that’s proper.
And we’ll take lots of pictures and make sure to send them to the sorority sisters and make them all real, real jealous, because all their kids had ugly, ugly babies. ”
Good lord, this woman.
Nico and I exchange another look. Nothing changes on a dime.
Progress. It counts.
Mama and Daddy leave, but not before Daddy hands me a check. Mama pretends not to see it.
“This is the first lump sum from your trust,” he says. “For whatever you need. You, the baby, and Nico.”
I blink at him, waiting for the conditions.
He can tell what I’m thinking. He smiles, gets into the car, and they drive away.
I look up at Nico.
“Was that a fever dream?” Nico asks.
“No. I think that was a solid eight months of therapy.”
I reach for the car seat, but Nico dodges me, insisting I climb the stairs to our second-floor apartment empty-handed. He walks behind me as I climb slowly, so slowly, still feeling sore and sensitive everywhere.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I put the key in the lock and open the door.
“Welcome home, baby,” I say, looking at our place that was cluttered with boxes and wedding decor just a few short months ago. Now, boxes of baby things have taken over. A high chair, a bouncy seat, play mats, and more boxes of things we’ve yet to assemble.
“Not sure I want to even try to assemble the crib until we move into a two-bedroom,” I say, trudging to the bed and kicking off my shoes.
I gingerly curl on my side on the bed, and Nico, having taken Valentina out of her car seat, lays her on the bed next to me.
I feed her while Nico makes several trips back and forth from the car.
My purse. The diaper bag. Several bags of personal care items sent home with us from the hospital to help me recover. Our suitcases.
“Have you asked if there are any two-bedrooms available?” I ask Nico.
Lately, he’s been even busier than I am, picking up extra shifts.
“Not yet,” he says.
“It’s fine. The bassinet will be enough for now,” I say, yawning as the baby suckles. I curl my body around her and close my eyes.
I don’t know at what point I fall asleep, but when I wake up, I find Nico asleep in the recliner in the living room, Valentina curled up like a little bug on his chest, his hand spanning her entire back, protectively.
My heart cracks open. Is it strange to feel a kind of sadness along with the love and happiness at a moment like this? It’s the knowing. The sudden understanding of how fleeting this is, and how daunting these parent-child relationships are.
Soon, our baby will be too big to snuggle into Nico’s chest, and I’m both sad and happy about it.
I want to stop time already.
But one thing that won’t change is how loved this baby will always and how loved I will always be.
I loved Nico from the beginning, and I can’t imagine doing this life with anyone else.