Baby Love Read online

  May 24

  Spoke with my artist friend Sarah today. She gets the prize for the most foot-in-mouth response: You’re pregnant? Oh my God, congratulations! My friend just had a miscarriage.

  After an awkward pause, I said, Yeah, well, I’m not going to be having one of those, thank you very much, and then we both cracked up.

  I’ve been getting e-mails from all over and they are all so beautiful and supportive. Yesterday Rikke wrote that I shouldn’t worry, there is a reason it takes nine months to give birth: That’s how long it takes for the reality of it to set in.

  May 26

  We got to Mendocino last night to find that a mouse has eaten through all of my clothes. I came up to bed and found one arm of my black sweater, chewed off as perfectly as a piece cut from a dress pattern, lying on the floor. We’ve got to get a cat. Or call Terminix.

  On the way up from the city, Glen and I got into a huge argument about the birth and who will attend. My fantasy is that everyone I know and love will climb into the hot tub-cum-birthing pool with me. They will rub my legs and massage lavender essential oil into my scalp. Those who don’t want to be in the water, or need a break from the festivities, will take shifts operating the iPod, or cooking. Every half hour I will be offered a fresh serving of pasta with garlic and oil, or organic chocolate cake. When the baby is born, everyone will say a blessing from a different spiritual tradition before we cut the cord.

  Glen thinks my polytheistic fiesta theme is unrealistic and unsafe and doesn’t honor the primacy of our relationship. He said he refused to be a part of a birth that was more than five miles from a hospital. He kept asking where we, as a couple, fit into my vision. Is there anything that is only for us? he wanted to know. Had I considered the impact that sharing such a major event will have on our intimacy as a couple? And what if something goes wrong? Do we really want that many people in the middle of such a critical moment?

  He made some good points, but I wasn’t ready to hear them. Instead I launched into a tirade about how it is my birth experience, and it should be however I want it to be, and how dare he even ask about us. For God’s sake, I yelled, we have the rest of our lives to be together, why on earth should we be so precious and controlling about the birth? And anyway, I yelled, studies show that women surrounded by family and friends have shorter, easier labors. To which Glen replied, Well, that’s great, but have there been any studies on the divorce rates for those women?

  After a few minutes of strained silence, I had a flash of the baby and how arguments like these might frighten him or her, if they don’t already. I thought about something Glen and I have talked a lot about: not arguing, and prioritizing peace between us over whatever ideas our intellects have gotten hooked on. I never want ideology or “being right” to take precedence over loving one another and being a family. There’s just too much to lose. The baby’s mental health and Glen himself are just a couple of things that come to mind.

  And so I am rethinking the birth plan, and telling the little voice that wants everything her way that she has to be open. You’re not alone anymore, I keep telling her. And that’s a good thing. Yeah, right, she says, and turns her face the other way.

  Before we went to bed, we talked about names. I’ve been calling the baby Milarepa, after a Buddhist ascetic who tamed both human beings and animals by singing to them.

  Maybe we should name the cat Milarepa. Or the mouse.

  May 28

  Carl came over to look at the water heater this morning. Turns out it is “pretty ancient,” and mineral deposits have built up inside the tank, taking up all the room where the hot water should go. He said it’s a fire hazard, and that by the way, when he was looking at the heater he noticed that the main supporting beams under the bathhouse also need replacing. This last alert evoked a gruesome image of the building collapsing and pitching the baby and me out of the bathtub and into a patch of poison ivy.

  After he left, I did two phone interviews from last week that Leslie, my publicist, rescheduled for today. The first interviewer was a young woman from Detroit who “loved” the latest collection of essays I’ve edited, What Makes a Man: 22 Writers Imagine the Future. She asked questions about the contributors, the importance of looking critically at masculinity, and the relationship between this book and To Be Real: Telling the Truth and Changing the Face of Feminism, an anthology about Third Wave feminism I edited ten years ago.

  The second interviewer was an ex-Marine who claimed that male aggression is biological, that men who don’t believe this are gay, and that I am offending our armed forces by questioning male aggression while our country is at war. When I told him that we probably had more in common than he thought, he said that no, he didn’t think so. I said, Well, I am going to bet that we both want peace, and that neither of us wants our children to be killed in war. He said that war is necessary for democracy, and that he would be willing to sacrifice his child for the preservation of the American way of life.

  Who knows? He might be right about all of it, but when he said he’d be willing to sacrifice his child, a huge wave of exhaustion came over me. I felt that if I didn’t lie down that very second, I might collapse. I exited as politely as I could, made for the kitchen, and scarfed the entire pot of soup Glen made last night. Then I climbed up the little ladder to bed and fell asleep.

  It’s now four in the morning. I have been sleeping for almost ten hours, but I still have the voice of the interviewer in my head. For what would I be willing to sacrifice my child?

  June 1

  Arrived at JFK in New York for the first time with baby on board. Everything was different because now all I can see are the women with babies. Were they always there? I am obsessed with how they move. Are they alone or do they have help? What kind of stroller are they pushing? Do they have a purse and a diaper bag? Cute or sensible shoes? Do cabdrivers do anything special to make it easier for them? Do they look happier than the childless women teetering by in high-heeled Manolos?

  Now at my father’s house on the Upper East Side, getting ready for the long drive tomorrow to see Solomon, the now fourteen-year-old young man I’ve been helping to raise since he was eight, at boarding school. Since his mother and I broke up, we’ve been trading off visiting days. I get the two days before his graduation from ninth grade, she gets actual graduation and the day after.

  In what seems to be yet another manifestation of my ambivalence affliction, I can’t figure out if I should tell Sol about the baby. I remember how abandoned I felt when my stepmother told me she was going to have her own biological child. The least I can do is spare him those feelings during a time that’s supposed to be all about him and his accomplishments. On the other hand, I am pretty sure I’m showing, and I don’t want him to figure it out and have to ask.

  Pondering this, I feel an awful conflagration of elation and dread. I think I already love this little being inside of me more than I’ve ever loved anyone. How will this affect this person I consider to be, in many ways, my first child, the son I didn’t give birth to but whom I adore nonetheless?

  June 2

  Arrived in Lake Placid after a long drive out of the city. I hung out with Solomon at his school for the evening, eating and talking to his housemates and a few other parents who came up early for graduation. I heard about miles hiked, potatoes harvested, accidents sustained while snowboarding, and “hookups.” I was regaled with a very graphic description of the three a.m. birth of a lamb, and told that I am one of the coolest parents because I am young and wear “cool” clothes.

  I like these kids. Over the last couple of years, I’ve watched them give presentations in their biology and Spanish classes, and even take stabs at improv. I’ve talked to their parents and grandparents, and heard their personal stories, many of them difficult. I am always in awe of how happy they seem in this environment. How the intimate, back-to-the-land, child-centered learning philosophy brings out their shiny, forceful natures.

  Now that I am pregna
nt, I can’t help but wonder if this place had something to do with it. There’s a utopic feeling here, kids and adults together in the wilderness, planting, harvesting, learning, playing. I’ve liked knowing Sol is here, safe through the trials of 9/11 and largely unaware of its aftermath. Driving back to the hotel, I thought, Well, if I sink into a depression that threatens to damage my child, or if I buckle under the pressure of balancing the demands of work with the constant labor of motherhood, or if Glen leaves me and never wants to see me or his child again and I’m devastated, there’s always boarding school. It sounds awful, but the thought was infinitely reassuring.

  I told Sol about the baby within the first hour, after I caught him checking out my waistline. He was excited and immediately told his favorite houseparent, who, in addition to being a total Macintosh devotee, is a caring, gentle guy. I took his excitement as a sign that I haven’t wrecked his graduation moment, and that the whole biological, nonbiological sibling thing just might work out.

  June 3

  I drove over to the school and spent the whole day. I asked Sol to take me to his favorite places on campus, the places he will miss the most. He took me on a trail through the woods to an old tree house, and then I followed him to the other side of the campus, to the tents around the lake. We stood there for a few minutes, getting lost in the shimmering water and wide-open sky.

  Solomon will stay with me tonight at the hotel, and in the morning I will take him back to school and say goodbye. I am sad I will miss his departure speech, but I believe this way is best for everyone. In addition to the other complex dynamics of the day, including the presence of Solomon’s biological father whom I don’t really know, I feel protective of the baby. I don’t want him or her to, for one second, get caught up in the emotional aftermath of the separation from Solomon’s mother I’ve worked so hard to put behind me.

  When I asked Solomon how he felt about the split schedule, he gave me his usual “Why are you always asking me how I feel?” look, and said it was fine.

  I’m afraid it’s the best I can do and, for once, I can live with that.

  June 4

  I love New York: the movement, the fashion, the dynamism. The heady mix of high and low. It’s like a drug. Whenever I visit, I have to brace myself for the wave of ambivalence about California that washes over me. I miss the endless IV drip of films, performances, plays, and shopping. Food delivery of any kind at any time. Tasti D-Lite. Fortunately, I’ve been on this roller coaster enough times to know that in another forty-eight hours I’ll start getting tired and missing the more reasonable rate of stimulation of the other coast. In seventy-two hours I will be pining for home.

  I am happy to report that it’s a little easier to feel good about my decision now that I’ve got the tot to think about. I want the baby to know New York so intimately that it loses its power to frighten and overwhelm. So intimately that she can harness the power of it for her own dreams. I owe her that. But fighting it out with a stroller on the subway? I just don’t see it.

  June 5

  I have decided to stop using “her” and “she.” Yes, I want to counter all of those years of the masculine pronoun standing in for all of humanity, but I really, really know in my heart that I am having a boy. It’s the most obvious thing in the world to me. I refuse to allow my political beliefs to trump my intuition because that was the point of all of those political beliefs, wasn’t it? To be able to trust our intuition?

  June 6

  My sister and stepmother took me shopping today for more maternity clothes. My sister took on the role of personal shopper, perusing the racks, and my stepmother was the voice of reason.

  It was like being back in junior high, in a good way, until we split up and I tried to brave “the biggest maternity department in the city” by myself. All I got there was a big headache and another crashing wave of depression. Was it the J.Lo blaring through the store’s speakers, the haggard-looking mothers being dragged around by whiny, unruly kids, or the upbeat, colorful display of tees I couldn’t fit into juxtaposed against maternity wear that looked like it belonged on Dora the Explorer? Hmmm, let me think.

  I got so freaked out walking around the store, I had to call Glen just to get my bearings. I know he must have thought I was losing it because I kept saying, Is this what’s going to happen to me? Am I going to be trapped behind a stroller for the rest of my life, at the beck and call of some badly behaved toddler screaming for his sippy cup? And will I be wearing beige chinos and an oversized T-shirt with a company logo on it? And will I look and be so tired that I won’t even care?

  It reminded me of the Sex and the City episode when Miranda volunteers to frost her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s birthday cupcakes, and she calls Carrie in tears. Carrie’s like, Why are you doing that? and Miranda kind of flops around, not knowing what to say. Then Carrie gets serious and tells Miranda to step away from the cupcakes.

  After trying to talk me down three or four different ways, Glen finally told me to get out of the store. And even though he was three thousand miles away, and just a bunch of little sound waves coming through a piece of plastic, I did.

  June 7

  Spent a few hours today having my portrait taken by Marion Ettlinger, who has taken so many amazing author photos. She took the image of Lucy Grealy I like so much, with the bird on her shoulder, and the stunning portrait of Jhumpa Lahiri. Marion was great, warm but not overly so. We talked, but her eyes did most of the work, quietly taking me in. Her studio felt like a writer’s study in Paris circa 1920, very Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, all dark velvet chaises and antique wooden side tables, thirty-five-millimeter cameras and natural light.

  While she was shooting, we talked about getting married. She loves her guy and wants to tie the knot, but feels she’d be selling out her feminist roots. I laughed and said, It’s official, female ambivalence has reached an all-time high, it’s an epidemic! I told her about how long I’ve wanted a baby and how scared I am. I told her that the only way I’ve been able to do it has been to choose my persistent, irrational, very human yearnings for closeness with other human beings over admittedly valuable feminist ideology that wasn’t born of my own experience. I asked, If the relationship is healthy, is there ever a reason to let ideology keep us from committing more deeply to the people we love?

  I can’t say I have the answer, but I do think it’s a legitimate question.

  When we were done, I headed downtown to my friend Trajal’s dance performance. Afterward, a bunch of us went to dinner, where the baby and his name were the main topics of conversation. The response to “Milarepa” was lukewarm, but people liked “Tenzin,” after the Dalai Lama, which I’ve been throwing around for the last few weeks.

  Tenzin Walker, our playwright friend Brooke said, that’s strong. Trajal took to it right away, and started to include Tenzin in all our future plans. Well, when Tenzin is born, we’ll have to have a party, and, I can’t wait to go to Paris with Tenzin.

  Paris with Tenzin!

  I felt like the belle of the ball. Even though it was Trajal’s night, being pregnant makes every night my night. Not long ago I heard Dr. Christiane Northrup speaking about yin wisdom, and how the egg waiting for the sperm is full of it. The egg just calls out to the sperm and then waits, knowing the whole school is going to come calling. I feel like that. For the first time in my life, being is effortless. My job is to sit and glow. All I have to do is wait and the whole world, the whole big life experience, is going to come and land right at my feet.

  Tenzin Walker!

  June 8

  Met with John Vaughn today for lunch. He’s directing a project for the Twenty-First Century Foundation called the Black Men and Boys Initiative, focusing on the status of African-American men in our culture and what can be done to change it. The statistics are disheartening. Forty percent of African-American men drop out of high school. One in every four is incarcerated. I can’t help but think of the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., Medga
r Evers, and Malcolm X. The dissolution of the Panthers through COINTELPRO. The marginalization of African-American men in every segment of American culture but hip-hop, jazz, and sports. How few African-American men I see at universities where I speak, supermarkets where I shop, restaurants where I eat. How rarely I see an African-American man on a plane.

  Because they are so rare, I know most of the African-American men succeeding in corporate America. Richard Parsons at Time Warner, Kenneth Chenault at American Express. Russell Simmons, important because he has managed to make his millions without wearing a suit and tie, without forfeiting ownership, and without becoming unrecognizable to the people he grew up with, or to himself.

  It is as if, in response to the leadership African-American men have displayed, they have been targeted for annihilation, or at least total subordination. It is as if, in response, African-American men have chosen to keep their intellects undercover, or not to develop them at all. Flipping through channels late at night and searching the shelves at the bookstore, I can’t believe the glaring absence of African-American intellectualism. But being a brilliant black man can be dangerous, can put you in the crosshairs.

  There are the academic superstars: Cornel West and Henry Louis Gates. Michael Eric Dyson. Across the Atlantic, Paul Gilroy. But where is the W.E.B. DuBois, the Frederick Douglass, the Dr. King of our time? The Bayard Rustin and James Bald-win? What happened to credible voices having the power to elucidate, to inspire and inform masses of people? How is it possible that so much of this work of social uplift is left to rap artists who have just barely escaped gangsterism? How is it possible that the African-American intelligentsia seems to have evaporated into the corporate media conglomerate, rarely if ever to be seen or heard providing cogent commentary on the state of affairs? Where are the translators, the people who deconstruct the news to the populace?