Diary of a Mad Mom-To-Be

Even though she is out of work and her apartment is too small, newlywed Amy Thomas Stewart finds herself longing to have a baby.

february 10th

MS. LINDER

I see from your résumé that you have solid experience with the written word.

Twelve years of employment and all she’s gonna give me is “solid”?

ME

Yes, for the last four years, I’ve been Associate Editor of Round-Up magazine.

MS. LINDER

Round-Up. Hmm . . . I haven’t read that.

Which is precisely why it folded seven months ago.

ME

It was one of those insider publications.

MS. LINDER

Well, there’s nothing “insider” about the N.Y.R.T. The New York Refuse Times has a thriving readership.

Here I am, Amy Thomas-Stewart, a magazine veteran, a college graduate, recipient of the Elm Street Junior High award for best penmanship, interviewing for a job on a sanitation newsletter. A municipal rag. Can I sink any lower?

Probably.

With Round-Up gone and my unemployment benefits dwindling, I’ve had to expand my job search into all areas requiring the written word: copyediting, fortune cookies, and marginal publications like The New York Refuse Times.

According to the receptionist they’ve had over 150 applicants for this crummy job. It seems that as the magazine business shrinks, those of us who’d planned on making a living in it are literally being swept into the trash. (After all these years spent dreaming of a job at The New York Times (stop laughing, I’m talking about the Arts & Leisure section), how painful to be interviewing for a position with the N.Y.R.T. It’s like God’s little typo.)

Which is the only reason I’m suffering through this job interview with a woman who’s bitch-slapping my self-esteem with one hand while nursing her three-year-old son with the other.

That’s right. I said nursing her three-year-old son.

Which would be a hell of a lot easier to ignore if the kid didn’t keep interrupting our interview to demand “more.” For God’s sake, if you’re old enough to make requests, you’re old enough to open the refrigerator. And to top it off, the brat’s a noisy eater. This, along with the image of my parents having sex, is something I do not need to see.

Which makes me wonder: What’s the etiquette on public nursing? Am I supposed to ignore this? Applaud it? Do I maintain eye contact or do I plaster a warm smile across my face and act like this happens at all my interviews?

Desperate to make a good impression, I decide to play it safe and fix my gaze above boob level.

Of course, making matters worse is the fact that I’m actually ashamed of my own discomfort. That’s right, she’s baring her boobs and yet I’m the one burning with shame. After all, I’m supposed to be a feminist. A woman’s woman. Shouldn’t I support working mothers? Applaud maternal power? Of course I should. There’s nothing dirty, raunchy, or inappropriate about nursing. It’s a natural act. Like shivering in the cold or lying about your weight.

Heck, I’m the first to admit that I’m clueless about raising a child, let alone weaning one. But dammit–


IF THAT KID SUCKS ANY HARDER HE’S GONNA RIP A LUNG OUT!

Generally speaking, under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been such a horrible comment–

Had I not said it ALOUD.

And before you could even think the word Medic! she’s snapping up her nursing bra and hissing a curt:

MS. LINDER

We’ll call you.

Sure you will.

february 15th

Nowhere is unemployment more disastrous than in the area of romance. Sure, we get misty when “The Gift of the Magi” husband sells his watch in order to buy his wife a barrette only to discover that she has sold her hair in order to buy him a watch fob. . . . Ah, Love!

But in the Real World the exchange of useless items falls far short of a fancy dinner and a dozen roses. Which is what Stephen and I did last year. (OK, it was lunch and three ginger blossoms. But ginger blossoms are my favorite flower and the restaurant was really fancy. David Bowie and Iman eat sushi there all the time) This year, struggling to pay our rent, we ordered in Chinese food. Which is not to say the evening was a total bust. The decadence factor associated with a meal as fattening as egg rolls and sesame noodles can make even the most pouty gal heady with delight. And a little horny, to boot.

Of course, most people would assume that being married to the senior partner of a software company would spare me the injustices of mounting bills and single-ply toilet paper.

Keep dreaming.

Stephen’s company, along with all the other computer start-ups, is once again at the brink of bankruptcy. The computer project he developed around the time we got married bombed in the marketplace after a rival company introduced virtually the same product at half the cost.

But strained finances aside, after a year and a half of marriage I still think getting hitched was the best decision I ever made. Sure, the first year was taxing. Challenging. OK, fine, it was really hard. Suddenly those fights about nothing in particular carry much more weight. You can’t just walk out and hit the singles bars. (For the record, I’ve never actually been to a singles bar. I’m not even sure they exist. I suspect it’s more of a code word for an evening spent with a bunch of girlfriends bitching about men.) Now if you want to walk out it’s called Divorce, and in addition to requiring a lawyer and lots of paperwork, it’ll cost you a ton of money.

So the bottom line on marriage? It’s like any partnership–you need to get used to the other person’s rhythms. Even if you’ve been with them for a while. But now, safely ensconced within our second year, Stephen and I have gotten into a groove, learned to compromise, to accept one another’s idiosyncrasies, and to compromise.

Did I mention compromise?

Well, I should, because in marriage you compromise five times more than you get your way and three times more than you have sex. For instance, Stephen has learned to be silent when I try on at least eight different outfits before going out for the evening. And I’ve come to understand that he leaves dirty dishes in the sink because he has a chemical imbalance that prevents him from opening the dishwasher.

Additionally, I know that he will never, no matter how often I beg, remember to flush the toilet after peeing. Although to his credit he does put the toilet seat down, so in the world of potential mates it’s safe to say I hit the jackpot.

february 18th

Mandy and I met for dinner this evening at our favorite Italian restaurant, Frutto di Sole. We’ve been regulars at this tiny West Village hangout, a cross between a grandmother’s kitchen and a Neapolitan diner, since we graduated from college. Now in our thirties, I feel like we own the joint. Or at least the little table in the back by the fireplace. A feeling which is challenged every time the owner, Rocco Marconi, graciously kisses my hand then sneaks a peek down my blouse.

Still reeling from my N.Y.R.T. interview, I told Mandy all about my encounter with the kiddie milk bar. Mandy immediately felt my pain.

MANDY

Good lord, it sounds like a trip to the petting zoo. Have these women no shame? Whatever happened to modesty? Self-respect? Perky breasts?

As I struggled to figure out how we’d gone from modesty to perky breasts, Mandy, my more than slightly self-involved friend, had already moved on. She was talking about an upcoming trip that she and...