I found an article online that was titled “What You Really Need for Baby,” and they had already earned my trust by dropping “the” or “your.”
It said that you need
- A place for baby to sleep safely
- A place to change diapers and the supplies to do it
- A way to carry baby
- Clothes
- A swing
- Toys and books
And even though I knew that each item was full of its own subcategories, I decided to trust its deceptive simplicity and showed the list to my mother. This empowered Mom to show me her much, much longer list.
In the end, we compromised by agreeing to let Aunt Angelina choose the store we’re going to today. That’s why we are here, standing outside a resale shop.
My mother feels betrayed by her lifelong best friend.
“I thought you would at least pick one of the big cheesy department stores,” she says to Angelina, who is aghast.
“Why would we put more money in the pockets of those corporate shills?”
“This place looks fine, Mom. Let’s go in,” I say.
She sighs and moves her handbag to the other shoulder, so I turn and head to the door.
Inside, a blue-haired woman behind a glass counter shouts a bit too loudly, “If you need anything, just ask!” She’s either crocheting or knitting, but she’s too stooped over for me to see clearly. There’s something witch- like about her, the way she hunches over her textile crafting as if it were a cauldron.
There’s a row of changing tables on the left, and I head to my number two agenda item. Once there, I am unsure what I need in a changing table. Obviously, I don’t need anything fancy, but what is fancy? I’ll need more than the pinewood one with two shelves, but what about the one that is also a playpen and a bassinet? Should a baby be playing and sleeping where its poop gets cleaned?
My mother and Aunt Angelina are still talking near the entrance. Aunt Angelina points to a rack of clothing, and Mom remains stony-faced as she walks over and begins to inspect the wares.
“This is Ralph Lauren,” she exclaims loudly enough for the old lady behind the counter to look over at her questioningly.
Mom drapes whatever it is over her arm and begins to peruse happily. I’m glad the store has met her standards. I return to the changing table conundrum.
“Those are really useful,” Aunt Angelina says.
“Which one?” To my surprise, she indicates the one with the bassinet next to the changer.
“The first two months, they spend so much time sleeping and pooing, and you spend all your days napping on the couch or watching TV next to
one of those.” She walks around it and looks at it like she’s kicking tires at a car dealership. “It has a pouch for wipes there,” she points out.
“You and Mom always—” I start, then realize I shouldn’t.
Aunt Angelina’s shoulders tense. “Your mother and I what?” she asks gently.
“You always made it sound so idyllic, Finny and I in a playpen together while you talked.”
“That was later. I didn’t have the house until you were almost five months old, and those first three months, your mother and I hardly saw each other.”
“Really? But you still lived so close? And you weren’t working.”
“And neither of you were sleeping!” She laughs. “Even if I hadn’t been a single mother, I still wouldn’t have had the energy to pack up Finny and his diaper bag and drive over. We talked on the phone, but we were both trying to survive. The early stages of motherhood can be very lonely.”
“That’s how Angie made it sound.” I flip the price tag over on the poopsleepplay. The price does not seem resale.
Angelina whistles. “No matter what, having a baby is not cheap.”
Mom appears, carrying armfuls of clothing. “Oh, this is perfect for downstairs, Autumn.” She flips the price tag over and nods. “And we’ll need another table for changes in your room, a crib, a dresser…” She begins to wander among the furniture, talking to herself.
I watch her, and a sinking feeling starts in my stomach. “Feeling sick, kiddo?” Aunt Angelina asks me.
“No,” I say. “I just…I’m not going to school, so Mom’s not getting child support from Dad anymore and…”
Angelina looks startled. “You know that she isn’t paying for any of this, don’t you?”
“What?” I ask.
“Your mom told me that she was going to tell you,” Angelina says. Her face is stony. “She swore she had this whole speech planned about how some people aren’t meant to be parents, but later in life, they regret—”
“Oh, right,” I say, even though I was given no such speech. “Still, I’m going to owe you both so much, all the emotional support and knowledge. I’m really out of my depth…”
I’ve spoken to my father on the phone twice since getting out of the hospital. The last phone call, he told me that he’d been assigned a business trip in Japan that would last six months but maybe more, depending on the markets.
“I’ll probably be home just before or after you to make me a grandfather
—if you’re still determined to do that?” There was a hopeful note that I’d get an abortion or at least arrange an adoption.
“It’s happening, whether you’re here or in Japan,” I said.
“Well, I’ve talked to your mother, and you’re all sorted financially, so there’s not much more to say.”
I figured that was his way of telling me that if I was so determined, he might as well pay for it.
I suppose his symbolic monetary support should mean more, but it’s The Mothers’ support that’s giving me the courage to do this, to find out what people mean when they say it is all going to be worth it.
I’m about to cry, and Angelina pulls me into a hug.
“Oh yes,” she says into my hair. “Money can be paid back, but all this wisdom and love we’re showering you with? You’re going to be in debt to us forever. You’re going to have to let us babysit this grandbaby three, four nights a week to make it up to us.”
I laugh and she releases me. My mother has returned with the saleswoman trailing behind her.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asks.
“Hormones and daughterly gratitude got to Autumn,” Aunt Angelina says.
“Aw.” Mom puts a hand on my back. “Well, I have some good news.
This place delivers!” She says it like it is some sort of miracle.
Luckily, the saleswoman either can’t hear my mother’s shock, or she doesn’t care. “Mondays through Thursdays, between eight a.m. and two p.m.,” she recites and adds, “You’ll have to wait until after the weekend.”
“What day is it?” I ask.
The saleswoman laughs reassuringly at me. “The brain gets tired from pregnancy, dear,” she says.
“Saturday,” Mom says. She knows that my lack of awareness has more to do with the monotony of my days than my pregnancy, but it’s nice for us to pretend otherwise for a moment.
So with Dad’s money and The Mothers’ wisdom and love, I begin to build my nest.
