I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Peter cry. He had cried when Chloe was born. He really loves her, I’d thought. To be honest, I’m a teensy bit jealous of that instant attachment he made to her. There are even times when I wonder if he loves her more than I do.
I felt so bad that I kept my eyes on my hands in the sink. They were red from the hot water. “I’ll bring her next time,” I told Peter. “Some of the other mothers do, with their nannies.”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say! Peter’s face got as red as my hands.
Peter snorted. “Their nannies? Now you want a nanny?”
“I could hire a girl from the college for a few hours. Laurel says—”
“Laurel?”
Of course he wanted to know who Laurel was, so I told him she was one of the mothers from the group and that she had given me the name of a babysitter she used sometimes.
“Did she say who was going to pay for this babysitter?”
“It’s not expensive,” I said.
“You have no idea what our financial situation is,” he snapped back.
That was true, sort of, though it was also because Peter didn’t involve me in our financial decisions. When I first met Peter I thought he must be rich. Not that it mattered that much to me, although I was tired of the twentysomething hipsters who wore flannel shirts and thought grabbing a falafel from a stand was a date. Peter was older. He wore suits and took me to nice restaurants, places I’d never be able to afford on a school librarian’s salary. He was the first man I dated who talked about wanting children. When he told me he ran a hedge fund I was sure he must be rich. Of course, that’s what everyone thinks. But it turned out that his fund was small and he said he didn’t charge a big commission because he wanted his investors to earn as much as they could so they’d recommend other investors. In time it would all pay off and we would be rich, but in the meantime it was important to look like we were doing well but not to spend unnecessarily.
I didn’t want to hear this lecture again or start an argument about money. I just wanted to hold Chloe and feed her. Leaving Peter behind, I went back into the nursery. I changed her first. Her diaper was heavy and her playsuit was soaked through. She started screaming while I changed her, holding her limbs rigid with rage. I was always afraid I would drop her when she threw these tantrums so I sat on the floor with her. She wouldn’t take the bottle right away and then when she did, she drank so fast she choked and spit up.
I really didn’t know what to do then. Should I get up to clean her? But then I was afraid that Peter would say something about how I’d made Chloe sick. So I just used my shirt to clean her off. I rocked her until she fell asleep. I knew I should put her down in the crib. The books say you shouldn’t let them fall asleep while drinking because the formula pools in their mouths and rots their teeth. They’ll wake up with gas later and they’ll always need to suck to fall asleep. But I knew that when I put her down I’d have to go into the living room and face Peter. We’d have to talk about why I had forgotten the bottles. This wasn’t the first time I’d had a lapse like this. Since Chloe was born I’ve been so forgetful. I can see Peter watching me, worrying that I’m not fit to take care of Chloe. Sometimes I think he might be right.
But the big surprise came when I finally put Chloe down and came out of her nursery. Peter was in the dining room setting the table with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine. I’m not supposed to mix alcohol with my medication, but I didn’t care. The wine was his way of apologizing. He has a hard time saying he’s sorry. My mother used to make me stand up in front of everyone to make a formal apology whenever I made the smallest mistake. One of the reasons he wanted children, he’d told me on our first date, was that he wanted to be a better parent than his parents had been. I understood that all too well.
So really what this whole episode has taught me is that I should be grateful for having a husband who cares so much about being a good father. Some of the women in the group said their husbands won’t even change a diaper. I should have apologized for forgetting to leave the bottles. I should have told him that it wasn’t the first thing I’d forgotten and that maybe there is something really wrong with me—but before I could say any of that he held up the big shapeless woven bag I use both as a baby bag and my handbag. I hadn’t gone anywhere without Chloe for so long they’d become one and the same.
“Look what I found in your bag,” he said holding it open for me to see.
I didn’t need to see. I could smell it. Sour formula. I’d put the two bottles I’d made up in my bag instead of leaving them in the refrigerator. As I leaned over the open bag I could see myself doing it. Preparing the bottles and putting them in the bag as I’d do when I was taking Chloe to the park or a doctor’s appointment.
I looked up at Peter and saw he was grinning. “I guess this was your subconscious telling you that you didn’t want to leave Chloe behind.”
“I guess . . .” I was going to tell him there’s
