Mother of All Secrets(40)

But adding a third person to our relationship had presented challenges neither of us had anticipated. It was embarrassing to recall how nonchalant we’d been about having a baby. “We can just bring the baby with us on trips and hikes and stuff; it’s not like she’ll take up much room!” we’d declared, laughing. We’d taken a two-hour childbirth class a few weeks before Clara’s expected arrival. The midwife leading the class had declared, “Partners, the mother-to-be will poop during labor. She will. You need to prepare yourself for that.”

I’d looked at Tim and shaken my head, whispering, “I totally won’t.” Spoiler alert: yes, I did. Suffice it to say, things were not shaking out the way we’d arrogantly assumed they would.

And now, I was rocked by the realization that Tim thought I was a basket case, and that’s if he was even telling the truth about his communication with Isabel. There was still a small part of me that wondered if that’s all it had been. But if not that, then what? I had assumed that I was the only one in our relationship harboring a dirty, unutterable secret. More than one, now, with my deleted note about Isabel. But maybe it was both of us. More likely, though, I was projecting: I knew that I didn’t deserve his trust, and I was unfairly taking that out on him.

Despite where we were, how tired, frustrated, and mixed up I felt, part of me knew we needed this dinner. Even if it wasn’t the romantic night we’d hoped for when we made the plans, we needed more time to talk things through. Plus, I had a ridiculously expensive babysitter lined up: Selena’s former night nurse, in fact. She happened to have a gap in her schedule this week before she started with another family, so she was very happy to help us for a few hours—especially, I imagined, given that she’d likely just be watching TV and eating takeout that I’d ordered for her, since Clara would theoretically be sleeping the whole time we were away, by my own design. As much as I was struggling to meet Clara’s daily needs by myself, the thought of handing over the reins to someone else made me even more anxious. How would they know the angle she liked to be fed at, or that I counted her fingers and toes for her every night before putting her in her bassinet, or the specific way I rocked her upright after a feeding, the rhythm and inflection of my “shh shh shh”? It was times like these I so wished my mom were around so she could babysit, so that I could actually feel comfortable leaving Clara.

Clara’s bedtime went down without a hitch; I pumped and fed her a bottle so that I could leave for dinner completely drained, as comfortable as possible, and so that I could make sure she had a good feed so she’d be more liable to have a long stretch of sleep. Tim let Jackie, the babysitter, in while I was putting Clara down. I changed as quietly as possible in our room after placing Clara in her bassinet. I realized that it was only my second or third time putting on a regular bra since I’d given birth, and I could barely squeeze my floppy, freshly drained breasts into it.

I put on a flowy, long-sleeved, short black floral dress—my legs still looked okay, I thought, and the dress pretty much hid all the parts of me that I was self-conscious about. I hurriedly put on a little bit of makeup in the bathroom, but even holding an eyeliner pencil felt awkward. It was like writing your name and the date on a piece of paper on the first day of school after the summer. It just felt wrong. I barely ever made myself up anymore. Gone were the days of taking thirty minutes to get ready for a night out; with Clara already asleep, I was officially on the clock, as we’d have likely no more than three hours until we’d have to be home for her first waking of the night.

“You look great, Mama,” Tim said sweetly as I walked into the kitchen. Jackie and I talked shop for a few minutes—text me if she wakes up; if she cries, let her cry for a minute to see if she’ll fall back asleep on her own before going in and picking her up—and then we were off.

Tim and I were going to the Milling Room, a beautiful restaurant just a few blocks away with a huge skylight and tons of tall plants, so it felt like you were eating outside. I loved their blue cheese olive martinis, and their chicken put every other chicken to shame. Tim held my hand as we walked down Columbus Avenue, but it felt forced. We’d never really been a hand-holding couple, even at our best. Plus, I finally had a minute without another human on my body, out in the fresh October air, walking along unencumbered by a stroller or baby carrier—the last thing I wanted to do was hold hands. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or start our night off on a salty note. I didn’t want him to think I was still mad about his call to Isabel, even though I definitely hadn’t let it go. But I needed our night together to be fun, despite everything going on with us.

We were escorted by the hostess to a quiet corner table. Once we were seated, we looked at each other and smiled.

Awkwardly.

No choice but to try to get the elephant out of the room as soon as possible. He began. “Look, again, I am so sorry for calling Isabel. If anything, that should show you the degree to which I have no idea what I’m doing. I may seem uninvolved, but I do care—about you, about Clara, about our family. So much. I know that you’ve been bearing the brunt of caring for her, and it has to be so tough. I can’t imagine. Not to mention, you’re missing your mom. But you are doing an amazing job. Clara’s the luckiest, most well-loved baby ever. And it isn’t fair to you that it’s been so uneven. I want to have a bigger role. And I promise that whatever concerns I have, about anything, I’ll bring them to you first. I’ll never go behind your back again.” He reached across the table for my hand.