Neighborly(33)

Dr. Morrison said that was all a trick, a manipulation. Ten-year-old girls can’t know what they want sexually; they’re being taught to want that contact, when what they really want is approval. She said my sexuality was being used and corrupted, subsumed by an adult’s desires.

But honestly, that’s not how it felt at all. I felt . . . powerful. Being able to please Steve—I mean, Layton—was an experience I enjoyed. The confusion came later.

I did know it had to stay secret, even from Ellen, especially from her, and that was a form of power, too.

I’m almost relieved when Sadie has one of her outbursts. Now I have something to do.

It’s a full-scale, pyrotechnic meltdown. We have to pull over to the side of the path and park the strollers in the caramel-colored sand. As it continues for several long minutes, I start to apologize, my face as red as Sadie’s. I run through the parent checklist. I sniff at her diaper, no problem there, and offer a bottle, which she refuses as if offended, doing a spastically derisive headshake. I rub ointment on her gums in case it’s teething pain. If it’s gas, there’s nothing I can do except rock and coo, and that’s doing nothing at all. So I go to the pacifier, but she spits it out with a type of contemptuous violence I really haven’t seen in other kids.

That’s what it is; that’s what spurs my humiliation. It’s not like Sadie cries more than other babies. In fact, she might even cry less. But it’s the way she cries.

There’s nothing plaintive or forlorn in it. It’s angry, right from the first note, a symphony that starts at full crescendo. It makes Sadie sound spoiled. What a terrible word, spoiled, like the baby is old milk, and once milk goes bad, it’s rotten. As if Sadie’s ruined.

I don’t know what I should have done differently, what I can change right now. If I should intentionally make Sadie wait longer for bottles, or for hugs, in order to build up her tolerance, strengthen her muscles. Am I already supposed to be teaching her patience? When she’s this little? It seems sadistic. It seems intolerable.

Speaking of intolerable, how many minutes have I been trying in vain to soothe Sadie while Andie stands nearby, alternately talking to Fisher (who is completely fine) or staring out at the glassine water? I just need to put Sadie back in the stroller and head for home, telling Andie we’ll catch up some other time. Or we won’t. Andie isn’t going to want to be friends with a duo like Sadie and me.

See, this is why I’m better off without friends. The humiliation! The self-doubt! The red face and recriminations!

I think of the moms group I tried to join in one of the wealthier Oakland neighborhoods and the perpetual whiff of disapproval. Even when they were sympathetic, it was laced with condescension. The schadenfreude: so she got the bad baby, not me! Or: she created the bad baby, not like my little breastfeeding angel.

But then, a miracle occurs. Sadie opens her mouth with a very distinct aperture, and I thrust the pacifier in, and it’s over.

“That’s so cool,” Andie says. “The way you just communicated there. She let you know what she needed, and you got the message.”

After all that, Andie is actually complimenting my parenting? That’s her takeaway?

This is why people have friends.

I resettle Sadie in her stroller, and we continue our walk, and as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I start confiding in Andie. If she can see through me anyway—if she thinks my best quality is my reluctant transparency—then there’s no reason not to. I tell her about the moms group. About the judgment. About my fear of their judgment.

“They were all enthusiastic breastfeeders, of course,” I say. “I was so jealous. Motherhood seemed effortless to them.”

“That’s what they were portraying, anyway,” Andie says.

“After seeing three lactation specialists and no latching, I decided enough was enough. I started pumping exclusively. I was telling myself what a good mom I was. Sure, I wasn’t successful with latching, but I was successful at breastfeeding. I was actually sort of proud. And I remember that I took a chance and instead of just nodding and smiling, I told the moms about it. No one said anything for this long minute. They clearly thought I was a quitter. One even said that it’s not just about the milk the baby’s getting but her problem-solving skills. Like Sadie is going to wind up dumb.”

“Fuck her,” Andie says passionately. This is definitely why people have friends.

“There are websites with lists of geniuses who were never breastfed. I never breastfed. Not that I’m a genius or anything,” I add hastily.

“It’s sad that those websites have to exist. Obviously, whoever compiled the list felt like they had to defend their decision to use formula. Isn’t the whole point of feminism that we respect each other’s choices?”

“I thought so.”

“Well, I respect that you tried so hard. You and Sadie obviously have a great bond.”

“Really?” It feels so good to hear it. You just don’t know what people see when they look at you and your child.

“Really.” Andie nods vigorously. “I know what it’s like to try to measure yourself, because I really struggled with that at first, too. Like when you tell people you adopted, they make all sorts of assumptions about your fertility, about your womanhood.” So she wasn’t infertile? I guess I had made that assumption myself. “People can think whatever they want. As long as we know the truth.” This funny expression flits across her face, like clouds across the sun, and then she’s back to that dimpled smile, as irrepressible and engaging as Doug’s.