Authors: Natalie Taylor
Signs of Life (12 page)
I felt the same way when I saw pictures of Angelina Jolie in magazines and write-ups about her “stunning performance” in
A Mighty Heart
. “Oh, Angelina, you did such a wonderful job at acting like your new soon-to-be-father of a husband was kidnapped and killed. Let’s talk to Angelina about what it was like to
imitate
a woman who had actually lived through the worst situation imaginable. Angelina, tell us what that was like for you.”
So annoying. Why are these people more popular than Marianne Pearl? Why don’t we interview Marianne Pearl? (I know, I know, Oprah did interview Marianne Pearl, which is why we never judge Oprah). Still, so sickening. So frustrating. I just feel like I am the one who should be rich and famous, not them. I am going through this horrible fucking situation; doesn’t the universe
owe
me something? Don’t
I
get to be on
Oprah
?
But I don’t. I’m not. I’m sitting on my couch with an eight-pound baby sitting on my sciatic nerve taking my hormonal aggression out on famous people who don’t even know me.
Right now I am reading a book called
Goodnight Nobody
by Jennifer Weiner. I read her first novel,
Good in Bed
, which was pretty funny as I remember it. But when I read
Good in Bed
, I was in college, perhaps even single, so I thought reading chick lit about some woman who was “trying to find herself” through a series of screwed-up relationships was quite entertaining. But
Goodnight Nobody
irritates me every time I open it. It’s about this woman named Kate who lives in an extremely affluent suburb in New Jersey and is married to a very wealthy guy. Despite her three beautiful children and rich husband, she is supremely unhappy because she feels like she’s lost herself. Give me a break.
First of all, I probably shouldn’t be reading this book. I am fully aware that there is an entire population of mothers who live a daily life of complete malcontents because their identities have been “reduced” to driving children around in a minivan, grocery shopping, and doing laundry. I know that these are the women who end up snorting crystal meth or resorting to alcohol
or who yell at their kids in that tone that just screams “I am a bitter human being.” They watch
Oprah
, they think about having affairs (some probably do), and all of this in their minds is justified by the idea that they’ve been “suppressing” their real selves their entire life. Tragic. So sad I could cry. These are women who make choices their entire lives—they choose to be married, they choose to have children, they choose to not go back to work—and get everything they want only to one day wake up and say, “I am horribly unhappy.” If I could personally punch all of these women in the face, I would.
In a world where
Desperate Housewives
has come to describe more than just the four women on a prime-time television show, I find myself increasingly frustrated by this genre of women. Dr. Joy Browne gets callers like this all the time. Yesterday I was listening to her, and a woman named Donna called in. Donna’s problem was that she was obsessing over the fact that her husband constantly pointed out other attractive women in public. Donna was annoyed by this in part because she had struggled to lose her postbaby weight. Dr. Joy Browne of course immediately asked how often they were having sex. (DJB
always
asks this question). Dr. Joy told Donna that she shouldn’t let it get to her. It is natural for all of us to look at the opposite sex, but she needed to explain to her husband that he doesn’t have to make a comment every time, and if she trusts him and she knows he isn’t cheating, then it’s not really that big of a deal. Before Donna hung up, Dr. Joy asked a series of interesting, clearly relevant questions.
“Donna, how many children do you have?”
“Three.”
“How old are they?”
“Five years, three years, and sixteen months.”
“Donna, do you get out much?”
Pause. “No, I don’t actually.” She started to cry right there on the phone. “I feel tired all the time. I feel insecure and overweight all the time. So when my husband says these things, it just …” She could hardly talk. “It just really hurts.”
At this point Dr. Joy obviously realized that this woman has a lot more going on than just her husband. She attempted to explain the importance of taking time for yourself.
“You know, Donna, assuming you can afford to get a babysitter a few times a week, it is really important that you get out by yourself a little. Join a women’s group, take a yoga class, take an aerobics class. But your confidence cannot be defined by your husband and his stupid remarks. Do something that makes you happy and that leaves you feeling refreshed. I think you’ll find that that makes a big difference.”
“Thank you, Dr. Joy,” she said as if she had been blessed by the pope.
It’s not that I don’t feel any sympathy for people like Donna, but I don’t feel a lot of sympathy. I get frustrated when people get themselves into situations that make them unhappy and then instead of attempting to get themselves out of the situation or just deal with it, they turn into complaining machines.
I personally think I would make a fantastic psychologist. Women would walk into my office and tell me, “My husband doesn’t pay enough attention to me. What should I do?” I would reply, “Leave your husband.” My patient would get a little flustered and probably a little defensive and maybe even a little annoyed that I didn’t let her talk about herself more. I would lean back in my chair and sip on my Starbucks, looking completely comfortable with the fact that I told this woman to get a divorce. The rest of the session would consist of her trying to explain to me that her life is shitty but not shitty enough for her to do anything about it, just shitty enough so that she complains about it
constantly to her girlfriends and spends thousands of dollars on a therapist. The rest of the conversation would proceed like this:
STRESSED-OUT MOM (LET’S CALL HER DEBBIE; DEBBIE IS A TOTAL MOM NAME):
What do you mean? I mean, he doesn’t pay a lot of attention to me and our sex life is mediocre, but he is a good dad. The kids love him. You really think I should just divorce him?
ME:
You really need to ask yourself how much your husband sucks on a scale of one to ten. I don’t know how much your husband sucks because I’m not you. But you have two choices. If he really sucks—I mean if every day all you can think about is how pathetic and horrible your life is because your husband no longer makes eye contact with you when he speaks to you, or because you take all the time in the world to cook a thoughtful dinner and he says nothing and you truly believe that your marriage is setting a horrible example for your children and your daughter will think that being a wife means being a doormat—then divorce him, or separate at least. But if it’s really not all that bad, if it’s really more you just trying to find something to complain about because you’re bored out of your mind as a stay-at-home mom, then deal with it. Talk to your husband, maybe go get some couples’ counseling. But honestly, the bottom line: quit your bitchin’, sister, and do something about your crappy life. Take the bull by the horns and work for a positive marriage or leave his sorry ass. But don’t sit around and complain about a situation that you have control over. It’s just obnoxious.
DEBBIE:
But you’re my therapist. Aren’t I allowed to complain to you? Isn’t that the point? You’re not allowed to say that my complaints are obnoxious.
ME:
Uh, yeah, Debbie, I am allowed to call you obnoxious. [I say this with wide eyes as if she is the moron in the room. I put my hands behind my head, casually, and put my feet up on the center table.] Look, Deb, you need to
do
something. That’s the operative word here. Stop sitting on your ass in the pity pool feeling sorry for yourself. Let me ask you a question, just out of curiosity: What else do you find “wrong” with your life?
DEBBIE:
Well, I’ve gained fifteen pounds in the last six months. I have a hard time finding time for myself during the day. And I’m tired all the time. [All the women who call Dr. Joy Browne say this.]
ME:
And I bet if I gave you the next thirty minutes, you would find a way to blame all of this on your husband.
DEBBIE:
It’s not that I’m blaming him. I really think that it is his fault that—
ME:
Stop right there, Deb. Stop right there. It may be his fault, but you have the power to change all of that. But nothing is going to change if all you do is complain. You need to get the gears in motion.
DEBBIE:
I just don’t think it’s that simple. I mean—
ME:
No, Deb, it is. [I get up and walk over to my desk to schedule our next appointment.]
DEBBIE:
I just don’t feel like you’re listening to me. I keep trying to say—
ME:
Deb, the problem here is that you’re not listening to
me
. I’m telling you what you don’t want to hear because the next step in your life is a scary one. You need to confront the problems of your marriage head-on or you need to throw your hands in the air and say, “I’ve tried, and it’s not working.” Both are difficult options. Both require more time, effort, and thoughtfulness than sitting at Starbucks with your bffs
and bitching about your crappy husbands. If you want to continue to sit at Starbucks and bitch about your husband, go right ahead. We don’t need to schedule another appointment. But if you want to be happy, all the time, not just for select moments, then you’ll come see me again.
DEBBIE:
But I think it’s more than—
ME:
How’s next Wednesday at four?
DEBBIE:
Sounds good.
Debbie walks out of my office feeling confused but eventually she figures out that I am the smartest person she has ever met in her entire life.
But back to
Goodnight Nobody
. I have two major problems with this book.
1. There is a scene in which the main character’s three kids are in the bath splashing water everywhere and fighting over plastic toys, and her sleeves are sopped with water. Her husband comes home and stands in the doorway of the bathroom and asks, “What’s for dinner?” The narrator gives some ridiculous inner-monologue rant about wow, doesn’t this suck that this is what my life has come to? I used to be a single working woman in New York City, wearing fancy clothes and dining with clients in nice restaurants, and now here I am, up to my elbows in bubble bath, my shirt soaked with water and serving as a cook for my husband. But she is too stupid to realize that she is a fortunate, fortunate woman to have three healthy children and a husband who comes into the bathroom to chat with her after work. There are thousands of women who cannot conceive children, who try for decades and cannot have kids. There are thousands of parents who have lost their children, who never got the chance to hang out with them in the bubble bath. But does our
narrator see any of this? No, she doesn’t. In doing so she encourages other women to ignore the positive parts of their lives. Make sure you constantly express how annoying and frustrating your children are, make sure you constantly consider the life you wish you had. Doesn’t it suck to be home with your children all day? Don’t you just go fucking crazy in your million-dollar house with your SUV and your unlimited credit card? What a shitty fucking life. It’s so fucking horrible that you should write a book about it. Your kids will never notice how much you hate being a mother. They will never absorb your sense of discontent.
2. I can’t remember number 2. I got so worked up with number 1, I forgot. What is wrong with me? Why do I think everyone in the world—Halle Berry, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Weiner, fictional protagonists, Ty Pennington (who has anything bad to say about Ty Pennington?)—is stupid: What am I turning into? Why am I so mean to people in my brain? I don’t know. I feel so imbalanced. Physically and mentally, I am completely imbalanced. I need to have this baby already.
Days pass after my due date. Then a week. People call me every day, all day, and ask the dumbest questions.
“Do you feel anything?”
“Oh, you mean like the strain of my uterus contracting? No, I don’t, ya jackass.” I start going to my obstetrician every day. Finally Dr. Wiermiller says she can’t stand to see me go through any more agony. She’s inducing me tomorrow. I go home. Moo, who arrived a few days ago, spends the night with me. Not surprisingly, I can’t quite get settled. What kind of pillow-think do you have the night before you are induced? I know I won’t go into labor tonight. It’s October 17, the four-month mark of Josh’s death. I know Baby Taylor won’t be born on the seventeenth. Every day since October 1, I woke up thinking,
Maybe today
.
But on the seventeenth, I know he won’t come. He knows what day it is too.
But tomorrow for sure he will be here. On October 18 at 7:00 a.m. I am going to be induced. This is my last night as a pregnant woman. Tomorrow is my first night as a mother. A real mother, not an expectant mother.
At first I thought it would be great because if I have the baby, I can stop worrying. I won’t have to continue to count fetal movements, think about what I’m eating, if he’s positioned right, if he is growing properly.
But the whole thing is a little odd. Four months ago today I had a life-altering event descend upon me. There was no warning. There was no preparation. It was a complete and total surprise. Tomorrow I have a life-altering event that I have been thinking about for nine months and I know when it is going to happen down to the hour. I don’t know which one is worse or better. Then I think that I must have an easy labor because I deserve it. Someone, some spirit of Mother Nature, some angel, some saint in charge of women going into delivery, has to be watching over me tomorrow. Nothing bad can happen to me or the baby—it’s simply not allowed. I have earned an easy labor. Don’t they know that?