Got Milky?

Technically I’m in Portland for a writers’ workshop, but because I’m staying with my friend Kit, her husband, and their two boys, I end up with an incredible bargain: $275 for a peek into my future. If I do end up giving birth to a munchkin or two, here are snippets of my upcoming life:

Morning

5:30 a.m. I lift my head from the pillow of the guest room bed where I’m sleeping. Will, 3 years old, is standing in the doorframe. He’s not supposed to wake me before 6:30. His tiny hand is stuck on the doorknob and I can hear him breathe, “Heh, heh, heh.” When I say, “Hey there, Will,” he steps backwards and shuts the door.

6:29. It’s a party. Will and his 5-year-old brother Jack are in my bed, one on each side. I’m not a hug-y, kiss-y, let’s snuggle sort-of-gal, especially when runny noses are involved, so I suggest breakfast. On the way out, Will spots a trashcan in my room. He peels off his diaper and drops it inside.

6:31. Milky – milk poured into a sippy cup – is in hot demand. The rule: Will is allowed four Milkys per day; he can drink his Milkys whenever he wants, but once they’re gone, they’re gone. He’s usually chugged three before the clock hits 7:00am, but so far this morning he’s only had one. Kit hasn’t made the others yet, so I pour him two more – “just two please” – and Will tells me exactly which shelf to place them in the fridge.

6:35. Will and I are playing Caribou for the sixty-seventh time. Kit, bleary-eyed, makes the fourth Milky.

6:45. Will opens the fridge. He sees the remaining Milkys lined up in a row. Boom, boom, boom. Out of nowhere there is screaming – Will’s screaming – and there are tears and “Nooooooos” and a flying Milky. I duck as the Milky hurtles past my head. It lands on the counter with a thud. “He didn’t want a fourth Milky today,” I tell Kit. “I can see that,” she says.

Mid-Morning

At the park, Will holds an aluminum bat. He’s given me his mitt – it fits over three of my fingers – and a baseball. Even when I explain that my aim stinks and I’ll probably knock him over like a bowling pin, he insists that I toss the ball from the pitcher’s mound. He keeps whiffing, but he’s not discouraged. Out of the blue he’ll declare “I hit it!” even though he didn’t, and he’ll drop the bat and run.

Bedtime

The parents are at a school auction, so after my writers’ workshop I join the Babysitter. She puts Jack to bed while I put Will to bed. But the bedtime instructions, written on a piece of sturdy green paper and left on the kitchen counter, are complicated. Bedtime involves diapers, and medication, and teeth-brushing, and fluoride pills, and books, and certain lights on, and other lights off, and certain doors closed, and other doors open, and blankets named Blankie, and Teddys named Frankie, and hugs, and more books, and singing.

Singing? I don’t do singing.
Not fa-la-la-la.
Not Happy Birthday.
Nothing.
I sound like a dying cow when I sing.

But first there’s another party. This time it’s in the bathroom where all four of us – Jack, Will, the Babysitter, and I – are crammed inside. Jack is recovering from Scarlet fever, so he’s begging for Tylenol. He took a Benadryl this morning, a vitamin for lunch, and a shot of antibiotics after dinner. “Your Mom didn’t say anything about Tylenol,” the Babysitter says. Jack fiddles with the childproof top, obsessing over his drugs. The Babysitter looks at me. “This is a bad sign for his teenage years.” Meanwhile, Will swallows his toothpaste instead of spitting it in the sink.

It’s diaper time and I’m confused. “Hey,” I call across the hall to the Babysitter. “Do these sticky thingies go in front or back?” I’m holding the contraption by one corner.

“They start in the back and end in front,” she says.

I flip it around. Will stands in the middle of the rug, pants off, watching. There’s no changing table.

“Then what?” I say. “Does Will lie down on the floor?”

“He just stands,” she says.

I must look panicked because Will walks over and climbs into bed. With patience, he lies on his back and rolls his feet in the air. Then he pulls the diaper underneath his butt and smiles.

Sweet boy.

I flip the top of the diaper towards his bellybutton.

“Wait,” Will says softly, “my penis isn’t straight.” He plunges one hand inside and arranges everything just so.

Okay then.

We put on his pajamas, we read, we sip water.

“Now sing,” Will says. “The ABCs.”

I’m relieved. I can talk my way through that song. Still, I glance around to make sure no one is listening. The Babysitter and Jack are in another room.

Spotlight on.

At the speed of lightening I spill out the first half: “abcdefghijklmnop.” But then I have second thoughts. Finish too soon and he might want an encore. Thankfully, Will claps without requesting more. I bow. Actually, I bow three times. I bow in my half-sitting position on Will’s bed, then I bow again at his doorway, and finally, the next day, I bow good-bye to the crystal ball and its visions of my future life.

Back in LA

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say to my husband when he picks me up at the airport. By “this” I mean raise kids. He says: “It’ll be tough, but it’s selfish to not have kids.” I feel bad – the poor guy just wants to be a father.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say to my Mom over the phone. She says: “Oh, it’s fun. Don’t worry.” I feel bad – the poor woman just wants to be a grandma.

I don’t know. I just don’t know. So I decide to ask Google, Should I have kids? Google pulls up a quiz, and I answer 21 questions honestly. The test spits out two conclusions: (1) you appear unsure, think it over; and (2) why not buy a puppy? I already have a puppy, so instead I sit down with a tall, cold glass of Milky. And I think.