18 july 2007
And Baby Makes Four
By Amy Armatis
"So, you aren't going anywhere for your honeymoon?" my mother asks.
"No," I reply. "We don't have the money. I'll just be done with grad school in August, and I got that new job. What would we do with Isabelle, anyhow?"
"That's going to be funny, you having your baby at the wedding."
"Don't remind me." We've already been over my inability to plan major life events in proper order.
"Hmmm, let me think about things," she says. This is never good. Her "thinking about things" often leads to grandiose suggestions involving sums of money not available in the real world. Last year, she'd proposed a mother-daughter business venture involving a lavender farm in rural Provence.
She's got big dreams, my mother. But not the cash to match—in our family, we call this phenomenon Nordstrom tastes on a K-mart budget.
A few days later, she calls back.
"Well," she says, "I did it. I got tickets, for everyone."
Silence on my end gives her the go-ahead for revealing the master plan. It's done. There's no use in arguing, so all that's left for me to do is a) inform my fiancé/baby-daddy b) pack the bags and c) pack the wipes, diapers, changing pad, lovable stuffy, and other assorted geegaws that tend to accompany babies.
"What?!?" my fiance said. "I'm going on a honeymoon with my wife, 9-month old daughter, and my mother in law? To Las Vegas? Can't I just stay home, and you guys go?"
It wasn't my idea, I murmur. It was an unexpected gesture of maternal guilt, possibly because she couldn't help out much with the wedding itself. But you can't beat free lodging and food—even if it is in Vegas. It would only be three days. Surely it couldn't be that bad.
"How can she afford it, on her salary?" he asks.
"I don't know…" I say. But we both know. My family has a firm belief in The Ship About To Come In. Is the rent late? Don't worry, at the end of this month, that Ship is due. Don't have money for gas? Well, that Ship is going to be here any minute...but in the meantime, can you spot me a fiver? Unfortunately, the Ship usually gets lost at sea shortly before arrival.
The wedding—frugal, family-packed, and festive—goes off without a hitch. The next day, we leave on our honeymoon, our daughter abnormally fussy. We check in at the Paris Las Vegas. Paris is just like the real Paris, except the cobblestone streets are covered with blinking, noisy coinslots and fannypacked gamblers. Faux-Parisiens ride by on their bicyclettes, nattily dressed in black-and-white striped shirts and black berets, I guess for atmosphere. My mother surveys the pinball atmosphere, and starts rubbing her purse strap. She looks like a wolf about to devour a lamb.
"You guys go up to the room." She says, "I'll be up in a minute. I'm just gonna try a few slots down here."
"Wha- Oh, Mom. No," I say.
"Well, how do you think I'm gonna pay for this trip?"
Oh yes. She was going to gamble her way out of her daughter's honeymoon debt. This would be interesting. And sad.
Our first twenty-four hours are a haze of minute-by-minute plays regarding exact dollar
losses and gains. When she takes us out for dinner, we know she'll be out playing blackjack until the wee hours, next to crusty, bronzed cardsharks and men who twirl their whiskers while putting down the winning hand. She insists that she knows all about the insider tricks to Las Vegas, she's read a book called "How to Beat the Dealer." It told her all about this Ship, see…
In the meanwhile, my daughter's nose starts running like a faucet, her fussiness cranks up a notch. Thinking it was an allergic reaction to the smoke-and-mystery-smell impregnated hotel, we try finding a way to open a hotel
room window. Calling the front desk, we discover that Las Vegas windows don't open, particularly on the 12th floor. Too many jumpers equals bad publicity. In the room, the only source of fresh air consists of an air conditioner, blowing in yet more smoky air.
"I wasn't going to tell you this...I promised myself to stop smoking, on our wedding day," my husband says. "But this is really hard. I don't know if I can do it. Between the hotel, and Isabelle getting sick, and…"
I'm about ready to pick up a cigarette myself, and I've never smoked.
The next day, we leave my mother in the care
of whisky-soaked card dealer Buddy, and head down the Strip to see the sights of Vegas, daughter in jogging stroller. The sights of Vegas are eerily similar. Whether in the Venetian, the Sahara, or New York, New York, the contents contain a casino, buffet, fine-dining restaurant with items like salt-spackled pancetta in a herbed crème fraiche sauce with medallions of unpronounceable vegetables; and a mall. Each mall goes like so: Jewelry shop, tourist t-shirt shop, food court, cheap toy store, jewelry shop, tourist t-shirt shop…and so on. Only the differences in décor reveal different destinations – the Venetian has gondoliers while the Luxor has Egyptianesque gods staring disapprovingly at shoppers.
Snorting and snuffling, our daughter makes up for the sleep she skipped last night in favor of crying. We debate.
"Cold?" I say.
"Ebola, for sure. I expect blood any minute," he says.
"Ear infection," I sigh.
"You know, it's not too late to change your mind," I say. "Isn't Las Vegas also the divorce capital of the world?"
"I wonder why," he says. We both laugh.
At the hotel, more bad news comes with our room-service fruit, cheese, and dinner plates. Mom is down $701.34, before she bought us tickets to Cirque Du Soleil on a whim. Now it's $901.34.
"I'll take care of Isabelle," she says. "Go."
"But I don't want to," I say. "I didn't ask for these tickets. I didn't ask for this trip to Vegas. Isabelle is sick, and what will you do with her, anyhow?" "But I want you to go, I want you to have a wonderful honeymoon. It's only a few hours, she'll be OK. Please go, for me?"
I want to take her at her word, but I wonder at her motivation. I know she wants to be seen as the good mother, the one who provided a "wonderful honeymoon"—at all costs—for her daughter. Even if it means giving something her daughter didn't want, and even if it means giving something she didn't have the resources to provide in the first place.
"Please, let's go," my husband says. He says it with a tinge of desperation, and I realize that this would be the first time we'll be alone the entire weekend. I grudgingly agree, but only after leaving my mother with very strict rules about calling us if she spikes a fever, won't eat, and several other contingencies that might lead to imminent disaster. I feel like I'm giving in, and I'm afraid that she isn't hearing me.
We go to the Cirque, and marvel at the spectacular feats of athletic strength. The last act features spinning, wisecracking acrobats and dazzling tricks. In the last act, I forget about the noisy, tacky world outside, sick children and desperate mothers. For the first time that weekend, I hold my new husband's hand.
"Hey Mom," I say when returning to the room. "That ship? It came in. Thanks."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says. "But your baby's been crying for the last half-hour nonstop and won't eat a thing. Take her. I didn't call, I didn't want to bother you. I have to go out for a bit."
"I told you to call me. Don't you listen to anything? Anything I say, ever?" Reality displaces goodwill faster than a sleight-of-hand. She's obsessed with gambling, not my good time.
"I just wanted you to have a good time." "Right. It's about what you want. You want me to have a 'good time.' But what about what I want? I wanted you to call me if she wouldn't eat, so I could have a good time knowing she was alright. That's the only thing I said I wanted during this whole weekend."
"I don't have time for this right now. I'm down a lot to make this a nice trip for you, and I've only got a few hours left to get it back. I'm glad you liked the show. Mwah." She kisses the air and heads out the door. She's a double-or-nothing mother, something I didn't realize fully until this trip. If the first dose of guilt didn't work, then double it and see where it gets you.
"Wait, you're not hearing me—" But she's already gone, leaving me to this smoky room, sickly baby, and disappointed husband. On the flight back the next morning, I look at my family, past and present. I see my mother, sitting dejectedly, pondering her state of debt. I see my husband, holding a feverish infant. I wonder if this is how marriage just is. It's a lot of sick babies, antsy husbands, unhearing mothers, frustration, and every once in a while, a smartass acrobat to keep
things fresh.
It's the slight-of-hand that you have to keep your eyes on, the tricks that take place under your nose with your full permission. Before you know it, you're in a place that you never wanted to be in the first place, trapped in an endless loop of ups and downs, highs and lows, and the dealer holds all the good cards.
You have to know when to quit playing the game.
Amy Armatis is a freelance writer and librarian (non-shushing variety), living in Seattle with her husband and two children. When not writing or reading, she attempts to wrangle the wild herds of stuffed animals now occupying her daughter's bedroom. |
