Meternity Page 10

  “I’d like to make an announcement,” she says, peering around the room. “As you know, starting July 1 Pamela will be going on maternity leave, and I’m sorry to say, she has decided to stay home.”

  We all look over at Pam, our executive editor, who’s glowing. She’s not even pretending she’ll miss Paddy Cakes. She’s been around for twelve years, is forty-two, married and is one of those superstars that rose to the position of executive editor at thirty. “We are very sad to see Pam leave,” says Cynthia, trying to sound warm. “But this also gives us an exciting opportunity to rethink staffing. I have not decided yet whether we will be replacing her or reorganizing and promoting from within.” Editors fidget in their seats.

  “Show me your best and maybe you will see a change in title,” says Cynthia, pausing for full dramatic effect, after panning her eyes around the room.

  Just as she’s about to leave, she lands on me and then looks down to my tiny bump, seeming to calculate something. All of a sudden it comes.

  “And, I almost forgot! We have some other wonderful news. Liz will also be going on maternity leave this fall.”

  Thirty shocked faces turn and stare at me. I have absolutely no idea what to say. I take such a huge sip of my Diet Coke it makes me choke.

  “Ha-ha, yes, it’s really true,” I giggle, wide-eyed as if I’m some deranged elf. Alix shoots me an icy look. I instinctively place my hands on my stomach in a protective fashion.

  “It was sort of a surprise. Ha. But, well, I’m in my thirties, and after seeing everyone else go through it, I’ve realized that this is something I want for myself.” I am trying hard not to allow my voice to crack. “I’m not getting any younger, and it happened, er, unexpectedly...”

  I start to trail off as everyone’s faces register emotions ranging from plain shocked to all kinds of horrified. Yes, everyone gets pregnant at Paddy Cakes, but no one does it unplanned without a rich husband to support her.

  After a few seconds, everyone starts to congratulate me.

  “Welcome to the club, new mama! I’m so happy for you!” says Chloe. “I’m putting together a whole basket of stuff for you. You’re gonna need it. The hormones bring out the melasma. But I’ll give you the medical grade stuff I keep in the secret part of the closet,” she says, lowering her eyes.

  “Want to come to lunch with us sometime?” says Patty. “We’ve got a regular table every Friday? Talk about mom stuff?”

  “Whatever you read, do not go natural,” says Deb, our health director. “Take the drugs, do you hear me.”

  I smile and nod to put people at ease, and then Jules and I hurry back to our seats.

  All I can say is, you better hold on tight, because this is about to be a bump-y ride... Jules GChats. Did you see my email about the new bump tracker? Better check to see what size you should be this week before everyone starts asking!

  Thanks. What about what happened with Pam? You know Alix is ready to pounce all over that. Think she’s pissed she wasn’t named executive editor? I reply.

  Seriously. I bet Alix’s already got the job, but Cynthia decided to use the opportunity to get us to work harder. This summer’s gonna suck. I can forget about the road trip Henry and I were planning.

  Sorry, Jules. I’ll help you plan your staycation, I message back.

  It’s just—we’re actually, well, thinking about moving.

  What? I write back, shocked by this news. My office BFF could be leaving?

  Can’t talk now—more later.

  Just then Cynthia slams her office door so loudly it cuts through the air of the entire floor. We all look up to see what’s happening. Is Alix getting reprimanded?

  “I told you—more humanity. I want to hear her inner dialogue. I want to hear how she hated her child when he first came out of the womb. Not disliked, not detested, but hated him. Couldn’t stand the little brat’s face,” says Cynthia to Alix, who’s trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

  “But that’s not how witnesses said Princess Diana was around little William—she loved him. I thought these never-before-seen pictures would be enough...” Alix is painfully trying to salvage the discussion, but clearly pissed at the inanity.

  “That’s not going to sell magazines, now is it,” says Cynthia, with a sneer. Then, from out of nowhere, she calls my name wearily. “Elizabeth. Come over here.” I wonder if Cynthia ever bothered to ask anyone if I’d rather be called Liz, or just read the staff list once and it stuck. “What are the trends in postpartum depression? Anything new out?”

  I take a second to think. “Umm, nothing really new. But I could repackage the piece as a roundup about famous women who’ve had PPD. Use pull-quotes and beautiful black-and-white photography and call it, ‘The PPD Spectrum No One’s Talking About.’” Then, just for fun, I decide to out Alix. “We could use the Lexis search on quotes Alix asked me to pull for her last weekend.”

  “Perfect,” Cynthia says. “Solutions, Alix. That’s what sells magazines.”

  “Well, I could have come up with that,” says Alix under her breath.

  “What was that, Alix?” Cynthia asks.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  Then Cynthia adds, “Okay, Elizabeth, have it to me by this afternoon. I have to leave early to go see my boyfriend’s daughter’s play. Five thousand dollars for acting lessons and she can’t even pronounce ‘Othello.’ The girl’s five already. I just don’t understand it.”

  “No problem,” I reply.

  “Make sure to interview the top gynecologists for the story. Maybe we should use yours. Who’s your ob-gyn?” The question catches me off guard completely.

  I search for the first name that comes to my head, looking at the only thing in sight—the cupcake sitting on the desk in my cube. “Dr....Honey...cut.”

  Alix looks at me funny. “Dr. Honeycut? Never heard of him. What hospital is he affiliated with?” I start to sweat, racking my brain to guess which makes sense.

  “I found him doing the high-def sonogram story,” Jules says from her seat. She must have overheard my quivering tone. Thank God for Jules. “He’s the best.”

  “Yep, the best,” I say, nodding my head. And I am the worst.

  The next day at work, I decide if I’m going to do this, I have to do it right. What does James Lipton always say to fledgling actors on Inside the Actors Studio? “To be a great actor, you must make a choice and commit.” The bump firmly in place, I make my first choice: a form-fitting outfit. As I walk into the office at 9:15 on the dot, Alix looks over. She’s taking in my outfit, a tight white button-down tucked into a black pencil skirt with a red belt. It’s a little provocative and not something I would normally ever wear, but it shows off the bump in all its glory. Everyone seems to be looking at me. I think I’m actually glowing.

  “Hey, Liz, showing off the gams while preggers. Good for you,” says Jeffry. If I don’t have morning sickness, at least I have Jeffry to make me vomit. I smile, then walk toward my cube.

  I have to present my August story proposals at a 9:30 a.m. editorial meeting, while Cynthia approves, rejects or alters them. I sense everyone’s a little on edge today.

  “Okay,” says Cynthia, “who’s ready to wow me for August? Think breast-feeding shame, think stroller shame, think C-section shame. What will disrupt pregnancy like Uber disrupted cabs? Ideas, people. Chop-chop!”

  “I had an idea,” says Lexi, an associate editor. “What if we highlight a few cool couples with toddlers who’ve ditched their careers in the city for the rustic bohemian life?”

  “Boring! Not trendy enough. What’s happening next year, not last year.”

  I give Jules a silent eek look at that one.

  “Well, what about a story on improving baby selfies for social media? The latest fun filters, that kind of thing,” Caitlyn spurts out.

 
“Did it. Last year. Read the goddamm magazine before you get here, Braylin...”

  “It’s Caitlyn.”

  “What the fuck ever! Ideas! I want ideas that will sell the bloody magazine!”

  “What about algorithmic parenting—you know, using Facebook and Google insights to be a better parent?” calls out Charlie, our new web editor fresh from Harvard business school, hardly looking up from her laptop.

  “Could be okay. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of heart in it,” says Cynthia. “Anyone else?”

  Sitting up in my chair, I chime in. “Well, I was thinking, we’ve kind of done the whole mommy wars thing, and now the tiger Mom-French Mom thing. I was reading Goop the other day and thinking that maybe the newest ‘mommy war’ is the one we’re having with ourselves.” I hesitate, but to my surprise, everyone’s still listening.

  “Go on,” says Cynthia.

  “Facebook makes it seem as if everyone else has the perfect pumpkin-picking portraits, Pinterest makes it seem like everyone else has the mason-jar crafting lifestyle, while Gwyneth is telling us it’s totally possible to have the tummy we had when we’re nineteen.”

  “It’s not. It’s so not,” says Deb, rolling her eyes.

  “And let’s not get started with the whole CrossFit/Paleo mom movement.” Everyone nods. I start to pick up on the energy.

  “No wonder women in their thirties and forties are experiencing more autoimmune diseases like irritable bowel syndrome and Hashimoto’s thyroiditis—we literally can’t stop attacking ourselves.”

  Cynthia looks at me now in a way I’ve never seen. “Good. So, what’s the positive spin. The solution.”

  I start to get anxious waves. Not now. Fight for it, Buckley. I can do this. I take a big breath in, then try to relax. “Me-ternity. Maybe that’s the new idea.”

  There’s a glimmer of recognition in Cynthia’s eyes.

  “Before getting all stressed and helicoptery, or adhering to some rigid cultural system like tiger moms, or cadre like the French, or getting all obsessed with the social media movement du jour, which are all external systems, you check in with yourself first and do what makes the most sense for you, not, you know, the hypervigilance of free-range, but real. Breathe, don’t get all caught up. Give yourself a reality check and trust yourself. British reality show–style parenting!”

  There’s a quiet around the room. I worry that I’ve said something totally stupid.

  “But American...our own version.”

  “Meaning?”

  I grasp around. “Slightly more earnest?” Cynthia ponders it.

  “And fat!”

  “Ah,” everyone says, nodding with total recognition.

  “Instead of letting motherhood be coopted by brands, blogs and social media, it’s time to take our power back. We’re moms. We’re better than this. A return to sanity. Not so much overthinking. Parenting can be...fun.” With the f word tossed into it, most of the room looks at me as if I’m from Mars, but not Cynthia, who seems to get what I’m saying.

  “Meternity,” says Cynthia, with a rare ease in her voice. “Love it. The new cure for modern American motherhood. We’ve tried the whole self-love thing before but no one’s buying it—too self-helpy. This removes the ‘I’m okay, you’re okay’ sentiment. Let’s go with it. Make it big—an end of year story. So millennial. Our advertisers will eat it up.” She’s smiling now, widely, so I can feel it. Everyone is except Alix, who’s looking down at her loafers.

  Then, Cynthia looks directly at Alix and says, “Meternity. Now that’s a big idea, everyone.”

  I smile, surprised by the newfound praise. “Elizabeth. Stay for a second after the meeting,” says Cynthia.

  This is it, I think. We’re finally going to discuss things. But then Cynthia launches into something I’m not expecting.

  “You know, I never really thought you’d amount to very much here. Your ideas are passable, and you are always here late at night, lurking around the office, but I don’t know. Nothing about you really stood out.”

  Great, I think, I am about to get fired.

  “But recently I’ve noticed a change. You seem to be working extra hard. Burning the midnight oil. Coming up with ideas that will take our brand to the next level. Keep up the good work.” Though the comments are positive, her eyes retain a cautious look. I half grin, then stare down at my bump and quickly put my hands over it. A wider smile forms in the creases of my mouth. I nod silently as I turn to leave her office.

  * * *

  “She totally bought it!” I tell Jules over lunch in our cube area. I’d say this bump is giving me extra confidence. “Thank you, Little B,” I say, staring down, directly talking to it. I’m on a high.

  “Well, I thought the whole plan was to find a new job and get out of here after a month. On Friday, you’ll be at twenty weeks. Everyone’s going to be asking you to feel the baby,” says Jules.

  “I’ll just tell them I’m one of those moms who doesn’t like it when people touch her stomach.”

  “Fine, if you think you can get away with it,” snaps Jules, turning away. “Sorry, have to work now.”

  I look at the pictures lining Jules’s side of our cube.

  “So you’re thinking of moving?” I nudge.

  Jules immediately launches in. “Well, Henry didn’t take the GMATs seriously, and it’s making me think we’ve gotta consider plan Bs,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Where would you go?”

  “Maybe Raleigh-Durham or Charlotte, or even back to Hotlanta. Henry could still do graphic design and I could get a teaching fellowship. The cost of living is just so much cheaper, and we’d be closer to our parents if...when...we conceive.”

  “Wow,” I say, taking it all in. “Have you started trying?” I ask tentatively. This is a surprise; I thought I had at least another year with childless Jules.

  “God, no,” she says. Her eyes dart away, looking to see if anyone’s overheard.

  “When would you move?” I ask.

  “Henry gets his scores back soon. They’ll pretty much determine his chances of getting into NYU or Columbia.”

  “Does he really want to be in business? I thought he liked his job.”

  “He does, but not enough to give up a future family.”

  I don’t quite know what to say. A graphic designer at an ad agency in the city, Henry’s always been more of the caretaker than the ambitious, career-driven one in the relationship—that’s Jules. It’s who he is. Her current push to get him to go to business school seems like forcing a square peg into a round hole.

  For some reason, it feels like crossing a line to tell her that Henry’s lack of business drive isn’t going to change anytime soon—and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe she should be the one applying to business school. I decide, instead, to table it until later, and revert to making light of things by forwarding her a cute “Cats Who Just Can’t Handle It Right Now” listicle on BuzzFeed.

  The next morning, Cynthia calls me back into her office. I keep repeating the details of week twenty from What to Expect as I walk in, on edge.

  “Elizabeth, I’m having a bit of a problem with one of the September well stories now in manuscript—the yearly update on foreign adoption and surrogacy agencies. You’ve read it?”

  “Uh, yes, Alix asked me to help her out on that one.”

  “It feels outdated—it’s just about South America, Korea and Africa. We should be reporting on the news in India and Mongolia, too. Include some analysis. As is, there’s no substance to it.” She sets the folder down on her desk and removes her reading glasses.

  I think about how Alix had asked me to research the subjects. She said the only requisite for the women featured was they be pretty, young, somewhat diverse and upper-middle-class to “reflect our
reader,” as she put it. I thought some of the women weren’t quite right—they hadn’t even come back with children—but the focus was on appearance.

  “Yes, you know, I thought so, too.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say anything?” asks Cynthia quickly.

  “Well, it was technically Alix’s story, so...”

  “Well, it’s yours now. See if you can fix it by focusing more on the women’s emotional experience. Go back to them for more narrative. Change the subjects and open it up to every country if you have to—just make sure to approve them through me first. You did do a good job on those tiger/French mom write-ups—I think you can manage this.” She says this last part as if she’s asking herself the question.

  “I’ll give it my best.”

  “You’d better.”

  I immediately get to work scheduling interviews with the original five women. If I can salvage their stories, I will. If not I’ll try to track down other ones.

  A few get back to me right away, excited to be profiled in Paddy Cakes. Later in the afternoon I’m able to speak with the first subject, Mary-Ellen Thomkins, a thirty-six-year-old painter from Vermont. I ask her to describe each detail of her story—the hardships of infertility and the difficulties she and her husband faced navigating a very foreign system—until she finally came home with a baby in her arms. She tells me that, actually, changing political systems and regulations have made it increasingly harder to adopt babies internationally in the past five years, and that I should investigate India.

  After a bit of internet research, I learn that surrogacy has become big business in India, and because of increased demand from western couples—in particular, gay couples and straight couples looking for more affordable options—a great deal of it unregulated. Increasingly, highly paid agents are luring in young women to live in hospitals for nine months while their baby gestates for a few thousand rupees, then as soon as they go through labor, they’re back on the streets.

  Then, I happen upon a VICE video online that makes my stomach churn. Because the stakes are so high to provide a paying couple with a baby at the end of the nine months, some back-alley clinics are pumping women with more than one embryo. And these “extra babies” born of this process are being sold on the black market.