Afterbirth: Stories You Won't Read in a Parenting Magazine

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Chapter One

Baby Powder

Marta Ravin

I'm standing in my kitchen at two in the morning trying to make a bottle to soothe my wailing three-month-old. In my sleep-deprived haze I spill a large cup full of formula onto the shiny granite countertop. As I begin to wipe up the mess, I am struck by the fact that the last time I was looking at a mound of white powder on a shiny surface, it was definitely cocaine.

It wasn't like I ever had a "drug problem" per se; I was pretty much just a recreational user. I enjoyed drinking and smoking pot as much as the next gal . . . only more. Cocaine was strictly for parties, to enhance my Tae Bo workout, to motivate me to clean my apartment, and occasionally to snort off a stripper's ass during a threesome—whatever, it was the '90s. Anyway, after I got married, I slowed down the drug use quite a bit except for the rare bender over Yom Kippur. (How else could I be expected to not eat or drink for twenty-four hours?) But once I got pregnant, it was a no-brainer; I would be completely clean and sober for nine months.

It wasn't a physical struggle for me to give up those vices when I was pregnant, but it definitely was a mental one. There are some women who pride themselves on not changing their social lives when they are pregnant. They still go out to parties and bars, proudly balancing a glass of seltzer and lime on their big bellies. I was not one of them. By my second month I realized that without the help of alcohol or drugs I'm shy, and not really good at small talk. Who knew? But I didn't mind. Ever since I had gotten married I didn't enjoy going out that much anyway. After all, what was the point of going to a bar if you couldn't make out with strangers?

Although I didn't drink or do drugs during my pregnancy, I still felt the need to rebel in some way. Unlike some of my other pregnant friends who wouldn't put a piece of cheese in their mouth without calling Louis Pasteur to make sure it was legit, I happily indulged in many pregnancy taboos. I ate tuna fish more than two times a week. I drank coffee daily. And I got my hair colored—all three trimesters! I just didn't think any of these small pleasures could be such a big deal. I mean, think about all the crack moms living in gutters who give birth to perfectly healthy four-pound babies. What was a little tuna on whole wheat going to do to my kid?

But there was one thing I did (or rather, didn't do) while I was pregnant that was truly risqué: I didn't take my prenatal vitamins. At first it was because they made my already brutal morning sickness unbearable. Yes, the same woman who could down a Xanax with a shot of tequila couldn't handle those stupid little pills. Even when they stopped making me sick, I still didn't take them. In my warped head, not taking the vitamins was my way of saying "Fuck you!" to everyone who told me life as I knew it was about to change. All those books about what to expect when you're expecting. Expect this, Dr. Spock! I didn't even tell my gynecologist the truth. She'd ask if I was taking the vitamins and I'd give my usual uh-huh. It was the same uh-huh I gave her when I was single and she asked if I was practicing safe sex. Lying to this woman was a natural reflex.

Cut to my fifth month. Other pregnant friends of mine were constantly remarking how their babies were "kicking up a storm," but I wasn't feeling anything. The baby never kicked. I started to think that maybe not taking those vitamins wasn't the best idea. I went to the doctor almost every week and told her the baby wasn't kicking, and she would hook me up to a sonogram machine and say, "Oh no, he looks fine. His heartbeat's strong. Nothing to worry about." Even though I was scared, I still didn't take the vitamins. I'm an instant gratification person; when I take a pill I expect something to happen immediately. I take a Tylenol, no more headache; Motrin, no more cramps; ecstasy, and I make out with a 350-pound bald bouncer named Lenny. His head was so soft. I just really didn't believe that those pills did anything but make me sick. But as each kickless month passed, I became paralyzed by my dirty little secret.

In my last few weeks I fessed up to my mother. Usually when I talked about pregnancy with my mom she would say something like, "I drank and smoked through both pregnancies, and you and your deaf, cross-eyed brother turned out fine." So I told her about the vitamins, making a joke about how they probably didn't even have vitamins back in her day. She just turned to me and grimly said, "No, Marta, we had vitamins, and I took them every day." Uh-oh. I guess 1972 wasn't as backward as my parents' orange Formica kitchen would suggest.

I started having major panic attacks. There was a constant lump in my throat, my stomach was in knots, and the waistband on my Liz Lange cords was getting tighter and tighter every day. I called my best friend, knowing she would agree with my "If crack moms can have healthy babies, so can I" theory. Even though she humored me and said I would be fine, deep down I was petrified.

Cut to the delivery room. I had a relatively easy birth (drug-assisted, of course). I had been looking forward to that epidural like a cold glass of chardonnay on a summer's day. My mom arrived right before the big event assuming she would be part of the birthing process. She carefully removed her jewelry and "scrubbed in," approaching the bed with her clean hands raised as she had seen Dr. Addison Montgomery-Shepherd do so many times on Grey's Anatomy. She was only slightly insulted when my doctor asked her to take a seat. Of course, she stayed involved on her cell phone, giving a play-by-play to my father, who was on the way. "Marta's pushing very hard. Max's holding her legs. I can sort of see the head. How is Marta? She seems fine. Her hair looks nice, and I think she got a pedicure."

Jonah Lazer Leinwand was born at 7:33 a.m. on March 6, 2007. He was seven pounds six ounces and perfect in every way . . . except for his foot. It was bent up and backward toward his leg. The doctor and nurses assured us it was probably nothing, but to make sure they would send an orthopedist to check it out.

The next day, after a sleepless night, two orthopedic assistants showed up to look at Jonah's foot. My husband had gone home to take a quick shower, but my mom was with me in the room when they came. The assistants started whispering to each other as they examined Jonah, then turned around to speak to us with grave looks in their eyes. The bigger one, whom I called Boris even though that was not his name, said, "The foot seems to be deformed and will most likely be that way for the rest of his life, unless he has surgery." In truth, I can't remember exactly what Boris said. But what I heard was, "You didn't take your prenatal vitamins, and now Jonah will be deformed forever!" My wild, selfish ways had finally caught up with me. The girl who tempted fate during her single years, mixing substances and fluids with wild abandon, then laughed at the "rules" of pregnancy, had finally gotten her comeuppance. I started to cry.

"Mom, is his foot deformed because I didn't take the vitamins?"

"No, of course not," she said. But her eyes were saying, "Yes."

They took Jonah away for X-rays. By the time my husband came back, I was a complete mess. Up until that moment I had never really made the connection that this thing I had been carrying around for months, feeding it mercury-filled tuna and depriving it of nutritious vitamins, was actually going to be a person: a little, helpless person I had already failed.

We eventually saw a specialist who told u s that Jonah's foot was not "deformed." It was slightly bent but would probably straighten out on its own without surgery. Jonah's foot had been trapped under his other leg in my womb, which was why I never felt any kicking. It had nothing to do with not taking the vitamins.

That was seventeen months ago. I am happy to say that Jonah's foot is almost completely healed, and he is walking like a pro. I feel very lucky that his funky foot is the only medical problem Jonah has had so far. I actually feel lucky and blessed for many reasons. I have a loving husband who pretends that I have lost all my baby weight. A mother, who although she was horrified by the thought of breast-feeding me, offered to give a crying Jonah her own nipple one night while she was babysitting. "What? He might enjoy it!" And a father, who, although his idea of toys for me was a yellow legal pad and some Post-its, never forgets to buy Jonah a present before he sees him. I am blessed with love and family, and my life feels more important now than it ever did when I was single. These are the best reasons I have found for making sure the only white powder you'll find on my kitchen counter will be formula . . . or maybe a little heroin—but only for playdates.

Excerpted from Afterbirth by Dani Klein Modisett

Copyright © 2009 by Dani Klein Modisett

Published in May 2009 by St. Martin's Press

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.