Sam Lipsyte - The Fun Parts

“You’re choking him,” says Mrs. Gottwald.

“They like it tight,” I say. “Womb-y.”

“You’re crushing him!”

I peel the blanket away. Baby Gottwald is gasping.

“Okay,” I say. “You’ve seen how it’s done. Now it’s your turn.”

“Gee, thanks,” says Mrs. Gottwald.

To think that yesterday not only did we do a group hug but later, while the baby slept, I gave them all shoulder rubs, even Ezekiel. We ate comfort lasagna from the gourmet store, and Mrs. Gottwald said, “I can’t believe we almost went through this without you, Mitch. This is so much better than the last time. Do you remember when we came home with Zekey, hon?”

“A goddamn nightmare,” said Mr. Gottwald. “Hooray for the doula.”

“Doulo,” I said.

“Gentle now, Big Fella,” said Mr. Gottwald.

Big Fella has always been a trigger for me, not least of all because I go two fifty-five or sixty on a good day, most of it solid flab, but I forgave him. There was such high gladness in Mr. Gottwald’s eyes, not to mention the pillowy shimmer of his wife, all that evolutionary love dope coursing through her, I felt us all cocooned in some invincible sweetness.

But that was yesterday.

* * *

Today Mr. Gottwald paces the loft, fiddles with the earpiece in his ear. He’s been talking to his office nonstop since the hospital. Apparently the man is a crucial component of the pharmaceutical industry’s advertising efforts. We’d all forget to ask our doctor about pills for shyness and soft penises if he took a day of paternity leave. Ezekiel sobs quietly on the carpet, hovers over a toy cheese board, tugs apart some Velcro’d wedges of fake Manchego. We may need to have a chat.

Mrs. Gottwald lies in bed with her newborn, the blanket bunched at her feet. She shivers with fever. Clogged milk ducts, would be my guess. She’s also having bowel trouble, and I may have to administer an enema. I’m beginning to believe the mister could use a good flush, too.

The baby cries, sleeps, cries, sleeps, cries, then doesn’t cry or sleep, curls up against Mrs. Gottwald. Here on the leather sofa, where I’m drinking Gatorade, catching the American League highlights, I can just make out his pinched mug. I’m wondering if I can sneak out for another smoke before he goes off again.

“Mitch,” says Mr. Gottwald, steps in front of the TV, blocks a particularly insightful slugging percentage graphic.

“Yes, sir.”

“The baby is crying.”

“Good call.”

Mrs. Gottwald’s trying to tuck the baby under her breast the way they teach in birth classes, the so-called football grip.

“Fumble!” I say, and stride over, remote in hand, but I guess nobody’s in the mood for sports jokes. Baby Gottwald wails louder, lunges for his mother’s breast, gums the cracked flesh. His lips slide on a film of milk and spit.

“Oh, sheesh,” says Mrs. Gottwald. “It hurts.”

“It’s like a beer keg he can’t quite tap,” I say.

“Oh, is that what it’s like?” Mr. Gottwald says.

“It really hurts,” says Mrs. Gottwald. “It wasn’t like this with Zekey.”

“Work the hurt,” I say.

“What the hell does that mean?” Mr. Gottwald says.

“It means whatever helps it mean something.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Mrs. Gottwald.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“No, it’s not.”

* * *

Nobody’s born a doula. Or maybe the early doulas, those slaves, maybe they were born doulas. I’m no historian. It’s the future I care about. The future of the families I assist in these first fragile and hugely awesome hours. The future of my bank account, too.

It’s true I just sort of fell into this work while stalking my ex-girlfriend, but once I came under the tutelage of Fanny Hitchens, former doula to the stars, I knew I’d found my calling, even when the calls never came. It was tough going, but Fanny encouraged me from that very first day I crashed her lactation and newborn-care class at the church. My ex-girlfriend’s new goon of a boyfriend, Kennesaw, a Special Forces interrogator and one of the few troops I have truly in my heart never supported, had shown up at my AA meeting across the hall, and I needed someplace to hide. Fanny just nodded when I slipped into the room, invited me to join the others, the swollen ladies and their sullen men, on the rubber wrestling mats. Soon enough the tricks of the miracle-of-life trade had me hooked.

Fanny hoped I’d become a birth doulo, and I tried to oblige. Childbirth is a beautiful thing. Even all the poop and gunk that slides out of a woman during childbirth is beautiful. The plastic bag under the woman’s butt to catch the poop and gunk is beautiful, too. But I was a birth doulo bust. I couldn’t fend for women and their families in the hospitals or stand up to the godlike doctors. They all reminded me of my older sister, Tina. Tina’s not a doctor, but she’s godlike, at least to me, and godlike in that cruel, capricious Greek way, too, even when we were growing up. Once, I remember, she bought me peanut brittle. Then, a few minutes later, when I asked her to buy me more peanut brittle, she said no, she’d just bought me some. What the hell was that? Mixed messages can damage a child.

Anyway, I eventually decided my talents were best served in what I like to call the postpartum arena. I just felt better without the white coats breathing down my neck. Still, things could get tough. Nobody wants to hear this, but bringing home a newborn is not all cuddles and fluff. It’s more like a boat crashing into a dock. And I’m the skipper, yanking on the wheel, trying to steer this heap to safety. But the boat’s already crashed.

So now I’m guiding Baby Gottwald’s little fish mouth back toward his mother’s thick burgundy nipple. It’s true the words “thick burgundy nipple” excite me, but it’s also a fact that latching on can be a monumental bitch.

“Ow!” says Mrs. Gottwald. “It hurts! It hurts worse than before!”

“I know, but we’ve got to do this. We’ve got to get this latch-on on.”

The baby is doing beaver gnaws. Mrs. Gottwald clutches her chest.

“I can’t,” she says now. “It hurts too much!”

“Come on!” I say. “Don’t quit!”

“No!”

“Come on, honey!”

“No, no. It hurts. I can’t. Stop!”

“No stopping!” I shout at Mrs. Gottwald. “No stopping!”

“Get some!” I shout at the baby.

Tears stream down Mrs. Gottwald’s cheeks. A thread of milky blood runs down her chest. The baby is screaming. Little Ezekiel is screaming, waving his Manchego. Mrs. Gottwald is screaming. Mr. Gottwald is speaking in low, lawyerly tones, something about something being actionable, but I ignore him.

“Get some!” I shout again, and then, I’ll be damned, Baby Gottwald latches on. Soon he’s slurping away in peace. Mrs. Gottwald sinks back against the headboard. I stroke her damp hair with the cool, curved edge of the remote control.

“That’s it, sweetie, you did good. Look at Baby Gottwald.”

“He has a name.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. Just be proud. You’re doing a really good thing.”

And I start to tell her why this is such a good thing, how the antibodies in the breast milk are crucial for the development of a top-tier baby, and besides, I continue, think of the alternative, think of somebody like me, kept days after birth in a cold, antiseptic hospital designed for maximum alienation of mother from child. There were no doulas then, no midwives, no lactation consultants, at least not in our neck of the woods, which weren’t woods, but so what? My mother, I tell Mrs. Gottwald, she did the best she could, which consisted of being a drugged-up cow and nodding listlessly at anything her cruel and capricious godlike doctor told her, including the completely unfounded notion that she couldn’t produce milk, not to mention the sage advice that she not visit with me, a light-shocked babe desperate to bond, until she’d fully recuperated from the so-called ordeal of labor, which I don’t think she ever truly accomplished, or else maybe she wouldn’t have left my father for an insurance executive slash cowboy poet named Vance and moved to Montana. I don’t blame my mother, I tell Mrs. Gottwald. I blame the patriarchy that indoctrinated women into the idea that they were second-class citizens, foolish, feckless whore slash Madonna complexes, only good for being barefoot and so forth. But we know better now, I tell her, the steady progress of Progress is truly fucking stupendous, whereupon I feel Mr. Gottwald’s hand on the collar of my shirt as he tugs me away from his wife and into the kitchen. Ezekiel follows with a wheel of Camembert, some kind of polymer.