Relationship In Love

Manhattan Pshycho Moms Go Gaga for Goo-Goos

Mr. Big calls, only a little pissed off, from China. He’d sent his luggage via an express delivery service and now it’s lost, and he’s sitting in his hotel room with only a pair of jeans and a shirt and no clean underwear. “If this happened five years ago, someone would have been fired,” he says. “But I’ve changed. It’s the new me. If they can’t deal with me in dirty jeans, fuck ‘em.”
“Guess what?” Carrie says. “Your friend Derrick called. He said Laura is trying to get pregnant and he doesn’t want her to, so every night he pretend to come but doesn’t, and then he goes into the bathroom and jerks off. And every night she’s watching ‘You and Your Baby’ videos.”
“What a wuss,” says Mr. Big.
“And he says he can’t do it because he’s not far enough along in his career to afford a kid.”
“And how about you?” Mr. Big asks, in his singson way.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Carrie says darkly. “I think I might be pregnant.”
“A baby. We’re going to have a baby,” says Mr. Big.
Carrie isn’t sure what to think.
You see, things happen to people when they have kids in New York. Some parents remain normal. But others, decidedly, do not. They go a little bit crazy. Take all that energy and aggression, those hangups and unresolved issues that go into one’s career, and imagine applying them to a chile. When it comes to kids, people who were once garden-variety New York City neurotics can become, well, just plain crazy.
That was evidenced immediately when Carrie went to brunch at the SoHo loft of her friends Packard and Amanda Deale. Packard and Amanda (normal) are the parents of Chester, who was marching around the loft banging an umbrella on the floor. One mother (not so normal) couldn’t help but point out that he was “parallel-playing and not sharing, but it’s okay, because he’s only, and no one expects him to sharie his toys—yet.”
Like most couples who suddenly have children, the Deales have mysteriously taken on a whole new group of friends who also have kids. How does this happen? Did Packard and Amanda meet them at some early-admission nursery school gathering? Or were they always friends who, having kids, kept Amanda and Packard on the back burner until they caught up? The newfound friend include Jodi, who insisted that everyone give her only white baby clothes, because she believes that dye in clothing will cause an allergic reaction on her baby’s skin; Suzanne, who won’t let her nannies wear perfume because she doesn’t want to come home and find her baby smelling of someone else’s (cheap) cologne; and Maryanne, who kept firing babysitters, secretly on purpose, until she finally just had to quit her job to take care of the kid.
That kind of behavior is not limited to mothers. After all, isn’t there something just a wee bit nutsy about fathers and sons who dress in identical Patagonia jackets with matching Rollerblade helmets? Or the father who, kissing his son repeatedly on the head in between holding his little mitts in his hand and dancing around the child’s stroller (if it is possible for a two year old to look embarrassed, the kid does). Explains, “All you have to do is have one of these and then take three or four years off.”
Of course, being crazy about your kid and being just plain crazy are two slightly different things. Taken to extremes, there is only one word for a certain kind of New York parenting: psycho. You don’t know who it will strike or what form it will take, but, said Packard, “It’s not about love or caring; it’s about obsession.”

“Allexandra!”
Carrie was sitting on the couch in the loft talking to a woman who appeared fairly ordinary. Becca had straight blond hair and the sort of long, thin nose that makes you think it could suck martinis out of a glass on its own. She’d just moved into a new apartment in the East 70s and was explaining the pros and cons of hiring a decorator—“One friend couldn’t get this decorator to stop buying things, it was awful”—when suddenly she was interrupted by a five-year-old girl in a frilly dress and a black ribbon in her hair. “Mommy, I want the tit,” demanded the child.
“Alexandra!” (Why is practically every kid named Alexander and Alexandra these days?) Becca said in a stage whisper. “Not now. go and watch videos.”
“But he’s having titty milk,” said the child, pointing to a woman who was nursing a baby in the corner.
“He’s a baby. A little bitty baby,” said Becca. “You can have juice.”
“I don’t want juice,” Alexandra said. She actually had her hands on her hips.
Becca rolled her eyes. She stood and hauled the little girl onto her lap. The girl immediately started fussing with her mother’s blouse.
“Are you still… breast feeding?” Carrie asked, as politely as possible.
“Sometimes,” Becca said. “My husband wanted to have another child right away, and I didn’t. it’s so much work having a kid in New York. Isn’t it, you little monster?” she gazed down at her child, who was now sucking her thumb, staring up at Mother, waiting for the unbuttoning. The child turned to Carrie, fixing her with an evil eye. “Titty milk. Titty milk,” she said.
“Come on, Alexandra, I’ll take you to the bathroom,” said Becca. “We keep meaning to stop this now, don’t we?”
The child nodded.
Becca wasn’t the only mother at the party having problems getting an appropriate grip on her relationshiop with her child. Off in the bedroom, Julie, a small, dark-haired woman who manages a restaurant, was perched next to her six-year-old son, Barry. Barry is an adorable child, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his mother, with his dark curls. But he didn’t look happy. He clung to Julie ferociously; when someone else tried to talk to her, he crawled all over her. “Oh, get off me. You’re such a pain.” Julie said to Barry, but she didn’t really do anything about it. Barry won’t play with the other children, nor will he let Julie talk to any adults. Later on, Carrie found out that it is always like this with the two of them—they go to parties, sometimes adult parties, and talk only to each other. She also learned that Julie keeps a mattress in Barry’s room; most nights, she sleeps on the mattress. Julie’s husband sleeps in the other room. They are planning on getting divorced.
“Well, that’s pretty normal,” said Janice, a corporate lawyer, who is one of the few psycho moms who has no problem admitting it. “I love my son,” she said. “Andy is eleven months old. He is a god, and I tell him every day. The other day I found him in his crib saying, ‘Me, me, me.’”
“I was driven to have a baby since I was thirty,” she continued. “So when I finally had him [sh’es not thirty-six], I was like, This is my calling in life. I’m a mom. I wasn’t going to go back to work, but frankly, after three months, I knew I had to go back to work. I’m in his face too much. In the park, I’m jumping up and down in front of him—the nannies think I’m crazy. I kiss him a thousand times a day. I can’t wait to get home to give him a bath. His body makes me crazy. I never felt this way about any man.”
Janice went on to say that if she see Andy glance at another child’s toy, she has to go out and buy it for him. One time she thought he was looking at something called the exersaucer. She finally found it on 14th street, and she was running down 14th Street with it on her head because she couldn’t get a cab and she couldn’t wait to bring it home to him. “People were literally pointing at me on the street,” she said. “Everyone thought I was insane. Then I get home and I give it to him and he starts crying.”
Why is she like this? “It’s something about New York,” she said. She shrugged. “It’s competitive. I want my son to have everything everybody else has, and more. Plus, I always wanted a boy. Sons always take care of their mothers.”

The Nanny Camera
In other words, after years of men who won’t make commitments and can’t be depended on, a son becomes a man substitute. “Oh, yeah,” said Janice. “You can’t trust men. You can’t trust anyone who isn’t your blood.”
“My husband is really a second-class citizen,” she said. “I used to be pretty crazy about him, but then the baby came along. Now, if he’s like, ‘Could you please get me a Diet Coke?’ I tell him to buzz off.”
Meanwhile, a small, wary crowd had gathered in the middle of the loft. Wobbling a bit was a tiny girl wearing pink ballet slippers and a tutu. “Brooke insisted on wearing her ballet outfit today. Isn’t it adorable?” said a tall, beaming woman. “When I tried to put pants on her, she started crying. She knew. She knew she had to wear her ballet outfit today so she could put on a performance, didn’t she, pumpkin? Didn’t she, pumpkin?” The woman stooped, her hands clasped to her chest, her head cocked, and her face frozen in a large fake smile inches from the child’s face. Then she began making odd gesturing motions.
“Blow a kiss. Blow a kiss,” she said. The little girl, smiling fixedly, brought her little palm to her mouth and then whooshed out air between her lips. The mother screamed wildly.
“She curtseys, too,” Amanda said with some derision to carrie. “She does tricks. Her mother got Brooke on the cover of one of those baby magazines, and since then, she’s gone nuts. Every time we call her, she’s rushing Brooke off to a ‘go-see.’ She’s with a modeling agency. I mean, she’s cute, but…”
Just then, another mother walked by, holding the hand of a two-year-old boy. “Look, Garrick, table. Table, Garrick. Can you say table? What do we do at a table? Eat, Garrick. We eat at a table. Can you spell table? T-a-b-l-e. Garrick, rug. Garrick. R-u-g, rug, Garrick…”
Amanda started making onion dip. “Excuse me,” said Georgia, a woman in a checked suit. “Onion dip? Just be sure to keep it away from the kids. The salt and fat makes them nuts.” This sentiment, however, did not prevent her from dipping her finger into the heinous concoction and sticking it in her mouth.
“Hey, have you guys checked out the Sutton Gym?” Georgia asked. “It’s fabulous. You have to take Chester to the Sutton. It’s like a David Barton gym for kids. Has he started to talk yet? If he has, maybe we could make a playdate. Rosie is nearly one, but I want to start her on improving playdates.
“I also recommend the baby massage class at the 92nd Street Y. Very bonding. You’re not still breast feeding, are you? I didn’t think so.” Georgia extracted another glop of onion dip. “Say, how’s your nanny?”
“Fine,” Amanda said, glancing at Packard.
“She’s from Jamaica. We’re lucky to have her,” Pacard said.
“Yeah, but are you sure she’s taking good care of little Chester?” Georgia asked.
“He seems fine to me,” Packard said.
“Yes, but I mean, good care,” Georgia said, looking at Amanda meaningfully, at which point Packard slipped away.
“You can’t be too careful with these nannies,” Georgia said, leaning in toward Amanda. “I went through eleven nannies. Finally, I got the spy camera.”
“Spy camera?” Carrie asked.
Georgia looked at Carrie as if seeing her for the first time. “You don’t have kids, do you? Anyway, I thougt it was going to cost a fortune, but it doesn’t. This friend of mine saw it on Oprah. A guy comes to your hose and sets it up. You can watch your nanny for five hours. I called mine and said, ‘What did you do today?’ She said, ‘Oh, I took Jones to the park, then we played.’ It was all a lie. She hadn’t even left the house! All she did all day was watch TV and talk on the phone. She practically ignored Jones the whole day. I’ve got all my girlfriends doing it. One of them watched the nanny trying to dismantle the spy camera!”
“Wow,” said Amanda.
I’m going to get sick, Carrie thought.

“Married Sex”
Carrie went into the bathroom in Packard and Amanda’s room. Julie was still in the bedroom with Barry. He was lying on the bed with his head in her lap. Becca and Janice were in there, too. Talking about their husbands.
“Let me tell you something about married sex,” Becca said. “What is the point.”
“What’s the point of a husband?” Julie said. “I mean, who needs two babies?”
“I totally agree,” said Janice. “Except that now I want to have another baby. I was thinking of getting rid of my husband, but now I’m not sure that I want to—yet.”
Julie leaned over her son. “When are you going to grow up, baby baby?”
Carrie went back into the living room. She walked over to the window for some fresh air. Somehow, Garrick had become detached from his mother and was standing, looking lost, in the corner.
Carrie leaned over. She took something out of her purse. “Pssst. Hey kid,” she said, motioning. “Come here.”
Curious, Garrick wandered over. Carried held up a small, plastic package. “Condom, Garrick,” she whispered. “Can you say condom? C-O-N-D-O-M. If your parents had used one of these, you might not even be here.”
Garrick reached out for the plastic package. “Condom,” he said.

Two days later, Amanda called Carrie. “I’ve just had the worst day of my life,” she said. “My nanny has a kid—a son—three months older than Chester. Her kid got sick, so I had to stay home.”
“First, I tried taking him to the park. I didn’t know where the gate was to the playground, and I felt totally embarrassed because all of the other nannies were already inside and I couldn’t figure out how to get in. They were all looking up at me like, Who are you? Then Chester wanted to go on the slide. Like twenty times. I kept looking up at the big clock on Fifth Avenue. Five minutes had passed. I swung Chester on the swing. Another five minutes. I let him play in the sand-box. Then more sliding. A total of fifteen minutes had passed. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ I said. I put him kicking iand screaming into his stroller. ‘We’ve got to run some errands,’ I said.”
“Poor Chester. I was racing him up the sidewalk, and he was bumping around in the stroller, not knowing what was going on. I tried to go shopping, but I couldn’t get the stroller into the dressing room. Then we went to the bank, and the stoller got stuck in the revolving door. I mean, how am I supposed to know that you’re not supposed to put a stroller in a revolving door? We were trapped. Some man had to push us through, inch by inch.”
“Finally, it was eleven-thirty. I took him home and cooked him lunch. An egg.”

Later that night, Carrie called Mr. Big. She forgot about the time difference—he was sleeping. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said. “I got my period.”
“Oh. So… no baby,” he said.
They hung up, but two minutes later he called back.
“I just remembered the dream I was having,” he said. “I dreamed we had a baby.”
“A baby?” Carrie asked. “What kind of baby?”
“A little tiny one,” said Mr. Big. “You know. A newborn. Lying right here in the bed with us.”