She wanted one, she said. She wanted one who looked like me. I wanted one because I wanted her.
She tracked her cycles. Made schedules. I bought the things we would need: clothes, cribs, the rest. We planned and hoped. Months passed, then years. The manufacturer recalled the crib. The advice books grew out of date. The baby clothes had something wrong with them: they had too much flame retardant. Or too little.
We moved. In our new place, we set up a room for the baby, but it was smaller than the old one. I kept the larger room for a home office. My office had once been a baby room: over my printer were appliqués of dancing pigs in blue pants.
I had our new baby room painted, but this time I didn't buy anything for it. I filled it with tax forms and books. In the corner was the old, recalled crib. It needed some sort of an adapter so baby heads wouldn't stick between the slats. I filled the crib with gifts we couldn't use: matching beer steins, a plastic birdbath, books, and old baby clothes.
My work-from-home scheme fell on hard times and we had to move to another place, a property I'd bought as an investment but had never planned on living in. It smelled of dogs and children. Even after we'd been there for many years, we found rawhide bones and pacifiers behind the refrigerator, under the stove, and in the basement.
We painted all of the rooms in that house, except for the one that had belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was girlish and lined with posters of teen idols. We liked it, its innocence and its little girl knickknacks. We furnished it with matching beanbag chairs from Costco. Mine was red, hers blue. Between us, we had a small breakfast table. Every morning before we went to work, we sat in our chairs, ate our bagels, and looked at the posters.
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Everyone seems to hate this story. Maybe you do, too. Was in NOO Journal. http://www.noojournal.com/view.php?mode=1&issue=11&id=236
I like what's specific -- pacifiers, rawhide bones, dancing pigs in blue pants -- and what isn't: names, places, dialogue. As if the narrator can't tell us what he's called until there's a baby, too. Not entirely sure whether they're feeling resigned or strangely content in the end, and I like it that way.
The perfect companion piece to Pia's Baby Hater:
http://fictionaut.com/stories/147
This piece has a certain sadness to it, a certain resignation. I don't see too much "contentedness" myself. I like the quiet sense of despair.
love the author's note!
Meakin, this is strong, strong work. My friends call me ax (not nicely) so please take my suggested first two paragraphs with a grain of salt. There is so much power here in your work. I think if you adopt a couple such changes in these graphs and then maybe later on ... the story will be both more spare and more potent.
She wanted one who looked like me. I wanted one because I wanted her.
She tracked her cycles. Made schedules. I bought clothes, cribs, all the rest. We planned, hoped. Months passed, years. The crib was recalled. The baby clothes had too little or too much flame retardant. The advice in our books proved no longer apt.
Jon, I definitely read the ending as resignation at first, but then I looked at it again and wasn't so sure any more. The way they actually *like* the room, the way it is. The matching beanbags, the bagels, the posters -- maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I get the sense that they're pretty comfortable with their breakfasts there.
I think the first three graphs are amazing. The sentence rhythm, the throw-down of what he wants, what she wants. Love this line: I bought the things people need. The last scene seems like a kind of relief to the N. What he's wanted is to be filled, and there they are, sitting on matching Costco thrones in the bedroom of a teenage child - a subtle marking of time in their relationship, and, maybe, finally, it's his turn.
This is wonderful, original writing. It wants to be read again, not for more understanding, but for pure enjoyment. I'm so glad to have found your work.
Think this is terrific. The last paragraph is heartbreaking; they still have desire, but perhaps it is more about going back in time now, than it is about moving forward.
Meakin -
I like the way you have got into the heads of expectant couples - in all senses of the word. And I agree with JF that the couple is comfortable in their chairs, but that the expectation that they will eventually be parents persists. It is hopeful rather than grim. Beautifully achieved.
I really like the movement of this piece; it feels as if years are passing. I like the details, the place that smells of dogs and children...the rooms and what is in them (and what isn't). The ending is perfect.
Yes, I hate it! FOR BEING SO GOOD!
I agree, great movement, covering a span of years in just a few short words. The opening is terrific, characterizes the narrator well. I get the sense he never really wanted the baby, or perhaps is more ambivalent--okay, if she wants one, more sex, why not--sort of an attitude. He is going through the motions. His whole life is going through the motions. They create a place of comfort among the smelly house. I read the ending as resolution, acceptance.
I love this. Especially great beginning--I was hooked.
Great pacing and oh so sad.
"The manufacturer recalled the crib." - for me, an especially heartbreaking detail. It marks the passage of time so effortlessly.
Thanks!
Great story, with and ending that will stay with me. *
I don't know why anyone would hate it. It's got a lovely bittersweet tinge to it, and I liked how it began, and I liked how it continued.
I love how you created a piece that didn't get stuck in pain. It moves without hiding the essence. Loved it all the way through.