HÉLÈNE: BABY TIME

The weekend before Christmas my boyfriend mentioned at breakfast that Geneviève and her husband, Marc, were having a difficult time with their Christmas arrangements. The couple planned to join the rest of their family in Italy for the week, but were having a very difficult time completing their Christmas shopping because of their new baby, seven-month-old Angelique. Geneviève is a flautist in an orchestra, and I thought this odd because the government hires something of a “mother's helper” (as I think they call them in the U.S.) for the first year.

While my boyfriend meandered vaguely around the subject, I picked up on the real premise. The couple had asked him if “he” (read “we”) would watch Angelique while they finished all they had to do.

I am purposely child-free. I was, further, a little annoyed that my boyfriend wanted to take on this venture and had tentatively said “yes” without consulting me. He approached me timidly on Tuesday and, after thinking it over, as well as all the incidentals, I said yes, but that there was a lot of work to be done.

Our apartment is a pre-war apartment in Montmartre. It is exactly my boyfriend’s style, though I am trying to get us to move to the much better XVIe Arrondissement. Anyway, we have what some would call a spacious apartment, but the rooms are large, and between us we have limited space for a baby's things.

Our first point revolved around who was going to stay home to take care of the baby. I said, “Because you have promised, I forgive you. But who will stay home? You don’t really expect me to remain at home when I have so much more work than you.” I wanted to make it very clear straight off that this was something he had to figure out. After a pause, he said, “I will, of course.” This reassured me very much. “Where will we put the baby?” I asked, and after some debate he sighed and moved his instruments and music out of the study we share (his half has music and instruments, and that is where I store my costumes and make-up) and moved them into some kind of storage we managed to secure.

 

All that week baby things started to arrive, which made me very anxious. First the father, Marc, came over with a crib-like thing, and then a few larger pieces of furniture which completely overwhelmed me.

On Friday she came. I had made it clear to my boyfriend that in no way was the baby to interfere with his usual tasks; making my breakfast, setting out my clothes, and doing the household chores would still be his responsibility. Sitting in bed, wondering where my breakfast was, I was dreading this. I heard Geneviève enter (presumably with little Angelique), and I stayed in bed for a while, until I called him in and said, “Breakfast.”

At this moment I was not sure how I felt about this little stranger. She was pretty cute, though, I must say. I waited until Geneviève left before I exited the bedroom to eat my breakfast. All was well until she started to cry and my head began to pound. I really did not like this idea, and I thought of scheduling some appointments to get away. To my surprise, however, my boyfriend calmed the baby down rather quickly and managed for a while to keep the toys confined to the spare room, so he could attend both to me and to the child.

It has always been a secret dream of mine to have my boyfriend completely at home, waiting on me and taking care of the house. I really feel that is where he belongs. It was not until he began putting my boots on that morning that I really felt it. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realized this would be the first day I would leave my little man at home, tending to the house, with a baby. There is something about this arrangement that filled me with so much joy, so much happiness. I looked at him, petted him, and felt, yes, this is just how it should be. When a man has a baby at home, I began to feel, he is so much less likely to get into trouble, to get distracted with trifles, or be led astray. At least when there's a man like mine.

I stroked his chin, his cheek, I looked at him lovingly, I petted him on the shoulder, and I said, “You have a good day.” He smiled a little, then turned to tend to the baby. That was the first small wrinkle. I wanted him—right then. As per our household rules, it's my right to take him when I want. So I pulled him by the beltloops, which I usually do, and began to take him, but the baby was right there, and my boyfriend protested. I rolled my eyes, and then smacked his butt to get him in the bedroom.

At work I was more feisty than usual. When some of my colleagues asked how things were, I said they were great, and to the first enquiry about my boyfriend I said, glowing, “At home with the baby.”

I returned home to a sulky boyfriend. He was going crazy, wondering where he had left his keys. Let me make it clear that my boy always knows where his keys are. It’s one of those things he just knows (the full extent of male intuition). He said he was disappointed because he wanted to take Angelique to the park and now he couldn't, nor could he go anywhere.

I took off my coat, dropped my purse and other garments, and walked into the kitchen. “Where's dinner?” I asked. At first I thought he was going to start whining and making excuses. But to my surprise, he didn't. He told me dinner was about to be put in the oven, and I thought, if this is what having a baby with him is like, maybe it's a consideration. 

“Do you see how well everything works when you stay home?” I asked, and then I spotted a mess of toys in the corner. “Oh, but those have to stay in that room,” I said, and he put them away with a testy little sigh. But I didn't care. I had had a great day at work, and I was looking forward to a nice dinner. Well, it was not as nice as it usually is. It was simpler, and after I was finished I had to ask him to cook more because I was still hungry. He made me something else, but the baby started to cry, and he had to take care of that as well, and it slowed down the process quite a bit.

France is different from America in how we raise children. We do not answer them every time they cry in the night, we put them on a schedule. But my boyfriend said it was possibly because she was in an unfamiliar house that she was crying. I think he tried to wake me up to deal with the baby, but I did not budge. This is how I want my household to run. Eventually, around 3 a.m., I locked my bedroom door, so he had to sleep with the baby so I could get some rest.

The next morning was Saturday. I am accustomed to taking my boy first thing in the morning, and I realized he would be outside or in the spare room, sleeping with the baby. I sighed. I wanted my breakfast, I wanted him, sans bébé. I took off my mask, and woke him up. He made breakfast, got the baby up, and I told him to play with her. He said he really wanted to do something with her, take her somewhere.

“I have meetings until six,” I said, and by this point my day was wrinkled. I was disappointed not to have him around this morning. He began to get on my nerves, so I said he should play with her until we could go somewhere. I said if he could find his keys he could take her to a park or a museum or something. I did leave the keys this time – not to the car, of course. That car is beautiful, and I want it for myself. He reluctantly conceded, and I went to my meetings. They were all very important.

On Saturday night I worked in the living room, while he played with the baby. Whenever something happened with the baby I said, “Baby,” and he corrected her. It was a nice night, though we had a little quarrel. He had to be reminded this was his baby, essentially, and he had to take care of it.

“If you want a real baby, you should know your responsibilities,” I said, and returned to my work. “Tomorrow we can all go out together. That will cheer you up a little.”

The next morning things went smoother. The baby loves him, by the way. On Sunday after breakfast he packed up everything and we got ready to go.

We have never had this argument before. As I mentioned, I usually drive the car, a Lexus – a super sweet, sleek, black Lexus, with white leather seating, a killer stereo system (the only reason my boyfriend wanted the car) that makes up for its lackluster petrol performance. Once he got it—a birthday present from his father after he won a music composition prize in university—I saw it and fell in love. I love driving his car. It makes me feel like he has given me everything. After he put that hideous car seat inside it, ruining the entire look of the car, along with some of her stuff (I stuffed the snack deep into the bag, I do NOT have crumbs in my car), he looked at me, and, surprisingly, held out his hands for the keys.

For a moment I stared at him, dumbfounded. What was he doing? I have been driving this car more or less for the past year or so, and I said, “Well, go ahead and get in.” I walked to the driver's seat and said, “I'll unlock it for you.”

He stood there, stock still, until he got into the car. He did not like this. He sat in the passenger's side, glancing back and forth at me. Whenever the kid made too much noise, I just said, “Take care of it.”

He started to get sulky, pensive. Whenever men think, it looks as if they find it painful. Finally he said, “W-when we come home, w-would it be alright if I drive?”

I sighed. “We'll see.”

We got to Centre  Pompidou, went to a few parks with lots of kids, he talked some with friends, and then finally we went home. He cooked dinner.

I still do not want a baby. I have given it a lot of thought, and I like the way things are between us. It was, however, a good experiment and good to know. Where did he learn all that stuff about babies?

In general it was an interesting weekend, I suppose. I will have to think more about it. When the parents came to fetch the baby, I felt relaxed, happy to have my boyfriend all to myself. And that concludes my adventures with the baby.

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