“My husband and I bought the book on how to have sex so that it’s a girl. I could’ve given it to you! It worked for us. You have sex at the very end or very beginning of the cycle, and you stay on top, and when he comes, you have him pull his penis almost out of your vagina. Oh, and you can’t have an orgasm,” Risa explains.
“Wow. That sounds like a lot of fun,” Sonia deadpans.
“You see, the semen need to swim further so all the Y chromosomes die, or something like that. And, I must say, having a daughter changes your life,” says Risa. A sleeping infant swaddled in pink lays next to her in a stroller. “Everything about my daughter is amazing. She’s only six months old but already I can tell she’s intelligent and kind. It’s just so different, having a little girl.”
“This was an accident. So your book wouldn’t have been that helpful.”
“Come on, you want a girl, admit it,” says Clara.
“If I had a choice, which I don’t, I probably would choose a girl. For my husband, really. And I guess, because it’s different than what I already have. But remember, I’m from a family of girls, two daughters, an overbearing mother. Our fucking dog was a girl. Having boys has been really fun for me. I’ve always and forever loved boys. I still do.”
“Everyone needs a daughter,” says Clara. “Who’s going to take care of you when you get old? Your sons? I don’t think so.”
“Clara, I don’t want a daughter so that I’ll have a free nursemaid of sorts for my old age.” Sonia manages to make eye contact with the waitress. She orders an omelet, bacon, coffee, and a large juice. Her appetite is back. She’s ravenous, always.
“Wow, you must be feeling better,” says Clara.
“I am. Finally. I feel great. I love life again!”
“Those first few months are a bitch,” says Risa.
“I’m not vomiting all the time, I like food. Mike started preschool. I probably should be looking for a new apartment. But in general, life is good. Dick is being wonderful. I don’t hate my husband right now. Fuck, I’m so content I’m almost bored.”
“You won’t be bored soon. A new baby will end that.” Clara says.
“No doubt. Babies keep you busy,” Risa says. “What preschool does Mike attend?”
Sonia senses something she doesn’t like. Sonia hates the school talk. It makes her want to move back to the Midwest.
“Tom and Mike go to Open Arms Nursery. That little place down Atlantic.”
A look nearing alarm crosses Risa’s face. “Oh,” she says, her eyes darting across the room.
“My theory is, it’s preschool. It doesn’t matter so much. As long as they’re having fun.”
“Fun?” Clara says. “Preschool is a very important time. It’s not about fun. It’s about developing the skills that will carry your child through the rest of his or her life.”
“Well, that’s not really how I look at it.”
“Sam was just diagnosed with ADHD and we’re getting together a whole proper medical approach to it. Brooklyn Fellowship is really on top of things that way. Nothing gets by them. I would never send my kid to some place that doesn’t have the proper developmental approach to early childhood needs. If you don’t catch things early, there’s no hope for your children. I’m just thankful they caught Sam’s problem early enough,” Clara says.
“Attention Deficit Disorder? What is he supposed to be paying attention to? He’s four years old.”
“Some four-year-olds can read, you know,” adds Risa sternly.
“Well who gives shit about some four-year-olds. Some four-year-olds still crap in their pants. Some four-year-olds are ten feet tall. Whatever.”
Sonia’s food arrives. She starts shoveling it down.
“All I know is I want the best for my child. Why be a parent unless you make sure they get the best of everything available?” Risa says.
“I agree with you, Risa,” says Clara. “Sam’s doctors are giving him the most advanced treatment available in the world. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sonia’s bacon has already disappeared. “What’s that mean, the most advanced treatment?” she asks, her voice muffled by eggs.
“New forms of Ritalin. They just keep making it better, improving on the original medication.”
“Oh Clara, no! Really? I spend time with Sam”—and here Sonia pauses, because she does think he’s sort of a wreck—“he’s not that bad. He’s doing fine.”
Clara daintily picks at her salad. “He’s not doing fine, Sonia. But I know you mean well.”
“But drugs? Can we use the word drugs? I prefer the word drugs. Medication is so — dry. Don’t put him on drugs right away. What about behavioral therapy?”
“Come on, Sonia, you’ve seen Sam. He can’t pay attention to anything. The medication was the school’s idea, but I’m behind them a hundred percent. All the other kids at his school have started reading and he jumps from one activity to another. He can’t focus! You just got lucky with Tom. And you should watch what you say, too, because what if something happens to Mike? What if he doesn’t develop properly? What if he starts behaving oddly? What if his preschool teachers say to you, we need to talk? You’d fall on your knees. You’d do everything and see every specialist available. You would.”
“But you were just saying a couple of months ago that Sam watches too much TV and his dad is never around and you are totally overwhelmed. Couldn’t any of that have to do with his attention problems? At least try making some changes at home first, before putting him on the drugs,” says Sonia.
Clara laughs. “Blame the mother! I’m a bit shocked that this is coming from you, Sonia. You, the fierce feminist freethinker type. Autism used to be blamed on the mother being cold and unemotional. Can you imagine?”
Sonia is so pissed she wants to spit the eggs her mouth is filled with at her friend. “Feminism doesn’t eschew responsibility! Not in my mind. You stick your son in front of the TV for five hours a day, so take responsibility for that. That’s got to do something to his brain.”
Clara is unmoved. “Whatever you think of TV-watching, that preschool you send your children to sucks. I would never, ever send my kid there. Something could be terribly wrong with Tom or Mike and they wouldn’t even know. Child development is not on their agenda.”
Risa says, “Getting my son Henry properly diagnosed has been the best thing that happened to us.”
“What exactly is wrong with your son?” Sonia asks, but she doesn’t really want to know. Not for the first time, she hates the fact that she is raising her kids in New York, where people treat their children like a combination between a science and an art project.
“He has Unclear Developmental Disorder. A disorder mostly found in young boys. It’s becoming more and more common. He used to keep to himself a lot, and only play with certain types of toys.”
“What types?” Sonia asks.
“Cars.”
“Cars?”
“Henry was really missing out,” Clara says.
“Yes,” Risa says, “He was missing out on normal childhood. You should have seen him. It wasn’t like he played with cars and then went on to play with other kids. He, like, just played with cars.”
Clara says, slapping the table, “You’ve got to take your kids out of that preschool, Sonia. God knows what could be wrong with them. You’d never know. And early intervention is the most important thing.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to have a child with special needs,” Risa says. “It’s daunting. But thank goodness for all the resources available to us now. Henry gets his occupational therapy, speech therapy, play therapy. They have a whole host of specialists who can really cater to his needs.”