Page 91 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 75

Connie

In 1988, Connie and I bonded over our screaming babies in
Drewes Meats, the oldest butcher shop in San Francisco. We
were poised, professional women in our thirties—how could
these screeching, inconsolable babies belong to us? How
could this have happened? We stared at each other in recog-
nition. She was begging her three-month old infant, Dalia,
to calm down, and I was likewise imploring my 18-month-
old toddler, Sam, to quiet down. “Everything’s fine, here’s
a toy, here’s your bottle, take my shiny keys”—anything to
get each of them to quiet down while we got some ground
chuck.
Nothing worked. There was crying and laughter (moms
and babies both), and we bent over our strollers like we were
kissing the Pope’s hand, but nothing worked. Nada.
“I’m Connie,” she said, in that warm, soothing tone of
hers that can spin a story so long, so anecdotal, and so full of
fun characters, interesting details, and absurd observations.
She also roared like a lion when she laughed. “I’m Jan,” I
said, “and this is Sam, my pain-in-the-ass younger son.”
I was in hot water and so was she. These screechy, colicky
babies were driving us insane. Going out in public terrified
us. We both became accustomed to people staring: mothers
of screaming babies are looked at like they are criminals and
batterers. “Is everything alright?” well-meaning strangers
would ask.
Noooooo! I hate my kid, and I hate my life. I get no
sleep, no respite from this grouchy midget. I was sure this