I Can See Russia From Here

Back in the 80s Gary Trudeau’s Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoon Doonesbury ran a strip about longtime characters Rick Redfern and Joanie Caucus, two professionals who get married and have a baby. Rick comes home one day to find Joanie bathing their son in the bathtub.

“Hi” he says, “can I help?”

“No” she replies, “ 'help' implies that the responsibility of caring for our child is solely mine and that you are doing me a favour by offering. Go out and try again.”

Rick goes out and re-enters the bathroom.

“Hi. Can I co-parent?”

“No” says Joanie, “you always get the floor wet”.

And this is the problem you see. While one wants to insist on one’s hard-won right to equal help from the male half of the parenting equation, at the same time one is utterly convinced that he is in need of serious training before being let loose on a real live baby. And who has the time? Or the training materials?

My husband, aka Señor I’m Too Practical To Worry About Minor Details So Just Tell Me What To Do In Two Words Or Less Before I Lose Patience, is not going to stand still long enough for me to explain to him why it is not a good idea to doze off in front of the TV while balancing the baby on his paunch or instruct him in the fine art of diaper changing (“Yes, you got the location for the Pamper right but now there’s poo all over the bed. You have to clean him a bit before removing the dirty diaper from underneath his bottom! No, just holding him upside down under the shower is not a better idea”). So, unless I can borrow someone else’s baby, I have the choice of letting him practice on my own child or doing it all myself. Neither option provides any relaxation or time off for me because who can sleep with the anxiety of wondering whether one’s husband is accidentally boiling the baby in the bath?

In addition to forfeiting my conjugal rights to assistance, and possibly due to the trauma of being described as ‘housewife’ on Smuggitos’ birth certificate, I very nearly slipped into the Sarah Palin approach to motherhood.

Having been a working mother and sole breadwinner for many years, it is somewhat difficult to let go of the notion that I am free to make financial decisions at will. The novelty of being followed around a supermarket and cross-questioned as to the necessity of purchasing face cream or a particular brand of soap palls very quickly.

The day I was due to be booked into the maternity clinic there was an ad in one of the daily papers for a Peru Country Manager with an international NGO which specialises in organising working vacations for people (mostly from the US) who want to volunteer with various charitable projects aimed at assisting the less fortunate. It looked interesting so I sent off an application letter and CV and hastened off to give birth. A couple of days after Smuggitos was born I received an enthusiastic email saying that the Vice President for Operations would be in Lima within the next few days and could I meet with her?

Bearing in mind that I had recently been sliced open like a side of beef and could not yet walk unaided, it wasn’t the most enticing prospect but I thought of the price of face cream and said yes. I had to get my husband to drive me to a mall, borrow a wheelchair and prop me up in a beauty salon because after three days in the clinic I looked like Don King on a bad hair day. He also agreed to drive me to the hotel where the interview was to take place, steer me through the door and wait for me outside.

So – like ex-Governor Palin dribbling amniotic fluid while giving a speech – with a double dose of painkillers for breakfast and a post-operative velcro girdle I turned up at the appointed hour and called the VP from the reception desk only to be told that she’d mistaken the day and could I please come back tomorrow.

In the car on the way back home I swore profusely and threatened to tell them where to shove their prospective job. “It’s entirely your decision mi amor” said my husband and, in an apparent change of subject, inquired how many diapers per day on average I thought Smuggitos would be using.

I went back the next day.

I had at first omitted to fill in the part of the application form which asked for my last salary. The fact that it was to be quoted as an hourly rate indicated that this was hardly going to be a job which would keep me in the style to which I would like to become accustomed. When the VP insisted on knowing my previous remuneration package I first smiled modestly and said it wasn’t relevant as I would not be expecting a commensurate salary. The VP then named a salary range which would no doubt dazzle the inhabitants of one of Lima’s poorer slums and asked whether I was still interested in hearing more about the job. Keeping the cost of lamb chops firmly in mind, I said yes.

Basically on alternate fortnights I would be expected to act as sherpa to a group of do-gooding tourists paying to spend their holidays painting orphanages and teaching English. The other fortnights would be administrative work done via email from any location I felt like. Nothing too intellectually challenging but flexible enough to be attractive. “Right” I thought, “I can carry the baby around in one of those slings they use in the Peruvian highlands and breastfeed him while I’m waiting for flights to arrive.” The gringos would love it, a real live Baby Inca to add a touch of authenticity to their trip. Maybe I could carry a tin cup and collect tips, charge extra for photos.

A couple of days later I got a call from the States. Apparently they thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread and was by far the best candidate but, given my previous salary, they doubted very much I would stay long in the job so had decided to give it to someone else. My dreams of financial independence evaporated.

Of course, having now rediscovered the realities of taking care of a new baby, getting rejected was a Good Thing.

My husband keeps muttering darkly about the exorbitant price of diapers and powdered milk and I have noticed that on purchasing the Sunday papers he invariably hands me the classifieds section first. Well he can sod right off. The only reason he gets to read the Sunday papers at all is because I’m taking care of the baby.

So I am temporarily acclimatising myself to reminding my husband to pay the light bill as he rushes off to work every morning. Once I’ve got Smuggies off to school; fed, bathed and changed Smuggitos; arranged by telephone in tortured Spanish the installation of internet and telephone; lugged a large bag of dirty clothes to the lavanderia on the corner; walked to the supermercado and back with the shopping; and made daily progress on unpacking my books, I can settle down in front of the TV and watch some international news. And when I see Sarah Palin on her book tour or burbling some fresh incoherency on climate change, cradling her baby all the while, I don’t despair. Very soon I’m going to get tired of playing house and will need a real job before I lose touch with the international arena. But until then, if I sit on the steps of the balcony and really crane my neck, I’m sure I can see Russia from here.