“There’s no going back now.”
“You have no idea.”
“Tell me about your morning.”
And I’m so grateful to hear his calm voice, I nearly burst out in tears. Somehow I manage to hold it together, telling him about how Jamie’s going to win Olympic medals in weightlifting because she’s already strong as fuck or that she could be a magician because she’s able to wiggle out of every blanket I’ve tried to wrap her in.
Tucker laughs and encourages me, and by the time I get off the phone, I’m convinced I can do this.
34
Sabrina
September
Motherhood is hard. Harder than I ever imagined anything could be. It’s harder than studying for my SATs. My LSAT. More challenging than that paper I had to write for the Women’s Studies course in my freshman year that came back to me looking like two red pens had engaged in a murder/suicide all over my typewritten words. More tiring than working two jobs and taking a full load of classes for four years.
My respect for Nana is through the roof. If I had to raise one kid after the other, I’d be a little cranky too. But with her help and Tucker’s, I’ve fallen into a routine that seems to work, and by the time the second week of classes launches, I’m convinced I’ve got this. After all, I’m only in class three hours—at the most—a day. And I’m not working two jobs.
This is easy.
Easy.
Until I stumble out of my last class Friday of that second week, laden with my bottles, tubes, five pounds of books, and my computer with a class assignment of more than a thousand pages of reading for the weekend. They keep piling up. When Professor Malcolm announced we’d need to read the entire chapter on culpability and intent, I waited for someone—anyone—to object. But no one did.
After class, none of my peers appear to be affected by the fact that we’re pretty much required to read what seems like an entire semester’s worth of coursework in two days. Instead, three kids in my row decide to conduct an intense discussion about Harvard’s grading system, which they already should’ve known about before they even enrolled.
I wait impatiently for them to wrap up the conversation so we can all get the hell out of the classroom. I need to start reading, but more importantly, my breasts feel like they’re about to burst. I haven’t fed Jamie for nearly three hours and if I don’t get to the library’s lactation room, I’m going to end up leaking all over my damn shirt.
“I don’t like this no letter grades thing. Honors, Pass, Low Pass, and Fail?” grouses the sharp-nosed blond boy next to me.
“I heard that LPs are really discouraged. It’s either Honors or Pass. You really have to fuck up to get a Fail,” says the girl beside him. Her cheekbones are so fierce they could cut through my entire textbook.
I make a big show of gathering up all my shit and stuffing it into my messenger bag, but no one’s moving. Instead, another girl, wearing a peasant skirt that triggers bad memories of Hippie Stacy, chimes in.
“My cousin graduated from here a year ago and said that BigLaw calculates their own grades based on your H, Ps, and LPs, so it works all the same. H is an A, and so forth.”
“My big complaint is that only one person gets to be summa cum laude. At any other law school, if you get the grades, you get the designation. Having only one is shitty,” Cheekbones declares.
Peasant Skirt reassures her. “You can get the DS, though.”
“Still, only a couple people get the Dean’s Scholar too.”
“They’re so stingy with their honors,” the guy adds.
I clear my throat. They continue to ignore me.
“But it’s Harvard, so the bigs are going to look at you anyway,” Cheekbones says with the nonchalance of someone who’s secure in her postgraduate prospects. “How soon can you start bidding in EIP?”
“Early interview program?” Peasant Girl smirks. “Settle down, gunner. Second year only. Learn how to write a memo first.”
She shares a look of derision with the boy as Cheekbones flushes slightly. It’s no fun to be the butt of jokes, which spurs me to unwisely jump in.
“I’m not so worried about the grades as I am the amount of reading we’re going to have to do. I’d like to get a head start on it this afternoon.” Hint. Hint. Move the hell along, people.
Cheekbones lifts her chin, happy to be the insulter instead of the insulted. “That isn’t hard. Hard is picking the right Law Review article topic. Reading and digesting a few cases is a cakewalk.”
She turns with a contemptuous swish of hair, gathers her books and leaves me open-mouthed behind her. The two other students follow. The guy whispers to Peasant Skirt, “Hey, I heard there’s an application-only study group. I’m interested. How do I get in?”
She sniffs. “If you have to ask, you don’t belong.”
Lovely. At least we’re moving.
My boobs ache as if my body is getting ready to let all the milk out. Hurrying, I move toward the door, brushing by two classmates who have stopped to chat with another student. Don’t these kids have anything better to do than stand around and shoot the shit?
Outside, a student is handing out brochures. I grab one and stop in my tracks. It’s an invitation to attend an informational course on how to get on Law Review. The meeting is in fifteen minutes. My chest throbs.
“Your shirt’s sprung a leak,” an amused male voice says.
I drop my chin to see what he’s talking about and blanch at the sight of two damp spots right around my nipple areas.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but maybe you should see a doctor for that infection. That’s nasty.”
I recognize him instantly. Kale something or other, the asshole from the legal clinic. His hair is Ken-doll neat, plastered to the side of his face. Everything about him screams expensive and privileged. He nudges the guy next to him, who looks utterly grossed out.
I slap the brochure against his chest. “I’m breastfeeding, you douche.”
I swear I hear a mooing sound behind me, but when I turn around, both guys are walking away.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk across campus. With each step, I drip more. My emotions are a cross between embarrassment, anger and frustration. Embarrassment that I’m leaking all over. Anger that I even care what that fuckface thinks. And frustration that all my precious breast milk is filling my bra cups and staining my shirt. Crossing my arms over my chest doesn’t do any good. The pressure makes the milk come out faster.
“You have no idea.”
“Tell me about your morning.”
And I’m so grateful to hear his calm voice, I nearly burst out in tears. Somehow I manage to hold it together, telling him about how Jamie’s going to win Olympic medals in weightlifting because she’s already strong as fuck or that she could be a magician because she’s able to wiggle out of every blanket I’ve tried to wrap her in.
Tucker laughs and encourages me, and by the time I get off the phone, I’m convinced I can do this.
34
Sabrina
September
Motherhood is hard. Harder than I ever imagined anything could be. It’s harder than studying for my SATs. My LSAT. More challenging than that paper I had to write for the Women’s Studies course in my freshman year that came back to me looking like two red pens had engaged in a murder/suicide all over my typewritten words. More tiring than working two jobs and taking a full load of classes for four years.
My respect for Nana is through the roof. If I had to raise one kid after the other, I’d be a little cranky too. But with her help and Tucker’s, I’ve fallen into a routine that seems to work, and by the time the second week of classes launches, I’m convinced I’ve got this. After all, I’m only in class three hours—at the most—a day. And I’m not working two jobs.
This is easy.
Easy.
Until I stumble out of my last class Friday of that second week, laden with my bottles, tubes, five pounds of books, and my computer with a class assignment of more than a thousand pages of reading for the weekend. They keep piling up. When Professor Malcolm announced we’d need to read the entire chapter on culpability and intent, I waited for someone—anyone—to object. But no one did.
After class, none of my peers appear to be affected by the fact that we’re pretty much required to read what seems like an entire semester’s worth of coursework in two days. Instead, three kids in my row decide to conduct an intense discussion about Harvard’s grading system, which they already should’ve known about before they even enrolled.
I wait impatiently for them to wrap up the conversation so we can all get the hell out of the classroom. I need to start reading, but more importantly, my breasts feel like they’re about to burst. I haven’t fed Jamie for nearly three hours and if I don’t get to the library’s lactation room, I’m going to end up leaking all over my damn shirt.
“I don’t like this no letter grades thing. Honors, Pass, Low Pass, and Fail?” grouses the sharp-nosed blond boy next to me.
“I heard that LPs are really discouraged. It’s either Honors or Pass. You really have to fuck up to get a Fail,” says the girl beside him. Her cheekbones are so fierce they could cut through my entire textbook.
I make a big show of gathering up all my shit and stuffing it into my messenger bag, but no one’s moving. Instead, another girl, wearing a peasant skirt that triggers bad memories of Hippie Stacy, chimes in.
“My cousin graduated from here a year ago and said that BigLaw calculates their own grades based on your H, Ps, and LPs, so it works all the same. H is an A, and so forth.”
“My big complaint is that only one person gets to be summa cum laude. At any other law school, if you get the grades, you get the designation. Having only one is shitty,” Cheekbones declares.
Peasant Skirt reassures her. “You can get the DS, though.”
“Still, only a couple people get the Dean’s Scholar too.”
“They’re so stingy with their honors,” the guy adds.
I clear my throat. They continue to ignore me.
“But it’s Harvard, so the bigs are going to look at you anyway,” Cheekbones says with the nonchalance of someone who’s secure in her postgraduate prospects. “How soon can you start bidding in EIP?”
“Early interview program?” Peasant Girl smirks. “Settle down, gunner. Second year only. Learn how to write a memo first.”
She shares a look of derision with the boy as Cheekbones flushes slightly. It’s no fun to be the butt of jokes, which spurs me to unwisely jump in.
“I’m not so worried about the grades as I am the amount of reading we’re going to have to do. I’d like to get a head start on it this afternoon.” Hint. Hint. Move the hell along, people.
Cheekbones lifts her chin, happy to be the insulter instead of the insulted. “That isn’t hard. Hard is picking the right Law Review article topic. Reading and digesting a few cases is a cakewalk.”
She turns with a contemptuous swish of hair, gathers her books and leaves me open-mouthed behind her. The two other students follow. The guy whispers to Peasant Skirt, “Hey, I heard there’s an application-only study group. I’m interested. How do I get in?”
She sniffs. “If you have to ask, you don’t belong.”
Lovely. At least we’re moving.
My boobs ache as if my body is getting ready to let all the milk out. Hurrying, I move toward the door, brushing by two classmates who have stopped to chat with another student. Don’t these kids have anything better to do than stand around and shoot the shit?
Outside, a student is handing out brochures. I grab one and stop in my tracks. It’s an invitation to attend an informational course on how to get on Law Review. The meeting is in fifteen minutes. My chest throbs.
“Your shirt’s sprung a leak,” an amused male voice says.
I drop my chin to see what he’s talking about and blanch at the sight of two damp spots right around my nipple areas.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but maybe you should see a doctor for that infection. That’s nasty.”
I recognize him instantly. Kale something or other, the asshole from the legal clinic. His hair is Ken-doll neat, plastered to the side of his face. Everything about him screams expensive and privileged. He nudges the guy next to him, who looks utterly grossed out.
I slap the brochure against his chest. “I’m breastfeeding, you douche.”
I swear I hear a mooing sound behind me, but when I turn around, both guys are walking away.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk across campus. With each step, I drip more. My emotions are a cross between embarrassment, anger and frustration. Embarrassment that I’m leaking all over. Anger that I even care what that fuckface thinks. And frustration that all my precious breast milk is filling my bra cups and staining my shirt. Crossing my arms over my chest doesn’t do any good. The pressure makes the milk come out faster.
