All I Want for Christmas is a Baby

Part I

A Not-So-Immaculate Conception

Tatum

Chapter 1

Christmas Eve

All I want for Christmas is a baby.

It was such a simple statement. But looking back, I should have known it would change my life. Not because I said it. I’m thirty-four, and, except for a brief and hideous marriage that ended before it began, I’m as single as they come. And lately all I think about is pink and blue bears and bottle vs breasts and Co-Sleeping vs Room Sharing vs Bed-Sharing. I never believed I’d be one of those people, but my biological clock no longer has a snooze button so anyone who’s spent any time talking to me has heard me say I want a baby.

No, it’s not that I said it. It’s who I said it to.

Gordon Carson. Gordy… we all have a Gordy in our lives. You know the guy. The one your mother constantly describes as, "The man who’s going to make some smart girl a wonderful husband. Even I, myself, have frequently said, I am so jealous of the girl who ends up with Gordy." You know the guy I’m talking about. I’ll bet you have a visual image perfectly formed in your mind’s eye.

Well toss it out. Gordon Carson may be the hottest guy I’ve ever known in real life. He was a local high-school football hero who went to Rice on an academic scholarship and became some sort of highly successful venture capitalist. I manage a nursery (flowers, not children) and I had to hire a high-school kid to keep my books so to say I’m clueless about his business is an understatement.

He’s also a prince among men… sweet, funny, thoughtful; a bit of a man-whore, but who am I to judge? My track record when it comes to commitment isn’t exactly stellar either. He reminds me to have the oil in my car changed and remembers my birthday even when I’d rather forget it.

We go back for a million years. Growing up - my brother, his sister, Gordon and I were all neighbors. My brother Isaac married his sister Caryn, so it stands to reason that more than a few people expected us to eventually find our way to one another. But after all of these years, it’s just never clicked. He’s lacking a certain amount of mystery for me and I’m lacking a certain amount of ambition for him. I like my guys a little darker, a little edgier and a little less coiffed. He, on the other hand, has never dated anyone who wasn’t an MBA with up-scale salon styled hair, manicured nails and a wardrobe where one-piece costs more than my car. No, my mother might see Gordy as the one who got away, but I’ve always thought of him more as the road I’m glad I never traveled.

But at the end of the day, I should have known that saying those fateful words to him would have life-altering impact.

It all started on December 24th at the Carson family open house. The Carson’s have a great old house where Gordon and Caryn grew up next door to Isaac and me and our mom. When I say old, I don’t mean colonial or Victorian or even craftsman. This is a Houston suburb… where bigger is better and everyone’s waiting for the next big thing. So, an old house in Friendswood, TX is more like red-brick-ranch-style circa 1960. At least the kitchen and baths were remodeled late last century, but the floor plan is still your classic foyer leading into the formal living room into the formal dining room into the kitchen and finally the family room with the equally formal and equally uncomfortable furnishings. Which is where I’m seated on the uncomfortable floral sofa that Caryn and I used to stand on as a make-believe stage, pretending to be the Judd’s. I always argued that since she was nearly three years older than me she should be Naomi and I should get to be Winona, but she countered by saying that she was taller, so she got to be the lead-singer-with-a-guitar-daughter while I was relegated to the back-ground-vocalizing-mama. I wonder what argument she’d use now when I’m 5’10" in socks and she’s barely legal to be out of a booster seat.

But I digress. I’m sitting on the floral sofa drinking my second (or maybe fourth) cup of Charlie Carson’s famous reindeer rum punch. These holiday gatherings are always hard for me. We’ve grown up with the Carson’s. Maggie is my mom’s best friend and like a second mother to me. Caryn and Isaac might have the last name Kingsley, but trust me when I say they are the second generation of Carson’s. Caryn dives head long into any social event and her mother’s annual Christmas open house is no exception. And I can see my brother already watching his father-in-law’s transformation into Santa Claus with a noticeable hint of covetousness. Their three children, two cherubic blonde girls and a spunky little cotton-top toddler son, are dressed in Christmas plaid and embroidery from head-to-toe. As their Auntie Tatum, not to mention Isaac’s little sister and Caryn’s best friend, my presence at these social events is required. And when I’m alone, which more times than not I am, it makes for an evening of self-pity and overindulgence. This particular night’s vices are punch and Maggie’s famous peanut butter balls.

I sit on the sofa and make polite chit-chat as different people drift on and off. My oldest niece Caroline, who just turned nine, keeps joining me. I’m not sure if she really wants to be with me or if she’s already inherited her mother and grandmother’s hostess gene and thinks I look as if I need to be entertained. Either way I find myself watching the door for the first opportunity to escape. Not that what’s waiting at home is much better. I always spend Christmas Eve with my mom and wake up at her house on Christmas morning. My dad left when I was eleven and after that if was just me, mom and Isaac and now for the last fifteen years it’s just been me and mom. That alone is enough to drive me to my third (or maybe fifth) cup of punch. And then out of nowhere a Carson niece starts shrieking and weeping and everyone erupts in applause and I realize that some twenty-three-year-old child just got a diamond engagement ring… not six feet from where I sat alone at thirty-four. Clearly there’s going to be more punch in my future.

The evening passes with little more to remark about. We sing Christmas carols and Charlie, dressed as Santa, gives gifts to everyone. I unwrap a pair of very fashionable gardening gloves bedazzled with bling and bedecked with pink and black Eiffel towers. Last year the Carson’s got me gardening gloves emblazoned with the Texas Aggies’ symbol. But it’s so sweet of them to think of me and get me something semi-personal as opposed to a fruit cake like most acquaintances.

People begin leaving and I’m eying the door and planning my escape when Gordy approaches me looking as fresh and unrumpled as normal. I’m sure he’s had as much or more to drink than me and he’s been in his mother’s matchmaking clutches for much of the evening, but he looks no worse for the wear. I, however, feel like roadkill.

Tater-tot. He says, edging me over on the couch. He’s basically called me Tater-tot since I was old enough to hate it with a passion and chase him throwing stick and stones with tears streaming. It no longer bothers me in the least, except that he usually uses it when he’s about to tell me something I’m not going to like.

Your brother has confiscated your car keys and designated me as your ride home. He states with such warmth it’s hard to want to kill the messenger.

What? I’m fine! I argue making a conscious effort not to slur my words.

I’m sure you are, but you know father Abraham. He’s got it in his head that you’ve had too much to drink and he’s not backing down. Caryn went through your purse. He explains handing me my deep purple Hobo clutch.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Nope. I’m going to drive you to your mom’s and then Isaac will follow Caryn in your car and leave it there for you. It’s really not a big deal. He explains with his usual easy-going fashion.

But it is a big deal. I don’t do things like this. And even though I’ve had six (or perhaps eight) cups of reindeer-rum-punch, it’s very heavy on the punch/ginger-ale part and very short on the rum, plus I’ve been mainlining peanut-butter-balls and ham & cheese-sliders. I’m a stiff cup of coffee away from stone cold sober. But Gordy’s right. My brother is the proverbial over-reactor. No way is he backing down if his mind is made up.

Besides, riding with Gordon will provide an adequate distraction from the simple fact that I’m not exactly looking forward to getting to my mother’s house.

My parents divorced when I was eleven. It was one of those hits that totally blindsided you. They never fought. Isaac and I have discussed it many times over the years and we’re still in agreement that we never remember them fighting. They were always laughing and happy and then one day we came home from a weekend at our grandparents and they were waiting on us; dad was dressed, and his suitcase was sitting beside him at the end of the sofa. Mom stood crying at the window with her back to us while Dad told us he had decided that it was time to try it alone.

He moved out and their relationship slipped into a bitter silence interrupted only by the occasional fit of rage or hate-filled diatribes. Mom put the house up for sale and it sold in a few weeks leaving the three of us to move into an apartment. Daddy remarried almost immediately to a thirty-year-old woman named April that I never really cared for and they quickly had a little boy and moved into an enormous house in Sugarland and we seldom saw them. Daddy was killed in a car-wreck, three weeks before my high school graduation, leaving me this awkward relationship with a stepmother I never liked or wanted, and a half-brother who, at twenty-one, still seems unsure about how he’s related to us.

Mom changed after the divorce. She became angry and petty. It was like her life was reduced to a big score card with her name on one side and Dad’s on the other, and everything that happened counted as a win or a loss in their respective columns. You’d think she’d have considered herself the uncontested winner when he died, but instead she just continues to keep score. But the last six or eight months have seen a change in her. Suddenly she’s laughing more and criticizing less. Then last night I found out why. My mom is in love – with a man, seven-years her junior… that’s two years younger than April. Check and mate!

So, it’s not like you to indulge in alcohol. Were you celebrating or lamenting? Gordon asks when we’re buckled into his car and backing out of the drive around the few remaining stragglers.

I guess a little of both. I answer, although I’m pretty sure I lean far to the side of grief. You know these Christmas parties are always stressful for me. For years after my divorce Caryn and your mom always had a parade of available men lined up for me to meet anytime they had a get together. I hated it… that feeling of being a piece of meat. Then they stopped bringing around the bachelor of the month and I hate that even more. And to cap off the evening that child got engaged. How old is she, twelve?

Not much older than that. He agrees.

Oh, what’s her name? Mary something. Or maybe it’s something Mary… Like Hannah Mary, or Grace Mary… something like that.

Well it sure isn’t the Virgin Mary. Gordon teases as he pulls out onto the highway.

What?

Come on. Tell me you didn’t notice her ‘bump’? Every picture she had her arms in front of her stomach. When cameras started snapping her mom would reposition her arms to hide her belly, or she’d step into the frame completely. Mark it down, they’ll have a simple wedding on the beach in Galveston before Valentine’s and by Easter she’ll be sporting some serious pregnancy pounds.

Oh… I didn’t notice. I try to let the vindictive person inside me run with this morsel of gossip, but it’s no use. Once upon a time I would have reveled in her unplanned pregnancy… another stupid girl gets caught trying to have her cake and eat it too, but now it just makes me more jealous. I mean, in a year no one will care or even remember that she had a shotgun wedding and she’ll have this brand-new baby and her future will be set. Ohhh… all I want for Christmas is a baby.

You? You’ve never been one of those girls? He says in amazement as we pull out onto the Sam Houston toll road. I look at him with a raised eyebrow and he continues. You know what I mean. Caryn always talked about babies. I asked Isaac one time how it felt to know that he was basically nothing more than gainfully employed stud service.

Seriously? I ask, picturing my morally superior older brother’s response to that.

Yeah… when I finally regained consciousness he didn’t talk to me for like a month. Gordy says, offering me one of those heartwarming smiles that make me momentarily forget all the reasons that I do not throw myself at him… momentarily.

Well, you’re right. Caryn’s life goal was to procreate. I wasn’t like that. I wanted my career and to date and have a good time. After my divorce the last thing I wanted was to be tied to a family… and I’m still not sure I want that. But I want a baby. It’s all I think about.

Why not do that turkey-baster thing? People do it all the time. Or you could adopt a baby from a third world country. Don’t they bring those Ethiopian babies over here by the boxfuls and put ‘em on the corner with a sign, ‘free to a good home.’?

I smack his arm. That is so wrong and also categorically untrue. It seems that it should be that way, but it isn’t. You see those videos of little babies with dark-hollow eyes who live off .27 a week and you think… you would certainly think that a single mother with her own business and a closet filled with enough clothes to dress a third world country would absolutely be preferable to that, but you would be wrong. You start trying to apply for that and you need $50,000 in liquid assets and your primary earner needs to earn $80,000 minimum and your secondary earner needs to bring that total to $150,000 a year and a secondary earner implies a spouse and a spouse of three or more stable years is necessary. So, no… no little African Princess for me. I say dismally.

What about the sperm donor?

I shrug and say, ISH… I’ve thought about it. I could afford it, but it scares me. What if I end up with serial killer sperm and I get murdered in my sleep by a baby that was predisposed to be a serial killer? Or one time, I read this book where this cult leader had all his minions working in sperm banks around the country and substituting his sperm for other donors so that he could inseminate blonde haired, blue eyed women and created his own perfect race of off springs. I have blue eyes and blonde hair and I’m freakishly tall. I could end up with creepy-cult-leader sperm.

You’re not freakishly tall.

You’re six-foot two and I’m five-foot ten. To you I’m not freakishly tall, but out there to the real-world, I am.

Well I’m sure they do a screening process and weed out the serial killers and the creepy cult leaders.

I know, but… I want a father. I finally confess. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a husband. I’m really not looking for another husband. But I miss my dad so much sometimes. I don’t want my baby to grow up with no father. And it’s not money. Financially I’m fine, and I’m fine doing the lion’s share of the parenting. But I want a dad there at little league or for father/daughter dances… to give her away at her wedding. That kind of thing. And I want someone that I like; not just a casual fling that will disappear forever. I want someone to be excited with me over first steps and Santa Claus.

I sigh, and Gordon grips the steering wheel tightly, driving in silence for a moment as I watch the street lights fly by. I wish we were in a residential area, so I could see Christmas lights, but this is what I have. It makes me feel undeniably sad and blue.

You really don’t want like a full-time dad? I mean, you’d be okay with someone who popped in for the fun stuff, but didn’t change diapers and do the stomach virus and the potty training?

I think about it for a minute and finally say, Yeah, I think I’d be okay with that.

Okay then, let’s do it. He says excitedly.

What? Are you kidding me? I say, suddenly seeing this whole conversation going off the rails. Leave it to Gordy to take a simple statement made on a gloomy holiday and turn it into an invitation to something insane.

No! He states vehemently. I want a baby. I mean, I’ve always wanted a family. But I’m not good at commitment. And I’m not Isaac and I’m not my dad. I’m not dependable.

You are dependable. If you want a family, you could have a mile of willing candidates tomorrow.

No Tatum, not like you. The women I date are not mother material… even the ones who think they are. But you, with a play pen in your office and a toddler digging in the flower pots with you… you would be great at it. And of course, I would be financially involved and otherwise involved… but not fully responsible. We could do this Tater-tot!

"Not if you’re going to call me Tater-tot we can’t. Your parents would die. My brother would die and then he’d come back to life and kill you. This