And Now The World Is Ours
Chapter Ten: A Blessing To One Another
"It is therefore necessary for us, Christians and Jews, to first be a blessing to one another."
-Pope John Paul II
If my life was hectic before all of this, as we pass the State of the Union and the icy coldness of January moves into the even colder wetness of February, the days go by so quickly I'm starting to lose track of them as they pass. There's my usual workload to take care of, plus, I'm really working on the Daycare thing now. And I haven't even started planning our wedding. It doesn't help that I'm schlepping a constantly growing Guppy around with me wherever I go, and that I'm constantly hungry, but today, none of that matters. I absent-mindedly gnaw on a blueberry muffin and play around with the ribbons of my empire-wasted top, one of the few things I can still wear. After weeks of nagging Mrs. Santos, talking to lawyers and insurance companies, people in Interiors and White House Operations, today, I'm finally meeting with three potential operators of "my" daycare. Sitting next to me is Isabel Schoner, much more pregnant than I am with her third boy, also deputy White House Council. I barely knew Isabel three weeks ago, but since then, when she was the first female staffer to really listen to my idea, she's become a close friend. It helps that she's much more relaxed about motherhood then I'll ever be, incredibly funny and generally good-natured. Together, we found out about the legal hordes of opening what's called a workplace-based daycare, we started asking other White House Moms if they and their kids would be interested, and we found out that there's an entire wing of the top floor of OEOB that's been unused since water damage almost a year ago. Things are happening so quickly, which explains why I'm so nervous, I guess. Not to mention I'm worried Guppy's going to start kicking for the first time in the middle of this meeting, and I won't be able to concentrate on anything else. It's kind of like when you're twelve and take tampons everywhere you go, just in case.
"Guys. Are you ready?" Kerry's head appears in the doorway, mercifully interrupting these thoughts.
"Uh," I say, but Isabel gets there first: "Yes." Possibility number one, a representative of a large chain of daycares all over the district, enters. He's an uptight, slightly sweating man wearing a pinstriped suit and penny loafers, and reminds me uncomfortably of the guys I used to date mainly to get CJ off my back about it a million years ago. My hand immediately flies to my stomach, and Isabel smirks. It's not that what he's saying doesn't make sense, but I would never trust him with Guppy. His demeanor is cold, business-like, and truth be told, I'm relieved when he leaves us five minutes later with a leaflet, plus the business-plan we asked him to prepare in advance. Next is a frumpy, middle-aged woman with curly hair who runs a very successful Montessori-inspired daycare on the Hill and is looking to open a new branch. Again, rationally what she says makes sense, but the more she talks about cognitive development and stimulating growth, the more high-strung she seems. When I ask a perfectly valid question, she just steamrolls right over me. She doesn't seem to be interested in our input at all, which I find to be troublesome. I'm completely discouraged when Kerry leads our final option onto the room. This is an unlikely couple- a mousey, petite young woman with blonde braids and a flowery skirt, and a wiry, confidence-brimming woman in her fifties with a broad smile, the kind of person you'd expect to find running a camp in Maine. It turns out they've both been with various public and private, non-profit and for-profit daycare organizations, and have decided to launch their own business. What they have to say immediately strikes a chord with me, about giving children space to grow, about providing a nurturing and open environment, with music and art, and most importantly, free time. I think of Guppy and ask about infant care. The older points to a line in their business plan and explains that according to their beliefs as well as calculations, they would be offering care starting at 12 to 15 months, simply because starting at that age, kids can be mixed together at different age groups.
"There's no point," she says, "mixing three-year-olds with babies, but starting when a child can walk and talk, there's really no good reason to not have it interact with older kids. Their development just soars- and the older ones learn about responsibility and that sort of thing." I have to admit this answer makes a lot of sense, even if I don't like it much.
We talk for about fifteen more minutes, and once they're out the door, Isabel and I beam at each other. "They're it. Right?"
"Got to be," Isabel says. "I mean the first one might've been okay if we were running the Great Hall of the People Daycare," she laughs. "But otherwise?"
"I know," I agree. "We'll talk about it later- how's Thursday morning?"
"Really good." She gives my hand a squeeze. "I'm so excited about this!" I grin, her excitement making me feel giddy, too. She's got an infectious sort of air- not to mention that, ever since we were over at there house on Saturday, seeing her hand out crackers and carrot sticks to her boys and watch them challenge Josh to a round of "baseball" in the backyard, seeing her in office clothes just seems weird and out of context.
"Me too." She leaves, and I lean back in my chair. Then, remembering something, I push my number one on speed-dial.
"This is Josh Lyman's office." It still sounds so weird to have someone else, and Margaret of all people, say what was so long my line.
"Hey, it's me," I say. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Probably."
"Can you block off Josh's schedule on Thursday after two?"
"Is two-thirty okay?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," I say, surprised that this actually works. "Thanks a bunch."
"You're welcome- he's all yours for the rest of the day, okay?"
"Perfect. Bye, Margaret."
Predictably enough, my phone rings two minutes later. "Donna Moss?"
"You blocked off my schedule on Thursday? You're still allowed to do that?"
"Shame on you for thinking the baby inside of me didn't give me that prerogative," I laugh.
"But why?"
"Josh," I sigh. "Look at the calendar."
"It's Thursday," he says, slowly.
"Uh-huh."
"The fourteenth." There's a long pause, in which I have to bite my lip so I don't start laughing. "Oh," he says, sheepishly. "Yeah. Valentine's Day."
"Tell me, Joshua, do you remember giving me this ring on Christmas Eve and asking me to spend the rest of my life with you?"
"Vaguely."
"I'm kind of regretting my answer to that proposition now."
"What are we doing-"
"Joshua Lyman, we have a wedding to plan, and a sonogram at four. That's what we're doing."
"That's all we're doing?" Sounding disappointed.
"I don't know, what were you thinking of?"
"Well, in order to tell you that I'd have to get up and close the door."
I giggle. "See you tonight, Josh."
"Hey! Don't hang up when it's just getting entertaining!"
"Don't whine."
I can practically hear his grin. "How'd your thing go?"
"Really well."
"Can we talk some more about the things we might do on Thursday night once we're done planning the nuptials?"
"Why only Thursday night?"
Josh's sharp intake of breath makes me smirk. "I'm hanging up now," I tell him.
"I'm not going to get anything done all afternoon."
With a grin, I put the receiver down, and almost immediately Jordan and Ishmael, arguing as always, walk in. I wrench my thoughts back to the First Lady's toast at the Correspondent's Dinner, and my day rushes by as days have a tendency to these days.
One fourth-five on Thursday, I excuse myself from a particularly fruitless meeting on the Hill, citing a dentists appointment, which earns me a raised eyebrow from Will, a.k.a. Congressman Bailey. I get into a cab and ride home, where I quickly change out of my uncomfortably tight blouse and skirt, and into an oversized, deep red sweater and pair of Josh's boxers. The sweater, while well-fitting around my stomach, is still far too big over my shoulders, and keeps slipping down to reveal my lacy bra-straps and ever-growing cleavage. Not that Josh will mind or anything. The truth is, everything they ever told me about pregnant women and their libido is, too our unanimous delight, true. The sex has been, well, mind-blowing, really.
I head into the kitchen and start dicing onions and browning beef, and by the time Josh gets home, the delicious, rich smell of Chili con Carne is filling the air.
"Wow," he says, appreciatively, taking in me, the sweater, the chili. "Oh, wow."
"Try this," I say, gesturing a spoon in his direction. He tastes it, his eyes never leaving my bare shoulders. "Delicious."
There's a little trail of chili in the corner of his mouth, and I can't help myself, I lean forward and kiss him. The chili is, indeed delicious. He pulls me close and I melt into him, and his fingers are halfway up my shirt and his tie is lying on the floor when the kitchen timer goes off. "That's the cornbread," I mumble into his mouth.
"My domestic goddess," Josh breathes back, his fingers all over my breasts.
"Should I let it burn?" Eyes wide and willing myself not to give myself over to Josh completely, to the things he's doing to my body, to the way my body is singing for him.
"Nah," Josh grins at me, hands resurfacing. "Let's not waste your cooking. We can finishing this later."
"I wouldn't call it a waste, exactly," I grumble, feigning disappointment as I pull the cornbread from the oven. I eye Josh. "This needs to cool, anyway. And the chili needs to simmer for another half hour."
"Yeah?" And before I know it, he's got me trapped between his arms against our fridge. Take-out menus and a picture of baby Nellie fly to the floor, where soon enough Josh's pants and two pairs of boxers join them.
"Happy Valentine's Day," Josh smiles at me later, as he pulls his boxers back on. I have to giggle- Josh always looks so sheepishly, shyly pleased after sex, like he can't believe his good fortune.
"Happy Valentines Day," I reply, and kiss him. He pulls me into a hug, which sends both of us flying across the kitchen table, missing the cornbread narrowly. I squeal, Josh smirks and then we both dissolve in a heap of laughter and kisses. "Don't start," I say, warningly, as his hands start to make their way up my thighs. "We have a wedding to plan, and oh, chili to eat?"
"That last part was convincing." He swaggers over to the stove and smells the chili. "Smells great." His eyes search mine. "Is that…?"
"Yeah." President Bartlet's recipe. I found it at the bottom of my memorabilia-shoebox a few weeks ago, just when we came back from New Hampshire, and I've been wanting to make it ever since.
Josh's smile grows wistful, but not sad as he reaches for two bowls and starts ladling out chili. I take the still-warm cornbread from its tin and into a breadbasket, grab two Snapples from the fridge, and we move to the couch. "You know," I say, nestling down next to him, pulling the coffee table closer with my feet, "this is a really bad habit we need to start getting out of, because it's important for kids to have structured family meals at the table."
"Guppy," Josh says, placing his head on my stomach, "do you mind that we're sitting on the couch." He pauses a second with a look of concentration, then looks up at me. "Guppy doesn't mind."
I smack him lightly over the head, then say, mouth full cornbread, "Whodoo wanat ow wehing?"
Josh laughs. "Well, Mom, obviously, your parents and whichever other members of your very extensive family you deem deserving, and um, CJ and Danny, Toby, Sam and Ainsley, the Santos's, I guess-"
"You really don't have any friends outside the office, do you?" I giggle and reach for a pen and notepad. Within minutes, we've assembled a nicely short guest list, containing just the people we call family, whether they're related to us or not. I'm relieved Josh isn't looking for a big party, because I don't think Guppy or me could stomach that. It doesn't start getting tricky until we reach the question of "How". It only now occurs to me that we have never even talked seriously about our religions, and which one we want to raise Guppy with- and under who's blessing we want to get married.
"Josh," I call out thoughtfully, "do you think I should convert to Judaism?"
Josh rematerializes out of the kitchen with a confused look on his face. "Do you want to?"
"Well, God, I don't know… not particularly."
"Well," he says, bemused, "then I don't think you should." He sits down, frowning. "What am I missing?"
"Well," I say, "I did some reading on my own-"
"And I have lost track of the times I have told you not to do that-"
"-on the internet, and it seems to me that the fact that I'm not Jewish is problematic." I sigh, and then plow on. "First of all, it turns out the fact that we're in love at all is apparently impossible. Also, our marriage would not be considered valid at all, and our children would have the same spiritual standing as children born out of wedlock."
"Donna, where the hell did you read this? Marry-an-Orthodox-Rabbi-dot-com?"
"Somewhere on the internet," I say, defensively. "Josh, we really do need to talk about this!"
"Yes," he says, "I know we do, but rather than adhering to Rabbi Shlomo Stick-Up-His-Butt's moral code, let's stick to what's important to you and me, and Guppy. Okay?"
"Okay." I giggle. "Rabbi Shlomo Stick-Up-His-Butt?"
"Whatever. Now," he says, "as far as I'm concerned, you're Donna, I love you, and God's only regret about the fact that we're getting married is that it didn't happen sooner."
"Yeah," I say, "but-"
"Donna, why is this a thing? And, hey, we need to get going, it's ten to four, we've got a sonogram, right?"
"Oh, yeah. And it's a thing," I say, getting up and moving upstairs to get dressed, Josh following me, "because I want to have a wedding we're both happy with, and I know that involves Judaism for you as much as it involves Christianity for me! We're only doing this once, I want to get it right!" I pull on a pair of maternity slacks, which slide down my waist and land somewhere around my ankles. "AND I HATE THAT NOTHING FITS ME RIGHT NOW!"
"Would you mind, with the yelling?"
"Sorry. Anyway-" I pull on a pair of navy sweatpants, "my point is that we need to find a way to incorporate both our religions into the ceremony, and" –pulling on a pink turtleneck several sizes too big for me- "into Guppy's life."
"And we will," Josh assures me. "Toby and Andi figured it out somehow, we'll ask them how they did it."
"Josh. Toby and Andi are divorced."
"I know that, but I'm sure the wedding ceremony wasn't what brought that around. And they're raising the twins together and that seems to be working out just fine. You ready to go?"
"Yeah." I pull on my parka and a hat and follow him out of the front door. "So you think there's a way to do this without us going to hell?"
"Jews don't have hell, that's the great part." He starts the car, and looks at me. "Have you ever been to a Jewish wedding?"
"Sally Seidelmann, from High School."
"Okay. What do you remember?"
"There was this big flowery tent thing –I want one of those-"
"That's what's called a chupah," he explains, with a smirk.
"Okay, well, I want one. And there was lots of wine-drinking involved, and a lot of Hebrew." I pause a moment. "And they smashed a glass at the end! That was kind of cool, can we do that?"
"Yeah, I would have insisted on that part anyway. My turn. Christian weddings, there's the Wedding March, and the "I do" part, and, um, the thing with the rings. But Jews have those too. And the thing with 'speak now or remain silent forever,' which I always thought was kind of goofy, personally."
"Gee, Josh, that was impressive. How many weddings have you been to in your life, exactly?"
"What? I got more than you did!"
"That's cause I've been to one Jewish Wedding, and you've been to like, ten, Christian ones, probably."
"Definitely not that many."
"We're here," I point out, and Josh parks in front of Dr. Walsh's practice. "You know what? I feel much better about this."
"Good." Josh plants a big kiss on my cheek. "Come on, my favorite shiksa."
"Shut up, you schmuck."
"Hey, no bringing the Yiddish unless you're actually converting." And with that, we scramble out of the car.