Fic: Blankly As Walls (The Office, Pam)
Blankly As Walls
Fandom: The Office
Summary: Motherhood.
Notes: Title from Sylvia Plath's Morning Song. No spoilers whatsoever.
When the baby finally comes, it's red and ugly and screaming. She loves it right away, of course, because what else is she going to do?
**
The days are a hazy smear -- nights and mornings blurring together: getting the baby to latch on, burping the baby, waking with a start when the baby cries, after twenty minutes of sleep. The baby is such a tiny, insistent thing, and she has to keep it alive. She's not quite sure who thought she could do this.
**
Jim's in love. He bends over the baby with a kind of hushed reverence, palming a tiny foot.
"Hey," he says softly to the baby, and she wishes she could see through her weariness, grab onto the wonder in his voice. Instead the baby starts fussing, and Jim's expression shifts to worry.
"Here -- should you… ?" he says and she takes the baby back.
**
What's worst is when she hasn't slept for what feels like days, months, years, and her nipples hurt more than she ever thought possible, and the baby won't stop crying, and she's so tired she wants to cry too. Sometimes she does, when Jim won't see, face hot, flushed with guilt.
**
At night when she sits up nursing the baby, she can see the dim shape of the photo on the bedtable: her and Jim in New York, on a pier in lower Manhattan with red Dixie cups of beer and the sun setting behind them. It was her third week there, just after their first anniversary. Everything had felt so wild and new, so possible.
**
She never realized how very very long a day without adult conversation could be. On the changing table, the baby kicks and eyes her. She looks back, and they watch each other. Little lump. She's all the baby knows.
**
Spit-up on her shirts. Spit-up on her jeans. Spit-up on her bra and every single spit-up rag in the house, not to mention every onesie the baby has. She does two loads of laundry a day. The dryer breaks.
**
When Jim comes home he kisses her temple and brings takeout and watches the baby so she can steal 10 minutes in the shower. She knows he doesn't mean to fall asleep on the couch before she's gotten to talk to him about anything.
**
The baby falls asleep, soft and heavy against her after nursing. On the couch in the afternoon sunlight she can see the fine hair, the creased, sweet-smelling neck. Tiny dark eyelashes, tiny fingernails when she nudges the baby's hand open around her finger.
**
Her first day back at work is so strange, like she stepped into a time machine, back into some Pam she used to be about a million years ago. She feels like she might as well go all the way and sit at reception.
It seems like much longer than three months -- and shouldn't a woman-owned company offer more than the bare minimum maternity leave? Apparently not. -- since she sat here, watched Dwight glaring at his computer screen, had to listen to Andy humming under his breath.
Not having the baby feels like missing a limb. Eight times an hour she jolts internally with alarm, like she's forgotten something very urgent. The baby! She has to make herself relax, take calm deep breaths and try to remember why she cares about the client list in front of her
**
There's nowhere in the office she can pump except the sagging couch in the women's restroom. Angela files a complaint with Toby, and refuses to use the restroom while Pam's in there. Kelly pretends she comes in to wash her hands, but spends the whole time staring at Pam in the mirror over the sink. Meredith sits down next to her and tells a story about cracked nipples so horrifying Pam can't stop thinking about it for a week.
Kevin loiters outside the door and sniggers when she comes out.
**
At night Jim shifts behind her, spooning her, his breath hot and expectant on her neck, his thumb stroking her side. She knows it's a question, but she can't. She can't.
**
The daycare they did get into is in the wrong direction from work, an extra thirty minutes of driving every morning and evening. Pam falls asleep on the way and wakes up to Jim buckling the baby into the carseat.
"Hey," he says, when he comes back around to the driver's seat. "Pizza?"
"Okay," she says, and when she wakes up again they're home.
**
"Hey, Big Momma," Andy says when he wanders into the break room, then spends a full three minutes choosing something from the vending machine, singing 'Baby Love' in an absentminded falsetto the whole time.
**
She's standing in front of the freezer trying to find something, anything, that will make a decent dinner. There's something all wrapped up in the back corner, and it takes some inspection before she realizes it's a slice of wedding cake, to be eaten on their first anniversary, eons from now. The baby will be eight months old.
**
When she was younger -- sixteen, twenty-six -- and thought about being a mother it was fuzzy and bright, like a commercial. She'd take her kids to the grocery store and the park. They'd have an art table in a corner of the house with finger paint and crayons and the same kind of rainbow pastels she'd loved when she was little. She'd make mac and cheese with cut up hot dogs in it, and her kids would always have really great homemade Halloween costumes, never the store-bought kind.
It's not that she thought it would be easy, but she also didn't think it would be like this. Day after day after day; she doesn't know why it's so surprising.
**
Her favorite part is bathtime. At night she fills the sink with warm water and puts the baby in, running her soapy hands over the soft round arms and legs.
The baby's learned that kicking means splashing, and thinks this is the funniest thing. The first time the baby laughed was during a bath, and it surprised her so much she laughed too, out loud in the empty kitchen, full of delight.
**
She doesn't have the energy to deal with the cameras anymore.
"Yeah," she says, in the conference room. "We want to sleep train the baby but I don't know if it's too soon." She is the most boring person in the world. Next door Michael is bouncing a tennis ball against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.
**
"Hey," Jim says, coming up behind her as she's emptying the dishwasher. He runs his hands up her arms and she lets herself lean back into him, his solid warmth.
"I--" he says, leaning down to kiss her temple, "am so glad I married you."
Her stomach does something bright and happy. She almost forgets sometimes.
"Oh yeah," she says lightly, turning around to face him, winding her hands behind his neck. "That did happen, didn't it?"
**
The first time the baby sleeps through the night she wakes up in a panic at 5 am and flings herself out of bed to figure out what's wrong.
But the baby's breathing just fine, limp with sleep, one arm thrown out. Pam hesitates by the crib. The room is already starting to fill with gray light, and she watches the baby's chest rise and fall. Behind her Jim is snoring very faintly. She could almost be the only person awake in the whole world.
Fandom: The Office
Summary: Motherhood.
Notes: Title from Sylvia Plath's Morning Song. No spoilers whatsoever.
When the baby finally comes, it's red and ugly and screaming. She loves it right away, of course, because what else is she going to do?
**
The days are a hazy smear -- nights and mornings blurring together: getting the baby to latch on, burping the baby, waking with a start when the baby cries, after twenty minutes of sleep. The baby is such a tiny, insistent thing, and she has to keep it alive. She's not quite sure who thought she could do this.
**
Jim's in love. He bends over the baby with a kind of hushed reverence, palming a tiny foot.
"Hey," he says softly to the baby, and she wishes she could see through her weariness, grab onto the wonder in his voice. Instead the baby starts fussing, and Jim's expression shifts to worry.
"Here -- should you… ?" he says and she takes the baby back.
**
What's worst is when she hasn't slept for what feels like days, months, years, and her nipples hurt more than she ever thought possible, and the baby won't stop crying, and she's so tired she wants to cry too. Sometimes she does, when Jim won't see, face hot, flushed with guilt.
**
At night when she sits up nursing the baby, she can see the dim shape of the photo on the bedtable: her and Jim in New York, on a pier in lower Manhattan with red Dixie cups of beer and the sun setting behind them. It was her third week there, just after their first anniversary. Everything had felt so wild and new, so possible.
**
She never realized how very very long a day without adult conversation could be. On the changing table, the baby kicks and eyes her. She looks back, and they watch each other. Little lump. She's all the baby knows.
**
Spit-up on her shirts. Spit-up on her jeans. Spit-up on her bra and every single spit-up rag in the house, not to mention every onesie the baby has. She does two loads of laundry a day. The dryer breaks.
**
When Jim comes home he kisses her temple and brings takeout and watches the baby so she can steal 10 minutes in the shower. She knows he doesn't mean to fall asleep on the couch before she's gotten to talk to him about anything.
**
The baby falls asleep, soft and heavy against her after nursing. On the couch in the afternoon sunlight she can see the fine hair, the creased, sweet-smelling neck. Tiny dark eyelashes, tiny fingernails when she nudges the baby's hand open around her finger.
**
Her first day back at work is so strange, like she stepped into a time machine, back into some Pam she used to be about a million years ago. She feels like she might as well go all the way and sit at reception.
It seems like much longer than three months -- and shouldn't a woman-owned company offer more than the bare minimum maternity leave? Apparently not. -- since she sat here, watched Dwight glaring at his computer screen, had to listen to Andy humming under his breath.
Not having the baby feels like missing a limb. Eight times an hour she jolts internally with alarm, like she's forgotten something very urgent. The baby! She has to make herself relax, take calm deep breaths and try to remember why she cares about the client list in front of her
**
There's nowhere in the office she can pump except the sagging couch in the women's restroom. Angela files a complaint with Toby, and refuses to use the restroom while Pam's in there. Kelly pretends she comes in to wash her hands, but spends the whole time staring at Pam in the mirror over the sink. Meredith sits down next to her and tells a story about cracked nipples so horrifying Pam can't stop thinking about it for a week.
Kevin loiters outside the door and sniggers when she comes out.
**
At night Jim shifts behind her, spooning her, his breath hot and expectant on her neck, his thumb stroking her side. She knows it's a question, but she can't. She can't.
**
The daycare they did get into is in the wrong direction from work, an extra thirty minutes of driving every morning and evening. Pam falls asleep on the way and wakes up to Jim buckling the baby into the carseat.
"Hey," he says, when he comes back around to the driver's seat. "Pizza?"
"Okay," she says, and when she wakes up again they're home.
**
"Hey, Big Momma," Andy says when he wanders into the break room, then spends a full three minutes choosing something from the vending machine, singing 'Baby Love' in an absentminded falsetto the whole time.
**
She's standing in front of the freezer trying to find something, anything, that will make a decent dinner. There's something all wrapped up in the back corner, and it takes some inspection before she realizes it's a slice of wedding cake, to be eaten on their first anniversary, eons from now. The baby will be eight months old.
**
When she was younger -- sixteen, twenty-six -- and thought about being a mother it was fuzzy and bright, like a commercial. She'd take her kids to the grocery store and the park. They'd have an art table in a corner of the house with finger paint and crayons and the same kind of rainbow pastels she'd loved when she was little. She'd make mac and cheese with cut up hot dogs in it, and her kids would always have really great homemade Halloween costumes, never the store-bought kind.
It's not that she thought it would be easy, but she also didn't think it would be like this. Day after day after day; she doesn't know why it's so surprising.
**
Her favorite part is bathtime. At night she fills the sink with warm water and puts the baby in, running her soapy hands over the soft round arms and legs.
The baby's learned that kicking means splashing, and thinks this is the funniest thing. The first time the baby laughed was during a bath, and it surprised her so much she laughed too, out loud in the empty kitchen, full of delight.
**
She doesn't have the energy to deal with the cameras anymore.
"Yeah," she says, in the conference room. "We want to sleep train the baby but I don't know if it's too soon." She is the most boring person in the world. Next door Michael is bouncing a tennis ball against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.
**
"Hey," Jim says, coming up behind her as she's emptying the dishwasher. He runs his hands up her arms and she lets herself lean back into him, his solid warmth.
"I--" he says, leaning down to kiss her temple, "am so glad I married you."
Her stomach does something bright and happy. She almost forgets sometimes.
"Oh yeah," she says lightly, turning around to face him, winding her hands behind his neck. "That did happen, didn't it?"
**
The first time the baby sleeps through the night she wakes up in a panic at 5 am and flings herself out of bed to figure out what's wrong.
But the baby's breathing just fine, limp with sleep, one arm thrown out. Pam hesitates by the crib. The room is already starting to fill with gray light, and she watches the baby's chest rise and fall. Behind her Jim is snoring very faintly. She could almost be the only person awake in the whole world.