He glanced at the clock near the check-in desk. It was like pregnancy on steroids in here, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Name, please?” the receptionist inquired.
“Jordan Marks,” he answered, trying to get his bearing as a LEGO whizzed past his face.
The woman at the desk gave him a placating smile. “No, sir. Unless you’ve got a uterus, I probably need her name.”
Georgie stepped forward. “I’m Georgiana Jensen-Marks, but you probably still have me as Georgiana Jensen. I recently got married and changed my name.”
“Congratulations! And you’re here for…” the woman trailed off, typing away on her computer. “Ah, here it is! A pregnancy check.”
Georgie’s body went rigid. “Yes, but it’s probably a mistake. You know how those home tests can be.”
The woman nodded. “Accurate.”
Georgie glanced at him. “See, I’m accurate.”
“No, dear,” the receptionist said, leaning forward with a distinct crinkle to her brow. “Those home pregnancy tests are quite accurate. How many have you taken?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve!” the woman echoed, nearly knocking her glasses clean off her face.
Georgie lowered her voice. “Could the results be skewed if you’d ingested a lot of pineapple?”
The receptionist’s crinkle deepened. “How much pineapple?”
“An obscene amount,” Georgie answered, looking from side to side as if she were expecting the pineapple police to bust in.
The woman sat back and gave them the once-over. “You’ll have to ask the doctor about the pineapple. But right now, you need you to go back and give us a urine sample, and then it looks like a blood draw as well. Head over to the nurses’ desk on that side of the office,” she said, gesturing past the preschool pandemonium portion of the space. “And sir, you can wait over there with the other dads and dads-to-be.”
He observed the men. Most appeared as shell-shocked as a group of WWII soldiers in a foxhole.
And what was this other dads business?
Was he already lumped in with them?
Panic welled in Georgie’s eyes.
“I’ll sit here,” he offered, gesturing to the farthest chair from the group of men. “In the adults-only section.”
Adults-only?
What was wrong with him?
The secretary shook her head. “No, sir, the nurse will be calling for you to come to join your wife from that side of the practice.”
A hallway ran past the check-in desk, connecting two sides of the office with the waiting room situated in the center. He glanced at the women, sitting quietly, checking their phones—far, far away from the mayhem on the other side. He wanted this—the adult section or whatever you wanted to call it. He scanned the dad zone to find a half-naked toddler twirling in a sea of toys.
“What happens on the quiet side of the office?” he asked.
“Our non-pregnancy related appointments,” the receptionist answered.
He glanced at the carnival gone off the rails section of the waiting room.
“We’re not one hundred percent sure Georgie’s pregnant. That’s why we’re here. We’re very close to sure, but that should be enough to get me into the quiet zone, at least for today, don’t you think?”
The receptionist’s placating expression was back. “Here’s the receptacle for your urine sample, dear,” she said, ignoring his plea and handing Georgie a plastic cup.
His wife stared down at it, her name and date of birth printed along the side. This was it—the moment of truth.
She squeaked a nervous laugh. “Well, we conquered shit shovels. What’s a little pee in a cup?”
Before he could reply, the maddening hum of the office went dead quiet. Not even a baby farted.
Georgie’s eyes went wide, and her cheeks grew crimson. “I dropped the s-word in front of a bunch of children, didn’t I?”
The entire waiting room stared at them. Even the receptionist sat motionless, her hand pressed to her chest.
He needed to handle this—and fast.
“My wife didn’t say a bad word. She said ship shovel. Ship with a p. You know, the shovel you’d use when you need one on a ship. Ship with a p—definitely, not a t.”
Had crickets not been smart enough to avoid this place, they’d be chirping.
“I’m going to go pee in the cup and have my blood drawn,” Georgie said, going from beet-red to dishwater gray as the noise returned to the level of heavy metal concert meets Sesame Street.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You should do great with the pee part. You’ve had plenty of practice this morning.”
She frowned up at him. “Jordan, why don’t you sit down. I’m sure they’ll call you back when they get me into an examination room.”
Sit down and shut up, asshat!
He knew that’s what his wife wanted to say—or would have said—if she weren’t freaking out about the possibility of gestating a human on top of making sure she didn’t drop another bad word in front of the baby brigade.
What was wrong with him?
Actually, he could answer that.
This place!
On TV, couples went into a tastefully decorated doctor’s office where pregnancy advice was dispensed over a mahogany desk without a chorus of wailing children or crashing toy cars.
Then, the penny dropped.
He was pregnancy book smart.
He understood the biology and the physiology of a pregnant woman’s body. Still, when it came to having hands-on experience with an actual pregnancy or understanding the intricacies of fetal development, he was as clueless as the dad chasing his half-naked kid around in circles.
He tried to block out the noise and steadied himself. He needed to stay calm. He might not know anything about growing a baby, but they could learn. They’d figure it out.
“We’ve got this, Georgie,” he said, drawing his thumb down her jawline as his heart fluttered, freaking fluttered in his chest.
How he loved this woman—his true north. If someone had asked him a year ago where he’d be at this time, never in a million years would he have thought it would be here, married to the love of his life, most likely preparing for a baby.
Not just a baby, their baby.
“Okay,” she answered on a shaky breath.
He held her misty gaze. “Messy bun girl, no matter what they tell us today, we’re in this together. You and me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You know the Emperor of Asshattery would be nothing without his Empress to call him out whenever he acted like—”
“A giant asshat,” she whispered lovingly, finishing his sentence as the corners of her lips curled into the hint of a grin.
“Ms. Jensen-Marks?”
They turned to see a stone-faced nurse, standing near the entrance to the pregnancy side of the office.
Georgie blew out a slow breath. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” she said, then nodded to the woman and followed her back.
He watched her go, wishing he could join her. There wasn’t much he could do. He could hold the pee cup for her. But it might look weird if they tag-teamed the urine sample portion of the visit. Like a warrior accepting defeat, he scanned the alien world of the ob-gyn waiting room, looking for the safest place to sit. Carefully, he navigated his way through a Lincoln Log minefield, passed a child banging his fist on a toy steering wheel’s horn as if he were training for a baby road rage competition, then took a seat across from a trio of men.
“Look, fellas! Fresh meat!” a red-cheeked, heavy-set man said with a wide grin.
Jordan stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t take offense,” the guy said, wrangling a toddler. “From the way you were talking to your wife, we could tell this is your first trip to the pregnancy rodeo.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “We’re not sure she’s pregnant. There’s a good chance I should be over there,�
�� he replied, gesturing with his chin toward the quiet zone.
“Did she do the pee test at home?” a man with a shock of red hair asked.
“Yes,” he answered, wondering why the hell he didn’t tell this guy to mind his own business.
What was it with this place? Did everyone know everybody’s business around here? Was there some unspoken rule that once one was relegated to this side of the office, all privacy disappeared?
“And you got the plus or the two lines?” came the third man with a little girl sitting on his lap, sucking her thumb.
“Or did you get one of those fancy tests with a little computer screen that says pregnant? Joanie loves those,” piped the dad, chasing a half-naked toddler.
“She used the kind with two lines,” he answered.
“And both lines showed up?” the redheaded man asked.
“Yeah.”
The jovial man slapped his leg. “She’s pregnant.”
Jordan looked from man to man before settling his gaze on the proclaimer of pregnancy. “Are you a doctor?”
“A dentist,” he answered with a shrug.
Jordan nodded, not sure if that counted.
“Do you want a natural birth or will you guys opt for an epidural?” the man chasing the child asked.
This twenty-questions was worse than listening to that kid bang out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the toy steering wheel’s horn.
“I’m not sure yet,” he answered.
“And preschools—you need to get on the wait-list for the good ones,” the dad with the little girl offered, then blew a raspberry on her belly.
“We don’t even know if we’re pregnant,” he stammered.
The redheaded man waved him off. “It doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant. My wife and I got our name on the wait-list for the advanced toddler baseball clinic before we’d even conceived.”
“You had no kid but put a fake kid on the wait-list?” he asked, trying to keep the cynicism out of his voice.
The man leaned forward. “That’s how the game is played.”
“You’re kidding!” he whisper-shouted back.
“No, sir! I am not! You need to act now. How far along is your wife?”
Jordan closed his eyes, his mind spinning, trying to calculate the date. His pregnant clients simply told him how far along they were in their pregnancy. But to calculate the due date, he vaguely remembered that you had to measure the duration starting on the first day of the woman’s last period—or something like that. He’d have to pull out his physiology manuals when they got home and brush up.
He rubbed his temples. “Six weeks, maybe a little more?”
The dentist dad’s eyes went wide. “Six weeks! That’s an eternity, man!”
Jordan’s gaze ping-ponged between the men as a shock of anxiety hit his system. “How can forty-two days be an eternity?”
He didn’t know all that much about fetal development, but he couldn’t imagine the kid was more than the size of a gumball.
The man chasing his kid plopped down next to him, holding the child upside-down by his ankles as the boy giggled with delight. “You need to get on it. You’re a big guy. Do you play sports? Do you want your kid to play first base, or how about the NFL?”
“The National Football League?” Jordan repeated. This was getting ludicrous!
The man set the child right-side up. “No, the other NFL. Newborn fitness lessons. They’re classes to work on baby hand-eye coordination to get your kid ready to try out for the club teams.”
Jordan’s mouth hung open. He’d spent the last decade of his life immersed in the fitness world, but he’d never heard of these kinds of classes or that you needed to get on the wait-list pre-baby.
“You start training your baby to be a professional athlete during infancy?” he asked, incredulity lacing the question.
Had he heard the guy wrong? He was trying to hold it together and play it cool for Georgie, but his nerves were starting to get the better of him.
The guy shook his head. “You should start before that! I began prepping Dewey to play quarterback, explaining football plays to my wife’s belly once the doc said our little bun in the oven was able to hear.”
“You did that while your wife was still pregnant?” Jordan pressed.
“Yep! And look at him now! That kid is going places,” the man answered.
Jordan glanced down to find this Dewey, who was apparently going places, sitting on the floor, cross-legged with both his index fingers jammed up his nose.
The dentist clucked his tongue at Dewey’s dad. “You’re blowing his mind.”
“Let’s move on. How about a musical instrument?” another dad asked.
He didn’t know which dad because his damn head was spinning thanks to the waiting room interrogation.
He tried to think, then imagined a little boy or girl, bowing away on a violin or fingertips fluttering down black and white piano keys.
“Music is great. I’m sure we’d consider it,” he answered cautiously.
“Then you’re really late,” the man with the little girl said.
“I am?” he shot back.
“Yeah, the best teachers in Denver are booked way before six weeks.”
“Like five weeks?” he queried, unable to believe the insane timeline parents needed to follow to give a kid a hobby these days.
How much pre-prenatal prep was required?
The man lowered his voice. “Try, four.”
Jordan reared back, bumping a flurry of board books off an end table. “Holy sh—”
“Whoa!” the dads said in unison, graciously cutting off his expletive.
Oh, f!
He and Georgie would have to crack down on their language, too, or else they might have a kid whose first word would be asshat or douche canoe.
Douche canoe was two words—but he and Georgie were relatively smart people. They’d probably have a smart kid who could manage it.
Jesus! Wait…goodness! What was wrong with him? He had to weed these words out of his vocabulary.
He reached down to pick up the books when the nose-picker kid—who was going places—grabbed the book in his hand.
“Hey, buddy! I was cleaning those up.” He released the book and allowed the child to take it.
The little cherub stared at him with wide blue eyes. What color eyes would their baby have? His were sage green, and Georgie’s were a gorgeous shade of bluish-green. There was a chance their baby would look up at him with inquisitive blue eyes like this. He cocked his head to the side and stared at the boy, all rosy cheeks and dark curls. When the toddler wasn’t digging for gold up his nostrils, the kid was kind of cute. He smiled at the child, feeling damned, no, darned good about this father business when the boy held the book above his head.
“Are you going to show me the book?” he asked, channeling Mr. Rogers.
He could do this. Kids liked him. This kid liked him. That had to mean something.
The little boy grinned up at him, then shook his head as a maniacal twinkle glinted in his baby-blues.
“You’re not?” he asked as a thread of trepidation wove its way through his chest.
With a grin akin to that of a mad scientist, the child reared back, then used every ounce of NFL baby training to whack him clean in the eye, wielding the board book with the agility of a tiny major league baseball player, swinging for the fences.
“Holy hard as hell board book!” he blurted, unable to stop himself, but not before losing his balance and falling to the floor. Thankfully, he was able to keep himself from clobbering the little boy by twisting his torso and tweaking his back in the process.
He pushed up onto his knees, then massaged a sharp kink in his neck as his eyeball throbbed. His half-blurry gaze darted between the now crying blue-eyed toddler, afraid of the giant man almost flattening him into a pancake as the dads sat motionless, staring at him with expressions of horror.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect—” he began
when a woman’s stern voice cut him off.
“I’m looking for Mr. Marks.”
He glanced up to find a nurse with a deep crease between her eyebrows and thin, pursed lips. Swap out the scrubs for a corset and a Victorian gown with a high, lace-trimmed neckline, and this lady would be a dead ringer for a harsh headmistress in a period piece.
He’d have to tell Georgie about her—once they were far, far away from this place.
He raised his hand like a kindergartener. “That’s me. I’m Jordan Marks.”
“I’m here to bring you back. Are you ready?” she asked with a disapproving gaze, taking in the crying child and the look of shock on every face in the waiting room.
Was he ready?
Now, that was the question.
He thought he was ready—figured a few physiology classes in college and a working knowledge of pregnancy had put him ahead of the curve when it came to this baby business. He let out a tight breath, then glanced up and caught a glimpse of the little girl, no longer sucking her thumb. Instead, the child stuck her tongue out at him, giving him the toddler equivalent of go fuck yourself.
With his back aching and his eye pounding, he rose to his feet like a defeated gladiator.
What the hell had he and Georgie gotten themselves into?
He stepped over the crying child, nodded to the speechless fathers, then hobbled toward the nurse.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, praying that this would be his lowest moment of the whole pregnancy journey. Unfortunately, a nagging little voice in his head told him this was just the beginning.
3
Georgie
Georgie shifted her weight in the chair, then crossed and uncrossed her legs. This wasn’t her first time rocking the gown you tie in the front for your annual lady parts examination. She’d been going to the gynecologist since she was a teenager. But for this visit, the nurse had told her she only needed to remove her clothes from the waist down.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 3
