Own the Eights Maybe Baby

by Krista Sandor

“Hey, it’s Lenny and Stu. Where are you guys? You were supposed to be at the hospital eight minutes ago. Didn’t your infant simulation doll alert go off?”

  “It went off,” he answered as Faby stopped beeping.

  “Then, where are you? Are you close?” Lenny pressed.

  Jordan stared down the block and could still see their bungalow. “No, we’re on our street.”

  “You haven’t left yet?” came Stu’s concerned voice.

  “We tried to leave, but Jordan forgot something,” Georgie answered, crossing her arms—one very perturbed sexy sailor.

  “What did he forget?” Stu asked.

  She let out an exhausted sigh. “Me.”

  “I see,” Lenny replied as a pregnant pause hung heavy in the air.

  “And we got stopped by the cops,” Georgie added, followed by a yawn.

  “The police!” the men exclaimed.

  He stared down at his bare feet. “We’re fine. Everything’s good. Can you reset Faby, and we can start over? Georgie and I are ready.”

  He glanced at his exhausted wife. Usually, after a few hours of nesting, followed by an imaginative costume-inspired sexytimes session, she’d zonk out until eight or nine in the morning.

  “I’m sorry, but Lenny and I can’t stay at the hospital,” Stu replied.

  “We can be there in nine minutes,” he shot back as Georgie blinked her eyes, looking as if she might fall asleep while standing.

  “We’ve got too much to do. It’s a big day for us and for you as well,” Stu answered.

  “We do?” he replied. After all the excitement this morning, he could barely remember his name, let alone an appointment.

  “Did you forget?” Lenny asked.

  Jordan yawned, ready to crawl into bed alongside his wife. “We’ve had a very eventful morning already. Can you remind us?”

  “You’ll need to bring your A game today. There are only a few hours until the Battle of the Births Gender Reveal challenge. The email of the location will go out in a few minutes.”

  Jordan glanced at his punch-drunk pregnant wife, rocking side to side, half-asleep. “We’ll see you there,” he answered and ended the call.

  Their A game?

  He rubbed his bleary eyes. This challenge wasn’t going to be pretty. After the antics this morning, they’d be lucky to bring their X, Y, or even Z game.

  14

  Georgie

  “Georgie, you’ll never believe where I think we’re headed!”

  She nodded but kept her eyes closed, hovering in that comfortably cozy place between being asleep and waking up.

  After the botched hospital dry run followed by the lovely, yet ill-timed run-in with an officer of the law, all she’d wanted was to go back to bed. Her weary body ached to slide back under the covers. Then, after at least a solid two-hour nap, she’d wanted to wake to the scent of pineapple muffins warming in the oven. Jordan made them for her every morning before he assembled his protein shake.

  Warm in bed, she’d lie there, savoring the warmth. The pregnancy was progressing without any problems. Their alien blueberry peanut was chugging along with no complications. And a few weeks ago, they’d succeeded at keeping baby Ollie alive. In fact, they’d done better. They’d enjoyed their time with the cherub-cheeked five-month-old.

  She even felt like a million bucks on the Lorraine Vanderdinkle-front. They had a plan on how they would break the baby news to her mother and Howard that didn’t leave her wanting to crawl into a hole and disappear.

  And on top of all that, she’d become a master organizer. She’d acquired ninja skills in the folding department. And there was no stopping her when it came to pantry prioritizing. In the wee, predawn hours this morning, she’d checked the use-by date on every canned good in the house, then fired up her laptop and knocked out an expiration date database. This feat of organizing excellence had earned a thumbs-up from her trifecta’s resident detail-oriented, fictional know-it-all witch, Hermione Granger.

  Georgiana Jensen-Marks, organizer extraordinaire.

  Did she have a nesting chip on her shoulder?

  Possibly.

  But feng shui had nothing on her!

  She’d spark joy alphabetizing her bookshelf, then slip into something sparkly or frilly from back in the day and make sparks with her sexy bed-headed husband. Who would have thought that the pageant costumes she’d despised as a teenager would turn out to be so useful in the dirty girl department?

  She inhaled, wondering if she’d entered a farting-without-knowing-it phase of her pregnancy. But all she smelled was crap—like, actual manure.

  Could that be right?

  She didn’t have a second to consider the smell when the gentle hum that had lulled her to sleep was replaced with a violent shake.

  An earthquake?

  Did they get earthquakes in Denver?

  She jolted upright. “I’m awake! We have to get out of here!”

  “Georgie, it’s just a gravel road,” her husband said with a reassuring pat to her leg.

  She collapsed into the seat. “For a second, I forgot we were in the car.”

  “You’ve been out like a light for most of the drive.”

  She nodded and smoothed her dress. Thankfully, they’d had enough time to race home and grab a shower before leaving for the Battle of the Births event.

  “Look, messy bun girl! Check out where the gender reveal challenge is being held,” Jordan said as they continued up the bumpy road, and her jaw dropped—like, catch-all-the-flies dropped.

  “The baby goat yoga farm?” she said, hardly able to believe her eyes.

  “Yeah, crazy, right?”

  She rested her hands on her baby bump. “Thank goodness I was able to cure you of your goat phobia. Who knows what kind of scene you would have made today?”

  Jordan chuckled. “I’m a lucky guy,” he said and rested his hand on top of hers.

  “A lucky guy who’s no longer afraid of baby farm animals, but alpacas—”

  “Hey,” he shot back, cutting her off playfully. “We agreed. Alpacas can be real assholes when they want to be.”

  “Very true,” she said, shaking off the heebie-jeebies from the memory of being spit on by one serious asshole alpaca, as they continued down the country road toward a sea of cars.

  For both her sake and her husband, hopefully, this place was still alpaca-free.

  Jordan parked their SUV between two sedans, then gazed at all the cars in the makeshift dirt lot.

  “It’s pretty full. They must have another event going on.”

  Last time they were here, it was just the two of them, and, for a short while, the brother and sister blogger team turned convicted felons they’d competed against in the Battle of the Blogs. But today, there had to be more than twenty cars packed into the dusty lot.

  “What do you think we’ll have to do for this challenge?” he asked, cutting the ignition.

  “I’m not sure how goat yoga could be a Battle of the Births challenge. Goat yoga isn’t a challenge unless you’re afraid of things that go baa in the night,” she replied, biting back a grin as her trifecta nodded in appreciation at her clever wordplay.

  Jordan unbuckled his seatbelt, then leaned over the console. She met him in the middle.

  “When did you get so funny?” he asked on one heck of a sexy rasp.

  Her prego-libido revved. “I’ve always been this funny.”

  He closed the distance and pressed the sweetest kiss to her lips.

  “What do you say, messy bun girl? Whatever this challenge is, I think we’re golden. We know this place. We’re ready for whatever they throw at us.”

  “What’s the score?” she asked.

  Jordan pulled out his phone. “Eleven couples competing.”

  “And?” she asked, trying not to cringe.

  After the simulation from a diarrhea-infused hell and their no-show at the hospital this morning, it couldn’t be good.

  “We’re number ten,” he report
ed.

  “Okay, not dead last.”

  A muscle ticked in her husband’s jaw. Oh, her competitive asshat!

  “I have an idea,” she said in her best dirty girl voice.

  “What’s that?” he asked, lowering his as the twitch disappeared.

  “After we rock this challenge and jump to the head of the pack, we should go by that barn we passed last time we were here. You know, the one where…” she trailed off as a blush heated her cheeks, her prego-libido raring to go.

  A cocky grin stretched across Jordan’s face. “Where I rocked your world.”

  She lifted her chin. “No, no, it’s where I rocked your world.”

  A whole lot of naughtiness glimmered in his eyes.

  Look at that! She was a bona fide cocky, competitive asshat calmer.

  A BCCAC.

  She chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth to hold in a bout of giggles. “I’m just amusing myself.”

  She was ready for him to toss back a feisty reply. But his expression softened as his gaze slid to her exposed wrist and settled on her charm bracelet—the bracelet he’d given her on their wedding day.

  “You wore it,” he said with that boyish grin she loved.

  She glanced at the charms, taking in the silver ten and eight, the computer mouse, the tiny barbell, the mini sandal, and the trowel before tapping the cookie charm.

  “For so long, even thinking of vegan cookies made me want to hurl. But when I caught a glimpse of my bracelet in my jewelry box, I didn’t feel like losing my breakfast. And for some strange reason, it seemed right to wear it today.”

  “Our good luck charms?” he teased.

  “I think so,” she answered, jangling the silver charms.

  “We need to add another.”

  “For the baby?”

  “I was thinking a pineapple,” he said with a wink.

  “That would actually work for the baby, and I could totally pound a pineapple juice right about now,” she said, then sighed longingly.

  “Would you now?” he asked with a sly expression, then popped open the glove box to reveal a tiny, lunchbox-sized can of her drink du jour.

  She plucked the can from its resting place, popped the top, and downed the liquid like a frat boy pounding a Natty Light.

  “God help anyone who gets between you and a pineapple. And by the way, that’s the last one. We’ll have to stop at the store on the way home after the challenge and stock up,” he said, clapping the glove box closed.

  She set the drained can on the dashboard, sweetly sated by the drink. “Noted. We’re pineapple or bust after the challenge ends.”

  He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. “All right, messy bun girl. We’ve got you properly juiced-up. Let’s go kick ass in this challenge. I’ll help you and Faby out.”

  She lifted Faby from the floorboard, then gazed into its, thankfully, not demon-red face. “I think we’re okay to get out of a car on our own,” she said, opening the car door and immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  Sweet cow patties! The smell!

  “That’s awful! What do you think that is? A buffalo?”

  “Um…Georgie,” Jordan said as a couple, looking like they’d walked straight out of the caveman exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, got out of the car parked next to them.

  “That’s the smell of an environmentally-friendly pregnancy. We’re a part of Nadine’s natural birth group. We’re here for a prenatal goat yoga session,” the hairy pregnant woman barked.

  Cornelia was not kidding. Nadine’s birthing group was hardcore. And Georgie couldn’t fault the woman for being in a bad mood. Walking around like a pregnant Oscar the Grouch couldn’t be fun.

  “That sounds lovely. It’s a perfect day for goat yoga,” she answered like a ventriloquist, keeping her lips pressed together and wishing she could clamp her nostrils shut.

  She plastered on a closed-mouth smile as the couple headed toward a group of other pregnant cave people, and Jordan came to her side.

  “I think you’re smelling the cows, babe,” he said, then pointed over to a pasture beyond a row of cars where a trio of hay munching moo machines grazed.

  “I didn’t know they had cows! Were there cows here last time?” she asked, taking his arm.

  “I wouldn’t know. I was more focused on the goats.”

  “Where do you think we should go?” she asked just as she spied Barry near the barn, blessedly, not anywhere close to Nadine’s group.

  The CityBeat producer waved them over.

  “We missed you this morning!” he called, filming them as they walked up.

  “We had a little mishap with the law,” she answered, then looked up at her now rose-cheeked husband.

  Barry nodded. “I know. I saw the—”

  “Georgie! Jordan!” Lenny interrupted, standing next to the barn door. “You’re the last couple to arrive. You better hurry. We’re about to begin.”

  “We’ll talk later,” she said to Barry, patting the man’s arm as they hurried inside.

  “We’ll let you get to work,” Jordan said to the man over his shoulder as they entered the giant structure.

  Last time they were here, they hadn’t ventured inside the weathered enclosure. She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Thin slivers of light carved their way through large wooden beams crisscrossing the top of the barn. Stalls with a few horses lined the sides, but still allowed for a great open space in the center where a circle had been made using hay bales.

  Jordan leaned down and lowered his voice. “It’s too bad you left your cowgirl boots at home.”

  She inhaled a sharp breath. Vroom, vroom! Who knew pregnant women walked around like roly-poly sexpots?

  “I have an idea,” she whispered back.

  “What?”

  “The naughty milkmaid and the ripped farmer.”

  “They do say milk does a body good,” he replied when Lenny stopped and turned to face them.

  “What was that, Jordan?” he asked with a crinkle to his brow.

  Jordan’s blush returned. “I was wondering if they produced their own milk at the farm—from the cows because if Georgie was dressed as a milkmaid, she could milk a cow.”

  She nodded as if her husband made perfect sense and hadn’t replied with a comment best described as vitamin D enriched nonsense.

  “I’m not sure. We’re not here to do any farm work or milking,” the man answered, then pointed to a spot on the ground between two couples. “You can settle in right here.”

  Straw had been scattered over the barn floor, and Georgie glanced at the other couples to get the lay of the land. The non-pregnant partner took a seat on the ground and leaned against the bale of hay while the pregnant partner scooted in between the non-prego person’s legs and relaxed into their embrace.

  It was very maternity ward meets Little House on the Prairie.

  “You’re going to get me into trouble, messy bun girl,” he teased, getting into the non-pregnant position.

  “Save it for the lake, farmer boy,” she parried back, handing him Faby while she maneuvered to the ground.

  She nestled into her ripped farmer’s embrace as a guitar strum cut through the couples’ murmuring.

  “Let’s start with a singalong everyone knows,” Stu said, tambourine in hand.

  “How about, ‘You Are My Sunshine,’” Lenny called, strumming the refrain.

  This might be weird had their first encounter with these two not started with singing. This whole sitting-on-the-floor thing had an odd summer camp vibe to it. At least they weren’t doing goat yoga with the angry hairy pregnant people. The song ended, and Lenny and Stu took a bow as everyone clapped.

  “We are so excited for the Battle of the Births gender reveal challenge,” Lenny said, addressing the group as a trio of CityBeat cameramen spread out along the periphery of the circle, filming the event from all angles.


  Stu took a step forward. “Let’s recap. Everyone did a great job on the Virtual Reality simulator challenge,” he announced, when Lenny whispered something into his ear.

  “Almost everyone did a great job on the simulator,” the man said, amending his statement.

  “We would have been fine if that VR baby hadn’t been a diarrhea volcano,” Jordan said under his breath.

  “And all but one couple made it to the hospital on time for the practice-run challenge,” Lenny chimed.

  Jordan tensed, and she craned her neck to whisper in his ear.

  “Don’t worry, Emperor. Even with a boatload of diarrhea, we’re still not in last place.”

  “Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to one of our couples. They moved overseas and had to pull out of the competition,” Stu added.

  Welp, they were dead last. But that was about to change.

  More than that—today, they’d know if they had a little miss or a little mister on the way!

  They could debate names and go back and forth over what color to paint the baby’s room.

  Then, a wave of relief settled over her. This was also the day she was going to contact Howard’s office, and all the weeks of worrying and wondering how her mother would react would be over.

  Would the woman go full-on socialite or insist on a spiritual in utero chanting session? Either was possible. But they’d be okay. Their time with Ollie proved they were up for the parenting task.

  “I’d like to ask the non-pregnant partner to take out their cell phone and open the Battle of the Births app. Then, click on the heart icon,” Lenny instructed.

  Jordan slipped his phone from his pocket and opened the app.

  “Thanks to the hospital practice-run challenge, you all know that your infant simulation doll is a technological feat. And guess what? This doll has another surprise. Now, we’d like the pregnant partner to place the doll in your lap, then grip your baby’s left arm,” Lenny instructed.

  “Here we go, Faby,” she said, following directions.

  Jordan held his phone so she could see the screen. “Georgie, I think Faby can act as a heart rate monitor.”

  “What?”

  “Like the handlebars on the treadmills at my gym. It looks like the information is sent to the app,” he explained.