“We have to get our shit together,” he said.
“Yes, let’s do that,” I agreed. “Let’s get our shit together.”
“I’ve already talked to a real estate agent who will let me know about good houses that are coming onto the market.” Apparently, getting our shit together for him means house hunting. “And we definitely need a nanny,” he continued.
“Definitely.”
“And we’ll get a night nurse too, for the first couple of months.”
“And she can teach me how to take care of a baby, because I certainly don’t know a thing about babies.”
“I’m quite aware of that. You’re a child.”
Right. We know.
“Do we really need a house so fast? I mean, don’t you think that’s too much of a change, too fast? What’s wrong with your condo?” I asked him.
“Beck, babies are loud. They cry. And we’ve never really lived together before. We don’t want to be on top of each other. You’re going to want your space. And I’m going to want mine.”
“But babies are, like, this small,” I said, holding out my hands inches apart. “And babies, for the first little while, don’t really do anything. They just kind of lie there and sleep, don’t they? We have time to buy a house. Do you even have money for a house? I think I have $600 in my bank account.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Where do you want the nanny and night nurse to sleep? My place is too small for all of us. We definitely need something bigger.”
“What about your spare room? We’ll just move the desk and computer and the couch into a corner. Families of four have been known to share apartments smaller than your condo.”
“Do you really want to hear the kid screaming all night in the next room? No, we have to get our shit together, and we definitely have to get a bigger place.”
“We can put the kid in the crib out in the hallway,” I suggested.
“Great. You want to put our child out in the hallway. That’s nice.”
“I was kidding!”
“Beck, this is not like planning our engagement party. You cannot get bored of being pregnant or get bored of being a mother. This is for the rest of our lives.”
God, what does he take me for?
“I know that,” I responded. “I am not going to get bored. I promise.”
The fiancé is going to send me a plane ticket so I can visit him in a couple of weeks. We might even go look at houses. God, a new house? Living with the fiancé? A baby? All at the same time? It’s like . . . it’s like I’m a grown-up now. Could there be anything more depressing?
The good news is we had sex! The best part about being pregnant is that you can do it without protection. What’s the worst that can happen? You’re already pregnant. The first post-getting-knocked-up sex was very sweet. It was actually a little odd—we barely seemed to touch.
“You know,” I told the fiancé, “you can still do it on top of me.”
“I can? I don’t want to hurt anything.”
I knew he cared. We agree that sex without a condom feels so much better. Not that I’m suggesting it or anything—look where it got us! It did, however, remind me of a joke I once heard. A man and his pregnant wife had regular sex all throughout her pregnancy. When their son was born, the father held him in his arms for the first time. The baby looked up at his new father and, without warning, punched him. “See?” said the baby to his father. “Now you know what it feels like to be bonked in the face.”
MARCH 3
It’s strange, but I really don’t feel pregnant. The queasiness I experienced the first week after conception and the queasiness I felt after doing the four home pregnancy tests seem to have disappeared. Now I feel nothing. I certainly don’t feel like there are arm, leg, and teeth buds growing inside of me. Shouldn’t I be feeling something?
MARCH 4
Still don’t feel anything different. None of my editors at work seem to have noticed that there is anything different about me. One of them even complimented me on my story about the search for the perfect invisible deodorant. And, yes, it was an investigative piece. You try to find an invisible deodorant that is actually invisible. It’s impossible.
I have to work harder than ever now that I’ve seen Sexy Young Intern’s byline in the paper several times. She is not going to get my job. It’s never going to happen. Even if I have to bring my laptop into the delivery room and continue working all the way through labor.
MARCH 5
Maybe I’m not pregnant. I really do not feel pregnant.
MARCH 6
9:30 a.m.
I just sent my boss an e-mail that began with “I hate my job” and ended with “I think I’m going to quit.” Something snapped when I saw there were a couple of editing mistakes inserted into my copy in this morning’s paper. I realized that I really hate my job and never want to go back to work again. I’m actually grateful to be pregnant—now I will have something to do when I’m unemployed. Quitting will be the best decision I have made in a long time. Not like they need me anyway now that they have Sexy Young Intern, who probably has a stomach you could bounce a quarter off of.
9:37 a.m.
Shit! Okay, I love my job. I really, really do. I don’t want to quit! What came over me? I must just be grumpy. I send my boss a suck-up, makeup e-mail: “I’m sorry I sent that earlier e-mail. Please ignore it. I’m not feeling great and haven’t been sleeping too well. I really do love my job!”
I haven’t told my boss that I am pregnant. I don’t want the good assignments to be taken away from me and given to Sexy Young Intern. Occasionally work will send me to Los Angeles and New York to cover film junkets, and I get to interview stars. No, this pregnancy is not going to change anything. Not until I get to interview Johnny Depp. Crap. I might have to tell the boss now, though. Is it better to have him know I’m pregnant so I can get away with my bad behavior than to let him believe I’m losing my mind?
6:00 p.m.
Had to leave my spin class midway through. Something about the smell of sweat in the room was making me sick to my stomach. That’s never happened before. Plus I was exhausted. I couldn’t pedal for another second. That’s never happened before either.
8:00 p.m.
“Hello?”
“Beck, what are you doing? You sound wiped out.” It’s Lena.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. What time is it?”
“It’s eight o’clock! Were you sleeping?”
“Yeah. I just passed out in front of the television. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Um, you’re pregnant!”
Oh. My. God. She’s right! The nasty e-mail to my boss? The smell of sweat making me want to puke? The fact that I fell asleep at seven o’clock? The symptoms are here. The symptoms are here! Hallelujah, the symptoms are here! I’m not just going crazy!
MARCH 10
Oh God, are the symptoms ever here. Fuck the symptoms. I was nauseous the entire weekend. I barely got out of bed at all. I do not know how I’m going to work today. How can I get out of writing about the new Avon anti-cellulite cream that’s all the rage? I don’t want to let my readers down. But all I really want to do is to sleep and to be near a toilet. Fuck cellulite.
More than half of all pregnant women experience morning sickness. And morning sickness happens not only in the morning, but all day and all night long. My friend Vivian, who has now come out of the maternity-clothes closet, calls it “mourning sickness,” as in mourning the death of her fabulous life. I’ve figured out that the only way to not feel nauseous is to stuff my face with food. I am now an unattractive pregnant woman whom you cannot force out of bed, but who will occasionally crawl to the kitchen to stuff cookies into her mouth. I am not fabulous. But how can I waste away hours of sleeping when I know these are the last few months of my freedom?
I have decided that, instead of books about pregnancy, Us Weekly wil
l tell me all I need to know. I can’t get enough of Us Weekly, with its stories about “Celebrities and Their Kids.” It takes me a minute to remember the names of Ronnie’s kids, but quiz me on the names of Madonna’s kids (Rocco and Lourdes), Calista Flockhart’s adopted son (Liam), Angelina Jolie’s adopted son (Maddox), or Sarah Jessica Parker’s son (James), and I know them all. Maybe I’ll also name my child Maddox. It’s a good name. Of course, I know someone whose dog is named Maddox. Can I do that to a child?
MARCH 11
The fiancé and I have been having long phone conversations about what kind of parents we want to be. These conversations usually begin with him saying something like “I don’t want this baby to change our lives,” and me saying, “Don’t worry. This will not change our lives.” The problem is that most everybody we know who is married and have kids (meaning most of his friends) have all changed. They no longer go out, and if they do, they have to be back early for the babysitter. They seem to talk only about their kids. It’s all kind of depressing. We will never become one of those couples. We will never become them.
MARCH 21
Lying about being pregnant is more exhausting than actually being pregnant. For what seems like an eternity now, I’ve been lying. I actually feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t tell people soon.
I went out with the girls tonight—Heather, Lena, and Shannon. Like always, we met at a bar. It’s what we do. We then headed to a gallery belonging to a friend of Lena’s, where there was a show opening. I had slept for most of the day and could have easily stayed in bed all night. But I am adamant that this pregnancy will not change my life, so I forced myself to shower and get dressed. Just the thought of blow-drying my hair almost made me fall asleep standing up.
I knew I was in trouble when we arrived at the bar and grabbed a table for four. I think it was Shannon who threw out the suggestion that we should all just share a bottle of wine. Of course, everyone but me nodded enthusiastically. I spent most of the night running to the washroom, pouring glasses of wine down the sink so Heather and Shannon wouldn’t figure out that I wasn’t drinking. But every time I sat back down at the table, another glass of wine would be waiting for me. When the bill came, just before we headed to the gallery opening, I chipped in my $80, thinking, I didn’t even drink a sip. This pregnancy is costing me a fortune.
Last week, I met a colleague for a drink. Like I said, it’s what we do. The problem when you meet friends for “drinks” in a bar is that you are expected to drink. I am starting to think that most of my friendships are based on alcohol. I wonder why we never seem to go to the movies. I purposely arrived ten minutes early when meeting this colleague. A flat-stomached waitress (all women to me are either flat-stomached or not now) came over to where I was sitting. This is how the conversation went:
Her: “Can I get you something to drink?”
Me: “I’m meeting a friend here in a few minutes. But, listen, I’m going to order vodka cranberry when she gets here, but only give me cranberry soda, okay?”
Her: “So you want a vodka cranberry?”
Me: “No, I’m going to order vodka cranberry, but—whatever you do—only serve me cranberry soda.”
Her: “I don’t understand.” (Duh!)
Me: “I’m pregnant, so I cannot drink. But I don’t want my friend to find out that I’m pregnant. That’s why I’ll be ordering vodka cranberry but I only want you to serve me cranberry soda. Get it?”
Her: “Got it.”
This is what I’m forced to do now: lie and deceive. It’s taking everything out of me. Really, it is.
I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve used the “I’m on antibiotics” line, or “I can’t drink, I have to get up for a very important business meeting early tomorrow,” or “I can’t drink, I’m still hungover.” I’ve used those excuses so many times in the past few weeks, I’m even boring myself.
MARCH 24
1:00 a.m.
I have to get up and pee. I am so tired. I wonder if I can hold it in. No, definitely can’t do that. My bladder feels like it’s about to explode.
1:45 a.m.
Pee again. What the hell?
3:00 a.m.
Pee. Again.
4:30 a.m.
Pee again. I am going to kill myself if I don’t get any sleep. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. I never want to pee again. I am never drinking anything again.
MARCH 25
6:00 a.m.
I have never been so hungry in my entire life. I need food. I hate being pregnant. There must be women out there who also hate being pregnant. Where are these women? How come they aren’t speaking up? Or do you forget the bad stuff—the nausea, the peeing ninety-six times a day, the ten-hour naps—once the baby is born? It’s kind of like mothers who say their babies sleep the whole night through. Not every baby can possibly sleep the whole night through, which means there are a hell of a lot of mothers out there who are liars.
I’m not lying. I hate being pregnant. I cannot function like this. I bet Sexy Young Intern is sleeping like a log. Bitch. I bet the fiancé is also sleeping like a log. Asshole.
11:00 a.m.
When is this going to end? I can’t do anything. I sleep all day. I have to go pee all night. I’m too exhausted to pick up a hair dryer, let alone go to the gym. I’m starting to forget things, too. I think that’s what people mean by Baby Brain. Two days in a row, I’ve been in the shower and put conditioner in my hair. But, for some reason, I forgot step 1: putting shampoo in my hair. Eating makes me nauseous, but not eating makes me more nauseous. If anyone gives me a strange look, or what I perceive to be a strange look, I burst into tears. But what gets me really bitter is the fact that the fiancé has to go through none of this. I am not going to be able to last the day, let alone the next seven months. Why oh why did I ever ask him to . . . in me?
I am convinced I have already gained fifteen pounds. Ronald McDonald and his Big Macs and super-sized fries are the only things that make me happy. I’m like a freaking kid. I’ve done the research on weight gain. It’s one of the first things I looked up. The average woman usually gains three to four pounds in total during the first trimester and about a pound a week during the second trimester, for a total of twelve to fourteen pounds. During the seventh and eighth months, she’ll still gain about one pound per week, but in the ninth month, she’ll only gain a pound or two—or even none—for a total of eight to ten pounds during the third trimester. Clearly, I need a calculator. But I think that works out to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty pounds. I know I have already gained that much. Suddenly I have no willpower when it comes to carbohydrates.
I got mad at Dana yesterday when she called to tell me she feels terrible because she’s been to the gym only four times this past week.
“Don’t even talk to me about it. I haven’t been forever. I miss the gym. I miss my old life.” I had, of course, told Dana I was pregnant. Once you share a worry of pregnancy, you have to follow through.
I have no discipline. If I am what I eat, then I’m half McChicken and half Big Mac. I’ve had three Big Macs in the past week. It’s not me who wants McDonald’s—it’s the baby. You know you’re eating far too often at McDonald’s when the employees give you a nod of recognition when you are in line. It’s happened. Twice. Even though this thing is growing in me, sometimes I wonder if it’s indeed my child. This baby wants only white bread and cheese and french fries. Why is the baby doing this to me?
I wonder if Reese Witherspoon ate Big Macs? I wonder if Elizabeth Hurley couldn’t stand the smell of salad, let alone eat it? How can I be healthy if everything that is nutritious makes me want to heave?
Thank God the fiancé is coming to visit this weekend. He will not allow me to eat McDonald’s.
I’m not sure how he’s getting on with “getting his shit together.” I have started to get mine together, though. I have paid off my American Express card. I have bought the best hair straightener on the market. It�
�s more important than ever, I figure, that my hair looks good for the fiancé as my ass gets bigger and wider. At least one part of my body should look halfway decent. I made a manicure and pedicure appointment. I made a dentist appointment. Getting my shit together and being responsible is really very tiring. It’s enough to make me want to put down this Big Mac and take a nap. No, I’ll finish the Big Mac first and then take a nap.
MARCH 29
I think this pregnancy thing might actually be sinking in for the fiancé. While we were in a taxi today, he even asked me how I was feeling. Actually, what he said was “Are you going to puke? Because tell me if you are, and I’ll tell the driver to pull over.” I knew he cared.
But he did get frustrated with me earlier in the day. I had simply asked one tiny little question.
“Does my ass look fatter?”
“No, it’s the same as always.”
“Take a really good look.”
“It’s fine.” Fine? Fine? How can my ass look just fine?
“How about my thighs? I think my pants are a bit tighter around my legs. Do I have fat thighs now?”
“NO!”
“How about my face? Does my face look fatter?”
“Beck, really. Enough already. Your face is not fatter.”
“Okay. I’m going to leave you alone.” Thirty seconds later I couldn’t help myself, though.
“One more question,” I said to him.
“What?”
“Are you absolutely, positively sure I’m not fatter anywhere?”
“Yes, I am absolutely, positively sure you are not any fatter anywhere.”
“Okay, I promise to leave you alone now.”
Of course, I couldn’t. I still wasn’t sure he was telling the truth.
“One more thing.”
“What?!”
“Do you promise to love me forever and ever even when I do get fatter?”
Knocked Up Page 7
