What I actually said was “Uh, not really.” The truth was I couldn’t think of any medical questions to ask him. My scrap paper was blank. Shouldn’t I have a million questions?
“Let’s get you weighed then. What’s your normal weight?”
“About a hundred pounds. Sometimes a little less, depending on whether I’m having a bloated day or not. You know, salt and all.”
I stood on the scale (first taking off my shoes, of course) and held my breath. I knew I had already gained some weight. My pants are tighter around the waist than they used to be. Some of them don’t even button up. I wear long shirts over the pants that don’t button up (shhh!), and sometimes I can feel my thighs rub together when I’m walking and wearing skirts, which, trust me, was traumatic when I first noticed. Not as traumatic as what happened next, though.
“You are now 114 pounds.”
“I’ve gained fourteen pounds in three months! I’ve gained fourteen pounds in three months? I’VE GAINED FOURTEEN POUNDS IN THREE MONTHS? Is that normal? Is that normal? IS THAT NORMAL?”
“Yes, that’s fine. We don’t worry about small women like you gaining weight. It’s good to gain weight. I’m not worried.”
Well, that makes one of us. I am worried. I am very, very worried.
Suddenly the elation I had felt at first seeing the alien-looking baby with the watermelon-size head growing in my stomach was gone. I couldn’t believe I’d gained that much weight so quickly. I have never weighed that much before, not even during freshman year at university when all I ate was Kraft Dinner. I have never weighed that much before, not even when everything in my life was going perfectly.
I tried to perk up when I called the fiancé.
“Okay, we’re good to go,” I told him. “The doctor says everything looks good. We can tell everyone now. But there is one thing . . .”
“But what? What’s wrong? You’re not having twins, are you? Please tell me you’re not having twins.”
“No, I’m not having twins! It’s nothing. It’s just that I . . .”
“What? Tell me.”
“Well, I’ve gained fourteen pounds!”
“Is that bad?”
“Well, the doctor says it’s fine.”
“Beck, you are pregnant, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re right. We should look into obstetricians where you are, too. In case we decide I’ll have the baby there.”
I hadn’t told Dr. G. that I’m not 100 percent certain I’m going to have him deliver the baby. The fiancé and I haven’t decided for sure where I will give birth. We still have time to work out the details. I was just relieved that, so far, aside from the fourteen-pound weight gain, everything looks fine. I decided to celebrate my first ultrasound by treating myself to a Big Mac and super-sized fries. What’s a couple more thousand calories anyway? It would be my last trip to McDonald’s.
Noon
Back at my apartment, four and a half hours and one Big Mac after I left to go to the appointment, it’s time to tell the boss. What’s the proper etiquette for telling your boss you’re going to have a baby? One of my colleagues, I remember, didn’t tell the boss she was pregnant until two weeks before she was set to give birth. She continued going into the office and wore really baggy sweaters to camouflage the growing bump. She got away with it. She told me afterward she just assumed everyone thought she had gained a lot of weight but were too polite to say anything.
God, this is going to be hard. I don’t want the boss to take me less seriously or to think that I’m not committed to my job. But I have to tell him. I don’t want people to think I’m just getting fat. I could call him, but that would be weird, considering I’ve never called my boss at the office before and don’t know his direct number. Should I set up a meeting with him? That, too, would be weird. The only time I’ve set up meetings with him is when I’ve wanted a raise. If I call to ask for a meeting, he’ll probably think I am going to ask for another raise and then he’ll never return my phone call. Or maybe he’ll think someone in my family has died. I don’t want to turn the fact that I am pregnant into something so serious and somber. This is, after all, supposed to be good news, or at least a pleasant surprise. That’s what I want him to think, at least.
I decide to go the e-mail route. E-mail has become a girl’s best friend and her worst enemy. It’s made dumping men easier. It’s made men dumping us easier, too. It’s made canceling plans easier for everyone. And now e-mail has, apparently, made telling your boss you are pregnant easier, too. Plus you can write drafts of the letter before you hit Send and your whole life changes in one nanosecond.
Subject: I’m pregnant!!!
Message: I’m pregnant. Just thought you should know sooner than later. Not because you’re the father. So don’t you go worrying about that! Ha ha . . . No, that won’t work. It’s too flippant. It’s in bad taste. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy and planning to sue him for sexual harassment or something.
Subject: Well, it’s finally happened . . .
Message: I’m three months pregnant. I am woman. Hear me roar!
No, no, no. What am I thinking?
Subject: I have something to tell you.
Message: The fiancé and I got drunk three months ago and didn’t use protection, and now I’m with child . . .
ARGH!
Subject: Don’t hate me because I’m fat . . .
Message: No need to hire anyone to take my job just because I’m about to get bigger, maybe even fat. A.k.a. pregnant. Don’t worry. I’ll still be the same hard-working employee I have always been and will continue to be the best person for the job. I promise. I promise. I promise. So no need to find a replacement or, let’s say, hire that younger intern to take over my position.
ARGH! ARGH! ARGH!
Okay, it’s clear there’s no good way of doing this other than to do it. Here goes . . .
Subject: Important News!
Message: The fiancé and I are three months pregnant. Well, I am three months pregnant. I’m very happy about it. I would like to write about it for tomorrow’s paper. There is some funny stuff related to finding out. I think readers will be very entertained. Will be well read.
I figure I could at least show the boss, while in the process of telling him I am pregnant, that I am still going to work hard, that I still care about the newspaper.
Less than five minutes later, my computer blings.
Subject: Re: Important News!
Message: Congratulations. That is exciting news. Will you be taking maternity leave? And, yes, please write about it for tomorrow’s paper. I’m sure it will be great.
Phew. That wasn’t too awful. In fact, it really was anticlimactic. Didn’t he care? I must learn to not overanalyze. I really haven’t thought about maternity leave, though, I mean, I’ve thought about it in that I think a year off would be really nice, like an extended paid vacation where you can throw your baby on your back with one of those funky baby-knapsack-thingies and tour Europe. Though maybe I’m not the type of woman who can take off from work for so long without wanting to get back into the “game.” I hear about women all the time who go back to work three weeks after giving birth because they are so worried they are going to lose the position they worked so hard to get in the first place. I do love my job. Will I love watching a baby more? Somehow I can’t imagine changing diapers as being more enjoyable than getting paid to interview celebrities and attend fabulous bar openings. But maybe I can be that type of woman?
I call to warn the fiancé he’d better tell everyone he knows or who needs to know about me being pregnant because I’m writing about it in tomorrow’s paper. Then I get down to work, keeping the ultrasound photo next to my computer for inspiration. The alien child is so damn cute I can’t keep my eyes off of it. How will that watermelon-size head come out from Down There? I won’t worry about that now. I have to work.
5:30 p.m.
Bling! My e-mail goes off. I just sent my pregnancy stor
y in ten minutes ago. Oh. My. God. The e-mail is from Sexy Young Intern.
Subject: Your Big Surprise!
Message: Congratulations. I can’t believe you are pregnant! Everyone in the office is talking about it. Word travels fast here. Will you be moving to be with the fiancé now? Any cravings? Are you going to leave work?
Argh! What a bitch! She probably wants me to be craving ice cream so I’ll get fat. She’s probably already plotting to get my job, sucking up to the boss right this second. This isn’t going to be good. I delete the e-mail without responding. I’ll blame it on my pregnancy hormones if I run into her and she asks why I never wrote back.
APRIL 22
Gaaa!! The story of my pregnancy made it to the front page of the newspaper. “REBECCA ECKLER IS PREGNANT!” it screamed along the top of the front page. Now everyone will know. I turned on my computer to see hundreds of e-mails with the subject heading “Congratulations” waiting for me in my Inbox. It was overwhelming. Who knew that so many people—including readers I’ve never met—could be happy for me? I wasn’t used to it. I couldn’t deal with it.
The fiancé called.
“I’m so annoyed.”
“What? What? You didn’t like the story. What’s wrong with it?”
“No, the story was fine. But people have been calling me all morning. I can’t get any work done.”
“I know. I know. Me neither!”
“If I hear one more time how having a baby ‘changes everything’ but that it’s ‘so rewarding’ and that ‘it’s the best thing I’ll ever do,’ I’m going to hurt someone.”
It’s true. Almost every e-mail and phone call I’ve received says the same thing. “It’s the most rewarding thing you’ll ever do” and “It changes everything. Just you wait and see” and “All your priorities will change” and “Enjoy every minute of the pregnancy, because after the baby is born you will never have a quiet moment again.” And shut up, shut up, shut up.
The fiancé and I are cynics. We don’t like to be told how rewarding anything is. We don’t like to be told to enjoy anything. Neither of us deals well with change, either.
“I’m going to turn off my phone,” the fiancé said.
“Me too. But don’t be too annoyed. Just think how rewarding this will all be. Ha ha.”
“Goodbye, Beck.”
Still, aside from being annoyed by everyone telling me how “everything changes,” I can’t help but gloat. My newspaper is really selling the story that I am pregnant. Maybe this won’t be so bad for my career. Maybe I can still be fabulous, albeit fabulously pregnant. Who isn’t interested, for example, in designer diaper bags and designer baby clothes? Could being pregnant possibly be good for my career? Take that, Sexy Young Intern! I am pregnant and you are not. Maybe I’ll end up on the pages of Us Weekly, under the heading “Celebrity Parents and Their Tots.” Isn’t that every woman’s dream?
APRIL 24
It’s amazing—I no longer have morning sickness. I woke up and felt fine. How did that happen? People had told me the morning sickness would go away after the first three months, and it did, almost exactly three months to the day. Amazing.
It’s a good thing too, because I have a very big day planned. I’ve been putting off doing this for three months, but it can’t wait any longer. It has to be done today unless I plan never to leave my house again. I have to go bra shopping.
I realized the importance of this yesterday, when the one remaining bra that kind of fit snapped open as I bent down. Yes, it happened: my pregnant breasts broke my bra. Plus, panty lines are bad, but bra lines are hideous. I’ve decided to walk to my neighborhood lingerie shop, where they know me and where I feel comfortable having the salesgirls feel me up as they take measurements.
“Well, you haven’t been in here for a while,” Jen, the friendly salesgirl, said when I walked in. “What’s new?”
“Um, well, I’m pregnant. And my breasts are huge now. I need new bras.”
Jen looked at me, wide-eyed, as if she had just seen a rat running through her store, but she didn’t say anything.
“Well, you can wipe that shocked look off your face now,” I told her.
“I’m sorry. I just—well, wow, you’re pregnant? I’m stunned.”
“Yeah, me too. But let’s try to get over our shock, shall we? I desperately need new bras.”
“Okay, let’s get you measured.” Jen measured me. “Okay, wow, you’re now a double-D.”
“Double-D? What was I before? Oh, and, once again, you can wipe that shocked look off your face.”
“I think you were a B. I can’t believe you are still wearing that bra. You must be so uncomfortable.”
“Yep.”
“Let me grab you a few bras to try on. I’ll be right back. Wow . . . double-D,” she said again, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Okay, but make sure they have underwire. I think I need the support more than ever now. Plus, I like underwire. It’s sexier,” I told her.
“Well, you really shouldn’t be wearing underwire bras now, you know. Your breasts need to move around when you’re pregnant.”
What? No sushi? No alcohol? No medicine? No Diet Coke? No cigarettes? And now no underwire? Does it never end?
“Listen, Jen. I really want bras with underwire. I promise to come back in a couple months and get some without. But, for now, let’s stick to underwire.”
“Oh, you’ll be back. Probably in a few weeks. Your breasts are going to continue to grow, you know.”
They can’t possibly! If my breasts get any bigger, I’m going to need some sort of apparatus to hold me upright.
Jen walked off.
“Here you go. I grabbed you a couple with underwire and another kind I just want you to try on. Trust me.”
I couldn’t believe what Jen had handed me. They weren’t bras. They were tablecloths.
“Oh my God. Those are so unsexy!” I cried to her. “And what’s with this white one? What is that?”
“Just try it on. Please? For me.”
First I tried on two black double-D bras—with underwire—and one purple lacy one. Despite the sexy colors, they looked like bras someone’s grandmother would wear.
Then I tried on the white bra. It was 100 percent cotton and had huge, thick straps the width of my hand. It was possibly the ugliest bra I have ever seen. Whoever made this bra definitely wasn’t trying to impress a new lover.
It was . . . heaven. Jen came into the changing room to check on me.
“This bra is the most comfortable thing ever. It’s like I’m wearing nothing. I’ll take it. But what is this plastic clip here, right over the cup?”
“Oh, it’s a nursing bra. I didn’t want to tell you. Just unhook the clip and you can breastfeed. See? It’s practical as well as comfortable,” she laughed.
“I can’t believe I’m buying a nursing bra and I’m not even four months pregnant! This is all so sad.” But I wore the bra out of the store. I will have to remember to hide it, or take it off, when I see the fiancé. It really is that unattractive. It will scare him. It isn’t a bra so much as a parachute or something.
APRIL 25
The fiancé called.
“Boy, you’re in trouble.”
“What? What did I do?” Did the fiancé know about Sunday’s movie night with Cute Single Man? I’m still feeling guilty about it. We had seen a seven o’clock show (a late show seemed too much like a date), but after, because it was still early, it had seemed wrong to end the night. I invited him back to my place, where I handed him a beer and poured myself a glass of water.
The initial reason for agreeing to go to a movie with Cute Single Man was to prove to Heather that a guy could be attracted to me even though I am pregnant. And Cute Single Man does seem to like me, and I’m not convinced he likes me just as a “friend.” After all, we both already have friends and I’m not that interesting.
“You know,” Cute Single Man said to me, checking out my apartment, “you should re
ally put a piece of wood or a bar along your sliding glass door. You’re on the ground floor. Someone could easily break in.” It was kind of nice to have someone be so concerned about my security. I hate to admit it, but I had fun with Cute Single Man. I felt, well, single, out on a first date. Nothing happened. In fact, I’ve made a promise to myself never to see him again, though he did make me laugh. It just seemed wrong. I haven’t told the fiancé about it, because how would I explain it all? Somehow I don’t think “Well, Heather made me feel ugly and bad and I needed to feel better about being pregnant” was going to cut it.
“Yes, you’re in trouble,” the fiancé repeated.
“Um, what did I do?” Was it possible that one of the fiancé’s friends saw us at the movies and ratted on me?
“Well, Jason just called me.” Phew. Jason lives in the same building as the fiancé. There’s no way he could have seen me out at the movies with a man who isn’t the father of my child.
“So what?” I asked.
“His girlfriend is now all over him to get pregnant because you are.”
“Really? I thought Jason was the one who laughed at you when you told him I was pregnant.”
“He did! That was a wonderful response. Anyway, they got into a huge fight about it and she demanded to know if they were ever going to have a baby together. I think they figure if we’re doing it, then everybody must be doing it.”
“Yikes.”
Women are like this, I told the fiancé. I wasn’t surprised. If all our friends are single, we want to be single. If the most unexpected people—like the fiancé and I—are pregnant, they think it’s time for them to be pregnant too. If we could do it, after all, then anyone could.
APRIL 27
Maybe everyone is pregnant. I decided to go back to the gym today. It’s been way too long, and now that my morning sickness is over there’s really no good excuse not to go. Plus I don’t want my butt getting any bigger. I decided to make plans to meet my gym friend Sara there, so we could take a spin class together and then go for eggs. I am so happy I went. Guess what? Sara is pregnant! After our spin class—which proved to be a tad more difficult to get through because every time I bent over on the bike I got the urge to pee—we were looking over the gym class schedule while talking to one of the instructors.
Knocked Up Page 10
