“Beck, just do the Stripper Test before you call me up with your next brilliant name suggestion. Just pretend you’re the announcer and call out, ‘And now, here’s . . . Jagger!’ See? It’s a stripper name.”
“I don’t like this Stripper Test of yours. Why can’t I just pretend I’m calling out the kid’s name to get it to come home for dinner or something? The Dinner Test sounds so much better than the Stripper Test and it works just as well.”
“Okay. That’s fine. Would you feel comfortable calling out, ‘Apple! Come home! It’s dinner time!’”
“Yes, yes I would. I would be fine with that.”
“Enough, Beck. I’ve got to go. I have a conference call now with some lawyers from Houston.”
“Fine. Why don’t you ask them if they would do business with a lawyer named Apple? Hello? Hello? Hey, are you there?” Fuck.
1:15 p.m.
“What now? I really don’t have time for this.”
“Okay, new rule. Let’s not discuss baby names until we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. That way we’ll only have to decide on one name, not two.”
“Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
“No, not yet.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“NO!” Of course, that is something I would do. But I wasn’t lying. I didn’t know.
“I think I can find out next week at the next ultrasound appointment.”
“Okay, that’s fine by me. Let’s not discuss this again until we know if it’s a boy or girl.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“How about Clover?”
“For what? A dog?”
“No, for our child!”
“I’m hanging up now.”
And I thought choosing baby names would at least be fun. I clearly don’t have a clue about anything. Maybe I don’t know my fiancé as well as I should.
THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT THE FIANCÉ
He has strong opinions on names.
He seems to have quick reflexes—especially when hanging up on me.
He has been to a strip joint. How else would he know how the announcers introduce the strippers?
He actually works at the office.
THINGS I DO KNOW ABOUT THE FIANCÉ
He will always take my call when I call him at work. Even if it means he will hang up on me afterward.
I could probably convince him about the name Apple. But I’d have to work very hard at it. Most things I want, the fiancé will give to me, eventually, if possible.
He is a very patient man.
JUNE 1
10:45 a.m.
Lena called me early this morning with a Fear Phone Call.
“Oh God. I have The Fear. Last night I slept with a London banker who was in town for business. I think I’m still drunk.”
“Do tell. I stayed in watching taped reruns of Sex and the City. Tell me everything.”
“He was so cute. You’d love him. But he left to go back to London this morning. He didn’t leave me his card or anything, but I gave him my e-mail address. Do you think he’ll write?”
“I don’t know. Sure, why not?”
“Oh, I hope he writes. He really was sexy. And super nice. I really like him.”
We spent the next forty-five minutes discussing the possibility of whether he’d e-mail her or not, and, if he did e-mail her, when that would happen. I tried not to let it bother me that she didn’t ask how I was feeling. But it did. Of course, I had nothing to share. Staying home eating potato chips and drinking water is not nearly as interesting as getting drunk and sleeping with a banker from London.
1:00 a.m.
I felt something moving in my stomach. I’m just not sure exactly what it was. But it kept me awake, that I do know. It wasn’t exactly a kick, I don’t think. It was more like something doing somersaults in my stomach, as though I had eaten a bad dinner or had really bad gas. It was like a fluttering movement. But it wouldn’t stop for a long time. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? It was kind of cool for the first five minutes, but I need to sleep!
JUNE 2
Cute Single Man surprised me and dropped by my place on his way to work today. He brought me an iced latte. I think he wanted to kiss me. No, I know he wanted to kiss me. A girl can tell these sorts of things. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I wish I could talk to someone about this. There’s no way I can tell the fiancé. I can’t tell any of my friends either, because they’ll all think it’s strange that I have the best fiancé ever (which I do) and I’m hanging out with another man. But Cute Single Man makes me feel good. He makes me feel normal, like life before pregnancy. What is stranger, that I find myself drawn to Cute Single Man and want him in my life or that Cute Single Man is drawn to me and wants to be in my life even though I’m engaged and pregnant with another man’s child?
The whole day was off-putting, in fact. The arts editor called me this morning and asked me if I could cover a huge outdoor concert which was taking place just outside the city today. I have never turned down an assignment before, but I had to turn down this one. Because of my damn always-full bladder, I have to go to the washroom every five minutes, or at least it feels like I have to go to the washroom every five minutes. It’s never clear until I actually try to go to the washroom if it’s real or a false alarm. When I go out now, I plan my route according to where I know there will be washrooms. I need to know that I will always be able to find a washroom within five minutes of needing one or else it could get very messy indeed. Covering an outdoor concert with hundreds of thousands of people and very few porta-potties would not work for me. How sanitary are porta-potties anyway? Now is not the time to get some weird disease! Plus I haven’t had a whole night’s sleep for weeks, and I was too tired to figure out how to get there.
I explained the situation.
“Don’t worry,” said the arts editor. “I’ll find someone else to cover it.”
This pregnancy is changing my life—at least, my bladder is changing my life—and there’s not a thing I can do about it.
JUNE 3
It started out as a bad, bad day. I should never have gotten out of bed. I opened my newspaper only to see that my editor had assigned Sexy Young Intern to the concert he had originally asked me to cover. Apparently Sexy Young Intern does not have bladder control issues and is not too exhausted to travel outside the city for the day. She’s so perfect she probably never pees. Oh, how easily replaceable I am.
But the day did get better. I still have it. Not only does Cute Single Man want to come over tonight, but this afternoon, as I was walking along the street (yes, to fetch an iced latte), some man checked me out. Rather, he checked out my fabulously natural new big breasts and smiled at me. But then he glanced down and, noticing my bulging stomach, looked away. Still, for a brief second there, I was flattered. Unfortunately, as my stomach gets bigger and bigger, my breasts are starting to look smaller. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
JUNE 4
9:00 a.m.
Today was my second ultrasound appointment— the ultrasound where most women, if they choose to, can find out the sex of their child. I’ve never contemplated not finding out the sex. I couldn’t say no to that piece of information, especially when it was being dangled right there before me. But, unfortunately, my baby was being very stubborn. I just hope that doesn’t mean it will take after me in other respects.
“I can’t see what the sex is,” said the technician. “The baby is holding its legs firmly together right now. Isn’t that adorable?”
“No, not really. Give me a second,” I said, flicking my stomach with my fingers, much to the horror of the technician.
“What are you doing?” she asked, flinching.
“I’m trying to get the baby to open its legs. I want to know the gender, and I want to know today.”
“I’m trying my best. But sometimes they don’t want to cooperate. It’s just the way it is.”
�
��Well, try harder,” I wanted to say to the technician. To the baby I wanted to say, “I’m your mother. Now open your legs!” (a phrase no mother should ever say to her child).
“Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to find out anything today. I’m giving up,” the technician finally said, taking off her medical gloves.
N-O-O-O!!!
I don’t care what the sex is. I just want to know. I had asked Vivian the day before she found out the sex of her child what she was hoping for. “Officially?” she had answered. “I just want the baby to be healthy. I don’t care what it is. But, unofficially, I kind of want a girl.” The next day, she found out she was having a boy.
Unofficially—and officially—I’m torn. I kind of like the idea of having a boy. Boys seem more independent and don’t need to be fussed over as much. Boys like sports, which means that the fiancé would have to spend a lot of time with him doing father-son sporty things, like fishing and football (though I would never tell him this), and Mommy, who doesn’t like sports, could nap. Boys also seem easier to keep occupied. Hand them a toy gun or an action figure and you just watch them run around, right? But then I think, Maybe girls are easier. Can’t you just hand a little girl a pack of crayons and a coloring book and leave her alone? Aren’t girls better in school? Plus baby girls’ clothes are so cute. But, then again, so are little baby boys’ running shoes. Plus boys always love their mothers, while girls start hating their mothers when they hit the teen years. Yes, I think a boy would be great.
Noon
Actually, a little girl would be great. A mini version of me running around, with long brown hair? Adorable.
12:15 p.m.
I want a boy. Little Puma sneakers and miniature baseball hats? Adorable.
12:17 p.m.
Girl . . .
12:18 p.m.
Boy . . .
Tomorrow I see Dr. G. for my second checkup with him. I’m going to beg him to get me another ultrasound appointment. Though I’m not sure if “I just really want to know the sex of my child” is a good enough reason to get another one so soon. I must think of a list of questions to ask him this time. After five months, I must have something I need to ask him about being pregnant.
JUNE 5
I’ve never been so depressed in my entire life. I just got back from Dr. G.’s, and I’ve gained twenty pounds.
“It’s fine. You’re doing great,” he said.
“But didn’t you tell me that you imagined I would gain between twenty-five and thirty pounds throughout my entire pregnancy? I’m only halfway finished and I’ve gained almost that much already!”
“Like I said, we don’t worry about small, skinny people gaining weight.”
“I guess I should stop eating so many Big Macs.”
“Oh, is that your pregnancy food of choice?”
“Yes. A Big Mac a day seems to keep the cravings away.”
“Good for you. Enjoy.” Gaa! Wasn’t he supposed to tell me that Big Macs were bad for me? I couldn’t believe this. First he’s not overly concerned about my smoking. Now he isn’t even going to try to convince me to eat salads instead of crap fast food? Dr. G. is either a pregnant woman’s dream come true or a really bad doctor.
I was starting to tear up over my weight gain. I had to get out of there before the tears actually fell.
“Can I get another ultrasound next week? I really want to know the sex of my child, and the baby was being stubborn last time,” I managed to get out.
I’m not sure if Dr. G. really didn’t mind me getting another ultrasound so soon or if it was the tears he saw gleaming in my eyes, but he agreed. I can get another one in a couple of weeks.
Of course, I didn’t ask him any other questions, as I had planned to do. I just didn’t have any questions for him. And I really thought about it, too.
I called the fiancé. I needed him to calm me down.
“I just got weighed at Dr. G.’s. I’ve gained twenty pounds.”
“Really? Wow.” Wrong response. Wrong response.
“Don’t ‘Wow’ me. Yes, really! You’re going to dump me when you see me.” (One of my male friends once told me he thought that, in a relationship, if a woman gained more than fifteen pounds, that would be a deal-breaker for him, and he would break up with her. I wonder if he would include pregnancy weight gain in that.)
I’m not seeing the fiancé for another three weeks, when I plan to go visit him for a week before we head off together to Maui for Our Last Vacation Ever. The fiancé hasn’t really seen me with a belly yet. He’s going to be shocked. I fear he won’t recognize me. I’m going to have to wear a sign around my neck with my name written on it when I get off the plane so he knows who I am, like I’m one of those limo drivers waiting for a client to get off the plane. And I am so sick of people telling me I look “great.” It seems to be automatic for everyone to tell pregnant women they look “great,” even when I know I do not look “great.” People barely even look at me before saying, “You look great.” How is it possible that I look so “great” now, twenty pounds heavier, dressed in sweats all the time, with food spilled all over me? At least the fiancé will tell me the truth. I hope.
“Beck, you’re pregnant. You’re supposed to gain weight. Did he say everything looked okay?”
“Yes . . . But you don’t understand . . .”
“But what? What don’t I understand?”
“Something is happening to my ass.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening to your ass?”
“It’s higher, much higher, and way wider. I’m like freaking Jennifer Lopez, except I don’t make any money off my butt,” I cried. “I have a huge butt now.”
“You’re being ridiculous. I’m sure you look great.” Argh!
“I don’t. I really don’t.”
“I still love you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
His kind words didn’t cheer me up. But a Big Mac probably would. Just like I now know where every public washroom is in this city, I also know where every McDonald’s is. I headed over to see my best friend, Ronald, and the light at the end of my depressing tunnel, the Golden Arches.
JUNE 6
Midnight
I’m lying in bed, awake, waiting.
12:03 a.m.
Where’s my baby? Why isn’t it moving?
12:05 a.m.
Oh, wait . . . yep . . . there it goes. I rub my stomach.
12:47 a.m.
Okay, baby. It’s time to sleep now. Sleep! Now! I know you’re in there. I wonder if she/he has ears yet.
JUNE 8
I’ve now officially hit rock bottom. I am a disgusting human being. I am the lowest of the low. I woke up at six in the morning super hungry with no food in my fridge and with the only place open so early—yep—McDonald’s. I walked over, in my pajamas, my hair in the messy bun I had gone to sleep with. Walking out of the Golden Arches, armed with an Egg McMuffin and a hash brown, I spotted two colleagues, who are married to each other, running toward me, dressed head to toe in Adidas. What the hell were they doing up so early on Sunday morning? Right—exercising.
I have given up on going to the gym. It puts me in a sour mood. Every time I see a skinny woman running on a treadmill (and they are always skinny), I feel like saying to her, “I hate you.” And I do. I hate those women. So this morning I did what any pregnant girl would do upon seeing two non-pregnant colleagues exercising at six o’clock on a Sunday morning: I ran into the alleyway behind McDonald’s to hide. I could just picture them going back into the office and telling everyone, “Yeah, we saw Eckler coming out of McDonald’s. She looked like shit. Pregnancy definitely does not agree with her.” Argh. I am never leaving my apartment again.
JUNE 9
3:00 a.m.
LEG CRAMP. LEG CRAMP. What was that? What is happening to me? Why can’t I move my left leg? The calf muscle is paralyzed. And excruciatingly painful. My leg is paralyzed! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! . . . Wait. It’s going away.
Phew. Must ask Ronnie about that tomorrow. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
10:00 a.m.
“Oh yeah. Those calf cramps are the worst! The worst,” Ronnie said when I called.
“So that’s normal?”
“Oh yeah. You have to try to flex through it.”
“I can’t have that happen again. That was horrifying.”
“It just gets worse. Hey, are you feeling the baby move yet?”
“Yeah, every night when I lie down. I actually look forward to it now. And it moves after I eat chocolate. It must be like a sugar rush for the baby. Ronnie? Is it bad that I sometimes purposely eat chocolate just so I can feel the baby moving twenty minutes later? I mean, I know chocolate is bad for my ass.”
“Oh God, no. I used to do that all the time. Juice works too. So does coffee. It’s the baby equivalent of a caffeine kick.”
Sara and I are meeting for hamburgers tonight at a popular diner downtown. She’s just entering her french-fry-craving phase. Thank God, she too is craving carbohydrates! She can remain my friend. It’s the perfect pregnancy-related friendship, in fact. All my other friends would never think about meeting me for a plate of fries. And I wouldn’t dare ask them to, either.
JUNE 10
Sara can’t believe I want to find out the sex of my baby. “I’m not finding out. We don’t want to know. We figure there are so few surprises left in the world, why not enjoy this one?” she told me when I told her about how my stubborn baby wouldn’t open its legs during my last ultrasound appointment.
I can see that, but, really, what’s the surprise? It’s going to be either a boy or a girl.
Sara also hates the name Apple.
“But,” she said, trying to make me feel better, “if I saw Apple Eckler on a menu, I’d order it for dessert. It makes a delicious-sounding dessert.” Great.
I don’t care. I still love the name.
I’m starting to realize that there are certain things about your pregnancy you should never, ever talk about, not even with your closest friends. Names is one of them. Not because I’m worried that one of my friends is going to steal the baby name (though, I’ll admit, that can be a concern. For example, Sara told me last night that she loved the name Ava. I hadn’t thought about that name, but I do love it. I love it enough, in fact, to steal it, as I’m giving birth before her), but more because when you share your favorite names with other people, you will never get the exhilarating reaction you’re hoping for. And once they turn up their noses at the names you love, they’ll want to throw in their favorite names, which—trust me—you’ll hate.
Knocked Up Page 13
