Knocked Up

by Rebecca Eckler

  I was speaking to Heather the other day about possible baby names. I have really started to love the name Ruthie. My grandmother was named Ruthie. And it’s a completely normal name. I was proud of the name. Until . . .

  “Ruthie?” said Heather. “Really? It’s so, um, not good for a teenage girl. Isn’t it a little, um, grandmotherly?”

  “I also really like the name Hazel,” I told her.

  “Hazel. That’s okay, I guess.” I can’t have an “okay” name for my child. I need the name to be fabulous.

  “What about Emily?” suggested Heather.

  “Emily? It’s okay. It doesn’t grab me, though it is pretty.”

  “You’re wrong. Emily is a great name.” I never knew there was a right and wrong when it came to baby names, but apparently there is. I’m a failure even when it comes to choosing a good baby name. Apparently.

  “How about naming the baby Heather?” said Heather. And this is where it gets really tricky. Even if your friends are joking when suggesting their own names for your child, you never know whether you should take them seriously or not. It happens more than you would ever imagine.

  So I’ve decided not to talk about names before the birth of this child. No matter what, I’ve realized, someone is going to hate the name I choose. But it’s harder for people to scoff at a baby name once there’s a real live baby attached to it. That would just be rude. It would be like someone telling me, “I hate the name Rebecca.” It just doesn’t happen.

  JUNE 12

  11:00 a.m.

  Speaking on the phone with Vivian this morning, I casually mentioned to her that none of my friends have been calling to ask how I’m feeling. I told her it was starting to bother me, because I figured she’d understand. Maybe it was happening to her too?

  “I noticed that a long time ago. But I don’t let it bother me. You have to understand that people’s lives don’t change just because yours has changed drastically. Everyone always worries about their own problems first. You could call them, you know, and tell them how you’re feeling. You shouldn’t wait for them to call you. Do you call them to ask how they’re feeling?”

  “I see your point. But I’m the one who is pregnant.”

  “You can’t let it bother you. Just because they don’t ask doesn’t mean they don’t care. Talk to them about it.”

  I could never.

  Noon

  Call from Heather.

  “So how are you feeling?”

  “Um, okay. What’s new?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just calling to see how you are.”

  1:00 p.m.

  Call from Shannon.

  “So how are you feeling? I’m sorry I haven’t called recently. I’ve been super busy at work. So how are you?”

  1:45 p.m.

  Call from Marci, whom I haven’t spoken to in a long time. “So how are you feeling?”

  Gaa!!! I’m going to kill Vivian. I really am.

  JUNE 16

  I knew Us Weekly magazine would be more useful than any pregnancy book on the market. I just bought the latest issue and . . . Kate Hudson is pregnant! I’m so excited. It’s so much better when you live your life alongside a celebrity’s. It makes what you’re going through all the more relevant. Plus, Hudson is only twenty-four years old. If a twenty-four-year-old can have a baby and be confident about it, so can thirty-year-old me, right? Right?

  Then, coincidentally, just hours later, the fiancé called with a brilliant name for a boy.

  “How about Hopper?” he asked. “Sean Penn named his son Hopper, and I really like it.”

  “Hopper? I love it! I absolutely love it! Wait . . . how did you know Sean and Robin named their child Hopper?”

  “Oh, you left one of your old Us Weeklys lying around here. I was bored and was flipping through it.”

  The cover price of the magazine was definitely worth it, much cheaper than the relationship counseling we were headed for over the naming of this child.

  “By the way, I found you a baby doctor here. You should call and get an appointment for when you’re here in two weeks. I’ll e-mail you the number.”

  “Perfect.”

  Everything is working out. We have chosen a boy’s name, a huge relief. Unfortunately, I just feel—and this is just a feeling—that this baby is a girl. Maybe my body is finally talking to me. Joanne, the gym trainer who told me to “listen to your body,” would be so proud.

  JUNE 17

  Under no circumstances can I talk about breastfeeding with another human being. I got in a huge fight with Lena about breastfeeding. I had casually mentioned that I wasn’t sure I was going to breastfeed.

  “What?! You have to breastfeed. You absolutely must.”

  I completely understand why women want to breastfeed. But I’m not absolutely convinced it’s absolutely necessary. I know that if you breastfeed you basically have to be near your baby every three hours for months on end. Or you can pump, which seems to me excruciatingly painful and so not natural for something that is supposed to be so natural. I just think that if you bottlefeed from the start, then anyone can hold the bottle at any time, day or night. A bottle equals freedom. I had no idea Lena had such strong opinions about breastfeeding. The things you find out about your friends when you’re pregnant.

  “You have to breastfeed at least for the first little while. It’s so much better for the baby. It really is so much healthier.”

  “Lena, you’ve never even been pregnant. How do you know that?”

  “I just do. I’ve read a lot about it and have tons of friends who have had babies.” This was beginning to sound like a lecture. I was getting annoyed. Who was she to lecture me about my baby and my breasts?

  “Tons of studies have shown that the nutrients from breastmilk are much better for the baby than formula. Not to mention the bonding that takes place between mother and child during that time.”

  “Lena! My mother never breastfed and I think my brothers and I turned out fine. In fact, almost none of my friends’ mothers breastfed them and they all seemed to turn out okay.” I didn’t want to tell her that I’ve seen what has happened to Ronnie’s breasts over the past few years, having breastfed three kids. She used to have large, beautiful breasts. Now they’re the size of small tomatoes. I didn’t want Lena to think I wasn’t going to breastfeed because of vanity, however true that may be. It was all I could do to not yell at Lena, “When you get pregnant, you can do what you want. This is my baby, and I’ll make my own decision.”

  “Okay, let’s not talk about this,” Lena said. I can’t believe we fought over breastfeeding, of all things. We almost never fight.

  Of course, I have heard that women who breastfeed lose weight a lot faster than women who don’t, which is definitely something to think about.

  JUNE 20

  Total depression. I’m working harder than ever, just to prove I’m still a hard worker, and no one at the paper seems to appreciate my efforts. Sexy Young Intern has also been putting out copy with a vengeance. For every story I write about being in a serious relationship or being pregnant (“Why Renovating Your House Can Lead to Divorce,” “Married Couples Who Choose to Live Apart,” “Why Even Celebrities Are Eating Fast Food These Days”), Sexy Young Intern writes about, well, being a Sexy Young Intern (“Speed-Dating,” “Best Pick-up Lines,” “Coolest Bar Patios,” “Nifty Summer Beverages”). I feel guilty wanting to be her. Sometimes the feeling is overwhelming.

  None of my friends called me tonight to go out because, I’m sure, they’re all going to bars, and I don’t like going to bars anymore because pregnant women do look strange in bars. It’s humiliating. As a pregnant woman you feel you are a downer for all the people trying to enjoy themselves in a bar, trying to pick up the opposite sex. People don’t want to sit beside you if they’re smokers because they feel guilty about blowing smoke in your pregnant, bloated face. They don’t want to get plastered with you because they know you’re only drinking water and that makes them feel l
ike lushes. Even my pregnant friends haven’t called. They all have husbands they can hang out with. My fiancé called and told me he is going out to a bar with his friends, too. Why wouldn’t he? So I called Cute Single Man to ask if he wanted to come over and play Scrabble with me tonight. (Pregnant women can play Scrabble.) He did. He seems to be on call for me. Immediately, I felt better. I’m so grateful that someone still wants to spend time with me, I thought about kissing the guy. I wonder if he is a good kisser.

  REASONS TO PURSUE FRIENDSHIP

  WITH CUTE SINGLE MAN

  We have common interests: reality television, movies, Scrabble, Starbucks iced lattes.

  He calls me, asks how I’m doing, and seems to be interested in hearing the answer. He seems to want to know everything about my pregnancy.

  He makes me laugh.

  It’s not every day a Cute Single Man would be interested in a pregnant, engaged woman.

  He doesn’t seem to care about my “baggage,” a.k.a. being pregnant, which makes me feel like a normal person.

  He doesn’t seem to care how fat I get.

  He does stuff for me.

  Once I move in with the fiancé and have the baby, how many other Cute Single Man friends will I ever have again?

  Why not be friends?

  REASONS TO NOT PURSUE FRIENDSHIP

  WITH CUTE SINGLE MAN

  It’s a little (or a lot) weird that a Cute Single Man wants to hang around a pregnant, engaged woman. What is wrong with him? (Deep, dark, weird obsession or something?)

  The fiancé would not like it.

  I would kill the fiancé if he had an equivalent female friend.

  What if he ends up wanting to pursue more than a friendship?

  What if I end up wanting to pursue more than a friendship?

  It is not normal.

  JUNE 22

  I thought I was depressed yesterday. Today the depression continues in full force. I got in a fight with Ronnie today. I never fight with Ronnie. She’s too good a person to fight with. She had asked me a simple question about something and I snapped back, “I just don’t know. Listen, I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “I can’t deal with you,” she snapped back. That was when it hit me. I was being a bitch to my best friend, the one friend who has been so helpful every time I’ve needed her.

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I woke up today and my face is fat!” I started bawling. “I didn’t even recognize myself.”

  While I was washing my face this morning, I noticed it was . . . puffy. My cheeks looked round and swollen, as though I had just had my wisdom teeth removed. I used to have cheekbones. I know I used to have cheekbones. I remember having cheekbones. Now my face was like a panda bear’s, but definitely not as cute.

  “It’s okay, Beck. Don’t worry. I remember when that happened to me. It’s just water retention. It goes down during the day. Are you eating a lot of salty things? Because that sometimes does it.”

  “I’m so ugly.”

  “You’re not ugly. Trust me. I know exactly how you feel. Once, near the end of my pregnancy, I was meeting a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. I got to the restaurant before her and was waiting at the table. I saw her come in. And you know what she did?”

  “No. What?”

  “She walked right by me. I had gained so much weight that she didn’t even recognize me! I was so big, my ankles looked like tree trunks. No joke. I couldn’t even do up my shoelaces. I was wearing Velcro by the end of my pregnancy.”

  I started to laugh.

  “Really. And I lost all the weight. I lost sixty-seven pounds. You only have another couple of months to go.”

  “No, I have FOUR more months to go. That’s a long time.”

  “It will go by quickly. I promise.”

  “Ronnie? I’m so sorry I snapped at you. I’m just in shock.”

  “Don’t worry. I forgive you. I basically yelled at everyone when I was pregnant.”

  “I’m going to find out the sex tomorrow,” I told her, trying to change the subject.

  “What’s your feeling?”

  “I think it’s a girl. I just feel it’s a girl. But what do I know?”

  JUNE 23

  It’s a girl! It’s a girl! I’m having a girl! I was right. Maybe my maternal instinct is kicking in. I just came back from my ultrasound appointment. I can’t believe I was right, though there was a 50-50 chance I would be. The odds were good.

  “Do you want to find out the sex?” the technician asked.

  That was the only reason I was there, but I didn’t want the technician to think I didn’t care about whether my baby was healthy or not.

  “Sure,” I answered, all breezy-like, as if I was leaving a phone message for a guy I had a crush on. Or at least I tried to sound breezy. But I was impatient, and it’s hard to sound breezy when you’re impatient.

  “So, do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

  “First I’m checking to see if the spine and heartbeat and all the other measurements are okay. Your baby is very photogenic.”

  “Really?” Ah, my first feeling of mother-pride! “What do you mean?” Could my baby be pretty enough to be a model? Maybe, one day, this child will not get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day and will be able to support its mother in her retirement.

  “Well, I can see everything very clearly. Your baby just yawned.”

  “It’s yawning?” Dear God, is it possible the child is already not a morning person? I wouldn’t mind a baby who liked to sleep in.

  “Now I’m going to look to see if I can find out the sex for you.”

  Please, dear baby, open your legs today. Open your legs for Mommy. (That will absolutely be the last time I ever use that phrase.)

  “It looks like you’re having a girl! I would say 98 percent you are having a girl. I can look up and see the opening between the legs and there is no penis.”

  I was ecstatic. Unofficially, I really had wanted a girl, aside from the times I had wanted a boy. I grew up with three brothers—one who once tried to shove me in the dryer, another who tried to shove my head in the toilet, and a third who once threw me down on the concrete sidewalk so hard that I had an egg-shaped bump on my forehead for a week. There goes the brilliant name Hopper. But the fiancé and I can now officially start thinking of girls’ names. I’m closer to Apple than ever before.

  “Hey! It’s a girl! It’s a girl!” I cried into my phone to the fiancé.

  “Really? I knew it. I knew it!”

  “Me too! Me too! I knew it too!”

  “You did?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to think I cared whether it was a girl or boy. And I didn’t care. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I didn’t know if you cared one way or the other. So, are you super happy?”

  “Yes. Just thinking about a cute little you running around with a ponytail. Plus now I don’t have to get up for early-morning hockey practices.”

  “Unless we have a girl who likes to play hockey.”

  “Then you have to go.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  We’ll see about that.

  The fiancé sent me flowers to congratulate me. They were very pretty and I officially love him even more now.

  And I now officially waddle, which is not so pretty.

  JUNE 28

  10:20 a.m.

  Now I officially don’t have hipbones either. I know I used to have hipbones jutting out of my sides. If I dig my fingers deep into the fat, I can still feel the bones w-a-a-a-y down there. But I have bigger worries. Our Last Vacation Ever is fast approaching. In less than a week, I’m going to see the fiancé, before we head off together for Our Last Vacation Ever. I haven’t seen him since my birthday, six weeks ago. I’ve warned him to hide any look of shock, disappointment, or disgust upon seeing me
. But I am even more worried about bathing-suit shopping, which I have to do for Our Last Vacation Ever. I can’t spend two weeks in Hawaii without getting into a bathing suit at some point. I have to go bathing-suit shopping, and I have to get it over with, immediately if not sooner. Maybe it won’t be that bad?

  12:30 p.m.

  Well, that was as expected: awful, awful, awful. On a non-pregnant, skinny day, bathing-suit shopping is painful for almost all women. In fact, I’ve never had an enjoyable bathing-suit shopping experience. The lighting is always way too bright. (Really, why can’t they have the same lighting they have in bars—purposely dark, to hide our flaws?) There are always too many three-way mirrors (because one three-way mirror is one too many three-way mirrors). How can you possibly enjoy looking at yourself in a bathing suit, even the most flattering of bathing suits, when you can see parts of your body you don’t, fortunately, see at home? I think shopping for a bathing suit almost six months pregnant is going to lead me to six months of therapy. What I saw was not good, not good at all.

  “So can I buy normal bathing suits, just in larger sizes?” I asked the salesclerk immediately upon walking in. I haven’t, for a long time, needed to explain that I was pregnant. The bulging belly is there, in full bloom, for the world to see.

  “Oh yes. I’ve had four pregnant women come in already today. They all bought bikinis.”

  Cool. I am a bikini type of girl.

  “And your stomach will look so much better with a tan,” she continued. Bonus.

  I grabbed a few off the racks—size 12 and they still looked small!—and went into a changing room.