Knocked Up

by Rebecca Eckler

  What I saw would scare anyone. Whose ass was that? That most certainly was not my ass. It couldn’t be. It looked lumpy and wrinkly, like cottage cheese. GAAA! That must be cellulite. I now have fat on my back. How is it possible to get back fat? Who knows? But I have it. Maybe a beach vacation was a mistake. Maybe we should have gone on an arctic cruise or something.

  I bought three bikinis, which weren’t exactly flattering (I was past the point of hoping for flattering), but at least they covered what needed to be covered. My stomach, hard and round, was now the best-looking part of me.

  “Did you find what you needed?” asked one of the employees.

  “Sort of. I think I need accessories too.”

  “What kind of accessories?”

  “I need accessories to cover my cottage-cheese butt,” I said. “I need a couple of skirts or something.”

  Six hundred dollars spent on bikinis and accessories to cover up my ass in those bikinis, which I will wear on this vacation only. I must remember to always walk behind the fiancé on Our Last Vacation Ever so he can’t see my wrinkly, old man’s butt.

  4:00 p.m.

  A married male writer friend, also the father of an eight-year-old son, called me to check in. He asked what I had been up to, so I told him about my horrific bathing-suit shopping experience.

  “Wait. You bought bikinis?” he asked with such scorn you’d think I’d just told him I had been out buying crack cocaine.

  “Yes. Why? What’s wrong with that?”

  “You can’t wear bikinis now. You’re going to be a mother ! You have to be modest now.”

  “What? Because I’m pregnant I can’t wear bikinis? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Have we not learned anything since Demi Moore posed pregnant and nude on the cover of Vanity Fair more than a decade ago? When did all my friends turn so conservative on me?

  “What do you want me to wear? A bathrobe to the beach?”

  “You should be covering up more.”

  “I don’t tell you how to parent,” I told my friend. “So don’t tell me what I can or can’t wear on the beach.”

  God, why does everyone have to have an opinion on every pregnant move I make? Even the fiancé is feeling it.

  “It’s like everyone who has a kid thinks they are experts on parenting,” he said. “I went to university, but that doesn’t mean I’m an expert on all universities.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t talk about breastfeeding or baby names to anyone ever again. Because everyone has an opinion they can’t wait for me to hear.”

  “Yeah, well, we just have to remember—”

  “I know, I know. We just have to remember—”

  “How rewarding this will be,” we finished in unison.

  JUNE 29

  7:00 a.m.

  As if bathing-suit shopping wasn’t enough to drive me to therapy, the fight I got into with the fiancé last night certainly will. I think we have broken up. I have never been so angry with another human being—certainly not with him—ever. How can I possibly forgive him for what he has done to me?

  The fiancé has decided to go on a diet. Now, of all times. I called him yesterday, early evening, post cellulite-and-back-fat discovery, when my self-esteem was already at an all-time low.

  “I’m buying nuts and seeds,” he told me.

  “Nuts and seeds? Why? Did you take up birding and forget to tell me?”

  “No, they’re for me. I went to see a nutritionist, after my workout with my new trainer. I’m serious this time about losing weight.”

  Gaaa!

  “You can’t be serious,” I told him. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  “What? Don’t you want me to be healthy and fit? I don’t want to have a heart attack when I’m forty. I want to be around you for a long time. Don’t you want me to be around for a long time?”

  “Yes, but I’ve been supportive of you losing weight for five years and you haven’t. Why now, of all times, do you have to go diehard about dieting? I already feel awful enough not being able to control how much weight I’m gaining. And now— now—you decide to go on a diet?” That really had come out more bitchy than I’d anticipated.

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “What do I want you to do? What do I want you to do?” I said, mocking him. “I want you to gain weight with me!” That sounded ridiculous even to my own crazy ears. But it was true. Why does he have to start looking good now, when I’m looking like utter crap? Why couldn’t he wait for me to lose weight with him? Why is he trying to impress some nutritionist he just met, when he’s never taken my advice about giving up beer and white bread? Is he in love with this nutritionist? I’ve heard of men who gained sympathy weight when their wives were pregnant. Clearly, my fiancé was not one of those men.

  In any case, the fiancé didn’t like me mocking him and it went downhill from there. I started screaming that he was in love with his nutritionist and that if he was buying nuts and seeds because of her, he might as well move in with her and marry her and have a baby with her. Then he accused me of being selfish and yelled, “You’re always complaining about how fat you’re getting, but you’re not doing anything about it. You’ve stopped going to the gym. So stop complaining about how fat you’re getting if you’re just going to go out and eat McDonald’s four times a week,” to which I responded that he had no idea how it felt to be pregnant and hungry all the time and not to be able to work out comfortably, and I finished my rant by telling him that he should go to hell. He hung up on me at that point, and I called him back to say, “Don’t you hang up on me!” before I hung up on him. Then he called me back and told me I had put him in a miserable mood and he hung up on me for a second time. I’m going to be a single mother. This argument never would have happened if I wasn’t pregnant.

  10:00 a.m.

  Waiting for a groveling call from the fiancé, apologizing to me for deciding to lose weight and get “fit and healthy” now of all times. The nerve.

  11:00 a.m.

  Still waiting. What kind of man buys nuts and seeds anyway? If I had known he was a nuts and seeds type of guy, I never would have started dating him in the first place.

  Noon

  I can’t believe he’s not calling. I’m pregnant! Shouldn’t he at least be a little worried about me?

  1:00 p.m.

  Turning off all my phones so I won’t know whether he calls and also so he’ll think that I’m ignoring him, rather than him ignoring me. Two can play at this game. Plus, since he’s been eating only “nuts and seeds,” he can’t possibly be thinking clearly at this point. He has to call eventually.

  4:00 p.m.

  Ha ha! Just checked my messages. There were three from the fiancé begging me to call, saying that he was getting worried. He’s sorry, he said, and he promised not to talk about nuts and seeds ever again. I’m going to wait until seven o’clock to call him. I can’t have him thinking I forgive him that easily.

  “And you’ll be happy to know,” he finished his last message, “that I’m going to eat a double cheese-burger for dinner tonight.”

  Good. He’d better order fries with that.

  JUNE 30

  Met Vivian today for a coffee. She is one of those pregnant women who really has still gained weight only in her stomach. Her arms and legs are still Q-tip skinny. She told me that she and her husband have started taking classes at the hospital to prepare for the birth of their child. They are taking a parenting class and a birthing class.

  “So what are you learning?” I asked, because, while I am too lazy to actually attend a class, I’m not one for turning down free information. It’s kind of like asking a friend for class notes after skipping a class—or a month of classes—in university.

  “Last time we learned what the different colors of newborn poop mean,” she said.

  “Oh. That sounds . . . informative.” I was grateful I wasn’t the one who had paid to join that class. I mean, really. The baby i
s going to poop. Is it really that important what color it is?

  “We also learned different rocking techniques to use when the baby cries.”

  “Really? I always thought that when the baby won’t shut up, you try everything until it does, including all possible rocking methods.”

  “Yeah, that’s basically what they told us to do.”

  See? I knew I didn’t need to take a class.

  JULY 1

  I’m now visiting the fiancé at his place. The airport pickup went smoothly—partly because he had been warned dozens upon dozens of times not to look at me with disgust, and partly because before he could even kiss me hello I said, “I know I look bigger, so don’t try to convince me otherwise. But this is not permanent. I promise.” I suppose that because I had led him to believe that I had gained two hundred pounds, seeing me twenty-something pounds heavier was a relief. “You don’t look that bad,” he said. “Really, I was expecting so much worse.” Still, I made him walk in front of me with my suitcase. I’m not ready for him to see me from behind—even with clothes on—just yet.

  “Do you think I can get away with wearing your baggy T-shirts and a pair of sweats the entire vacation?” I asked him.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Okay, good. Because that’s what I’m planning on wearing, since barely anything from last summer fits.”

  I now understand why some people suggest you hide away all your pre-pregnancy clothes as soon as you know you are pregnant. Some things are best forgotten about. Like losing your virginity. It’s better to repress memories that aren’t as fond as they are supposed to be.

  JULY 3

  The fiancé was at work all day today, so I spent my day doing what I always do when he’s working and I’m staying with him: I called Lena for a long chat. I’ve given up on her asking how I’m feeling, because I realize it’s just not her style. The less you expect of other people, the easier it is. Instead, I’ve decided to take a new approach. I’m just going to jump in and talk about myself once in a while.

  “Lena. You don’t understand. Last night we were watching television and I went to crawl up on his lap, like I always do when we watch TV together. And you know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘OW!’ He actually said, ‘OW!’ I really hurt him when I climbed on him! That’s how heavy I’m getting.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. I can’t get used to this body. I won’t even let him see or feel me naked. I fear he won’t be attracted to me and won’t be able to get it up, and that will make me feel even worse! Can I go until October not having sex with my fiancé? Maybe I can tell him the doctor told me ‘no sex.’”

  “Don’t forget you can’t have sex for at least a month after giving birth.”

  “Thanks for reminding me, Lena. What am I going to do?”

  “Some men find pregnant women very sexy. There’s a ton of porn websites about pregnant women. Maybe he finds you sexier than ever?”

  “Okay, I’m not sure how you even know about those websites and I’m not going to ask. But I don’t think he finds me super sexy. He doesn’t make any passes at me in the bedroom, either.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He loves you. Which means he loves you just as you are. He knows you’re pregnant and that your body had to change. If anything, he probably thought you were too skinny before. And he’s a guy! He will want sex no matter what.”

  Maybe Lena is right. Maybe I could still have sex with my fiancé.

  “You are going to lose all the weight,” she continued. “And if it’s harder than you think, you’ll just have to take drastic measures.”

  “What? You mean liposuction?”

  “No, you’ll have to get him to send you to a fat farm for a couple weeks.”

  Oh. Right.

  JULY 4

  The fiancé and I stopped at the drugstore today to get some supplies. Driving home, the fiancé caught me tearing up.

  “What now? What’s wrong?”

  “The song.”

  “The song on the radio? What about it?”

  “It’s just . . . it’s just so sad.”

  “Phil Collins? I didn’t even know you liked Phil Collins.”

  “Me neither. But it’s so sad.”

  “You’re not going to be like this on our vacation, are you?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.” At least I wasn’t crying over long-distance TV commercials.

  “Good. Because it’s—”

  “I know,” I said, cutting him off, “Our Last Vacation Ever.”

  Later, we both made a horrible mistake. We were bumming at his place, flipping channels, just as a birth show was about to start on one of those women’s networks.

  “Hey, have you seen one of these shows before?” I asked him.

  “No. Have you?”

  “No. Maybe we should watch it. They’re supposed to make you feel all warm and fuzzy about having a baby. Maybe it will be good for us? Maybe it will make us feel all warm and fuzzy. Maybe we’ll finally understand how ‘rewarding’ this will be.”

  Maybe not. Definitely not. We lasted exactly four and a half minutes before we had to turn off the TV. We didn’t even witness a woman giving birth. All we saw was the obstetrician stick his hand up a woman to see if she was dilating. We didn’t see anything but the outside of this woman’s thighs. She wasn’t even naked. She was wearing a hospital gown that covered all her private parts.

  “I can’t watch this,” I told the fiancé, which was weird. I have had many Pap smears done. Getting a Pap smear is no trip to Disneyland, but it’s not usually mortifying. But watching someone else have a doctor stick his hand up her—even if we couldn’t really see anything—made both of us super queasy.

  “I can’t watch this either. Please, let’s turn it off,” the fiancé begged.

  I looked over at him. He looked pale. I’m not sure how any woman can be addicted to shows like these, though I know there are lots who are. I don’t think the fiancé will be able to last during delivery. I don’t think I will be able to last during delivery, and that’s a really big problem.

  JULY 6

  In bed last night, I asked the fiancé about something that’s been bothering me ever since I arrived.

  “Is your bed smaller, or is it just me?” The fiancé has always had the most comfortable, huge, king-size bed. I used to look forward to crashing in it. But suddenly I was claustrophobic lying there. He seemed so close. And I seemed to be tossing and turning more.

  “Maybe you’re just bigger so it seems smaller,” he suggested.

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  JULY 7

  The fiancé drove me this morning to see an obstetrician in his city. We haven’t fully decided where I will give birth yet, but I have decided that I can’t give birth vaginally. I have been having panic attacks about once a week where I wake up with a start and have a hard time breathing when I think about going through labor. The thought of a baby coming out from Down There terrifies me. How can a baby possibly come out from Down There? This is not the eighteenth century. I’m not a farm woman who has to give birth on a wooden table. I’m a modern career woman who barely has time to schedule a manicure.

  I had already asked Dr. G. if he does scheduled C-sections. I once read an article about celebrities and powerful New York career women who are “too posh to push” and who book C-sections like they book dentist appointments. It sounded ideal to me. You know exactly when you are going to give birth—“Next Tuesday? Sorry. I can’t meet you for lunch. I’m having a baby. What about Wednesday?”—and there would be no fear of having your water break in public, no possibility of a long, painful labor, no post-birth hemorrhoids, and no worry about the fiancé seeing me in the most humiliating position ever (legs spread wide, sweat pouring off my face, me swearing like a sailor). I’ve also heard that C-section babies come out looking prettier, without the dent
ed heads common to babies who come out from Down There. I want my baby to come out pretty.

  “No, you can’t schedule a C-section. We don’t do that,” Dr. G. told me. “Maybe in Brazil they do that, but not here.” Damn.

  I had lies prepared for this obstetrician, Dr. Bono. I call him that because his accent reminds me of Bono from U2.

  Dr. Bono is very different from Dr. G. He’s about fifteen years younger, and he wasn’t dressed in scrubs, like Dr. G. always is. He was dressed in black slacks and a slick dress shirt, and he had a full head of curly hair with product in it. He looked like a wannabe movie star. I am weirdly attracted to him. He’s a hot doc. Of course, it could be my pregnant hormones.

  “I was wondering if Dr. B. does planned C-SECTIONS?” I asked the nurse. “I’m having awful panic attacks about giving birth. I don’t think I can do it. I really am that scared. I wake up crying every night because I’m so worried about giving birth.” I had to test drive my lies/lines on someone.

  “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask him. But maybe you should think about taking a birthing class so you’ll know what to expect,” the nurse suggested. “That might make the experience easier.”

  “I suppose I could do that,” I told her, though I knew that was never going to happen. I know enough to know I’d rather not know anything.

  “Dr. B. will be right in,” she said, leaving the room.

  Be a good actress, I told myself. You can be a good actress.

  Dr. B. entered the room and I launched into my prepared speech with a flourish.

  “Listen. I’m going to tell you right off the bat that I can’t give birth. There’s no way. I wake up every night with panic attacks. I can barely breathe and I can’t sleep anymore because I am so worried about giving birth. I know I can’t do it, and I will do anything if you could please schedule me a C-section. I will even think about naming my child after you—that’s how serious I am about not being able to give birth vaginally,” I spewed out, blinking my eyes rapidly as if I was trying to hold back tears. And the Oscar goes to . . .

  “Sure, I can do that. No problem,” said Dr. B. in his Bono-esque accent.

  What? Excuse me?