I noticed one or two envious looks directed my way. They certainly weren’t inspired by my outfit (men’s track pants, free promotional T-shirt for a coffee company) or by the size of my ass (colossal). The looks were directed at my new Prada bag. (Thanks for noticing!) When you are pregnant and you can’t dress the way you like, the only thing you have left is to accessorize. It’s okay to make yourself feel better by spending a ton of money on things you know you won’t grow out of. And I now have a funky handbag to go with my funky mood and with the bags I already have— under my eyes.
As I was leaving, my phone rang.
“So how was the appointment?”
“It was good.”
“So baby is good?”
“Yep.”
“You’re good?”
“I’m good. All is good.”
“That’s great. You rock!” said Cute Single Man, who had called before the fiancé.
It’s just so wrong. He is not the father of this child, so why is he acting like the father? Why am I letting him act like the father? Maybe I need therapy.
AUGUST 8
I knew it. All my friends now want to be pregnant, even my “fun” friends.
“I just don’t know when it’s ever going to happen for me,” Heather moans over the phone. “Charlie and I have been fighting like cats and dogs. I don’t know if we have a future together.”
“You have lots and lots of time to have a baby,” I tell her. I didn’t think someone as put-together as Heather ever worried about getting pregnant.
“But I want to be a young mother like you!”
“Trust me, it will happen.”
“What if it doesn’t work out with Charlie? What if nobody ever wants to have a baby with me?”
“Someone is going to want to have a baby with you. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Okay, if I get pregnant within a year,” Heather continues, “then our babies will basically be the same age, right?”
“Right.”
“Then maybe by the time I get pregnant, you’ll be on your second child and we can be pregnant together,” she tells me. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
Gaa!
“Let me get through this one first before we have me being pregnant again,” I tell her, laughing.
Call me an evil person, but I’m going to hold off telling her how awful being pregnant is and let her envy me just a little bit longer. I know this feeling won’t last. I’d better enjoy it while I can.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go,” Heather tells me. “This magazine asked me to do a photo shoot and the stylist wants to meet me to dress me in some fabulous, slinky dress that I could never afford. They may even let me keep it. And then I have to go meet Charlie for drinks at this new bar downtown.”
See? I knew the feeling wouldn’t last.
AUGUST 9
Why am I so worried about giving birth? There are nearly six billion people in this world, and we each came out of a woman’s body somehow. If six billion women can have a baby come out of them, so can I. But what if I’m the one pregnant woman who can’t?
AUGUST 10
10:00 a.m.
Fuck! I forgot to buy Vivian a baby gift for her shower this afternoon. Could I use the pregnancy card—“Sorry! Didn’t get you a gift because I’ve been too tired to leave the house”—or would that be rude? Of course that would be rude. What am I thinking?
Pregnancy can get you out of almost anything. It’s come in handy when I visit my parents and want to leave immediately after dinner. It’s gotten me out of work assignments that I don’t find interesting. It’s excused me when bailing out of plans, at the last minute even, when I realize I’m really not in the mood to go out. Pregnancy, if used correctly, is kind of like a Get Out of Jail Free card. But nothing excuses showing up giftless for your good friend’s baby shower, especially pregnancy. It is pregnancy we’re celebrating, after all.
1:00 p.m.
After dropping by a fancy kids’ clothing store near my house and seeing that it was closed Sundays (don’t they realize that baby showers usually occur Sunday afternoons and that there are a lot of people out there, like me, who leave buying gifts to the very last minute?), I race over to a nearby spa, which I’ve frequented and where I remember seeing Baby Spa items for sale. I purchase baby lotions, baby shampoos and conditioners, and fancy baby oils. I also pick up some pretty-smelling lotions for Vivian. Just because the shower is technically for her baby doesn’t mean Vivian shouldn’t receive gifts for herself. I mean, what has the baby done really, except be conceived? It’s we pregnant women who have to do all the work. We not only deserve presents, we deserve medals.
4:45 p.m.
“Hi, I’m Stella. Welcome to my home. Come in! Everyone is out back. We were starting to worry that you guys had gotten lost, even though I had put the exact directions on the invite.”
It is Shannon’s fault we are late. She’s never on time, even though I warned her it would be in bad form to show up late to a baby shower. Everyone else has already arrived. Apparently, baby showers are like weddings and funerals. If it’s called for four o’clock, you are supposed to arrive at four o’clock.
“I think I remember meeting you about a year and a half ago,” Stella says to me, as we walk through her kitchen. “We met at one of Vivian’s Christmas parties, but I was very pregnant when we first met, so I’m not sure if you recognize me now. I remember thinking when we were introduced that you were so skinny. And now look at you! Now I’m skinny and you’re big!” she continues, giving a little twirl to show off her toned, nearly anorexic body. “I lost all my weight plus another ten pounds. Can you believe I have two kids? You are really big. You sure you’re not having twins?” she laughs. Ha ha. So funny. This party has started out fabulously.
“Hey, is there chocolate cake anywhere?” is the only response I can think of, aside from slapping skinny Stella on one of her bony cheekbones.
5:00 p.m.
It became clear as soon as I joined the gathering in Stella’s backyard that there is a great divide between Vivian’s friends. Half of the guests at her shower are parents, the other half non-parents. The parents stuck together, talking in small circles. The non-parents stuck to themselves as well. I didn’t know any of the parents at the gathering.
At first I hung out with Lena, Shannon, Heather, and Marci—my non-mother friends. But then I started talking with some of the parents, who all asked me questions about my pregnancy, dishing out advice on how to get through the next couple of months. I am actually interested in what they had to say, even about their kids. What is happening to me? I’m not worried about boring these people with my pregnancy woes. It seems that once you’ve been pregnant, the topic of pregnancy never becomes boring. And once you have kids, talking about them never becomes boring either.
Heather, Shannon, Marci, and Lena are not getting the same kind of attention that I am. It feels kind of nice. I mean, you can’t moan and make fun of heartburn and back fat unless you’ve been through it or are going through it. Unless you are or have been pregnant, you can’t possibly understand what it’s like. And you shouldn’t even pretend to.
5:30 p.m.
“Oooohhh, that’s so cute! Check out the little suspenders on those pants. Ahhh, I love it. I want that outfit for myself. Ooohhh, did you see the little ears on that stuffed rabbit? That is soooo adorable. I can’t get over how cute that stuffed animal is. Ahhh.”
Gaa! Did that really come out of my mouth?
5:32 p.m.
“Ooohhh, look at those little running shoes. Could they be any cuter?” Eeek! Was that me again?
5:33 p.m.
“Vivian, open that present, over there, the one with the ‘It’s a Boy’ ribbon on it. Is that what I think it is? No, it couldn’t be. Oh, it is! It’s a Winnie-the-Pooh doll! I love Winnie-the-Pooh. He’s sooo cute . . . Oooohhh.”
Ahh!!! It is me. Seriously, what is happening to me? I can’t stop oohing and ahhing. I am a woman p
ossessed.
6:30 p.m.
That was a fantastic shower. I wanted to stay longer, but Shannon wanted to leave. She had a date with her on-again-off-again boyfriend. It didn’t matter. My voice was getting hoarse anyway, what with all the oohhing and ahhing. Vivian also received a Louis Vuitton diaper bag as a gift, which was much better than my Baby Spa items. How can you compete with a $1,400 Louis Vuitton diaper bag? I clearly need a friend who works at Louis Vuitton.
AUGUST 11
This pregnancy thing is hopeless. I can’t cross my legs anymore when I sit down. I have to sit as though I was raised by wolves in a forest. My legs can’t shut because my big belly gets in the way. I’m like a football player sitting on a bench. What next? Will I start spitting out tobacco?
AUGUST 12
I met Heather for an early dinner tonight, in an attempt to not hide from my old life.
“I’m sorry I’m late! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I yell out, racing into the restaurant, where Heather is waiting by the bar, nursing a beer. “I made the mistake of walking here and I have no concept of just how slow I walk these days.”
“You’re twenty minutes late! I was about to leave.”
“Sorry! I’ll pay for dinner. I swear, walking around with all this extra weight really slows me down. A blind man with a cane sped past me. That’s how slow I’m walking these days.”
“Well, you’re here now. Do you want a drink? Oh, sorry, I guess you can’t have an alcoholic drink, though I don’t think one glass of wine will hurt you.”
“No, I’m not going there. I still have caffeine and we’re at a sushi restaurant. I can at least do one thing right for this baby. I’ll have a Perrier. Can you believe the person I am now? I’m a former party girl on Perrier,” I moan.
“You don’t mind if I have another though, do you?” Heather asks, turning to the bartender to put in her order before I can answer. “I’m still a party girl,” she says.
Heather is a party girl on a diet, which is why she wanted to go out for sushi. She’s only eating sashimi these days, for the protein-no-carbs thing. It’s a gloriously warm evening. We move to the patio behind the restaurant. Is it just because I’m pregnant, I think as we walk through the restaurant, or is every woman here super skinny?
“You’re looking so good,” I tell Heather as we sit down. She is. I have never seen Heather look slimmer. “And I’m getting fatter and fatter,” I lament.
“Well, you are pregnant,” she says. “That is what happens when you get pregnant. I wish I could have a picture of us together. This is the first time ever that you are actually bigger than me. I need proof that this is happening.”
Why, oh why, did I ever agree to go out for dinner with Heather? “Don’t worry,” Heather says. “The weight will come off eventually.”
“Yeah, I’m giving myself two months after I give birth to lose all the weight I’ve gained,” I tell her.
“Two months? Are you crazy? You know what they say, don’t you? The general rule is nine months to pack the pounds on, nine months to get the pounds off.”
“No, I can’t have all this extra weight on for nine months. I’m giving myself two months and that’s it.”
“Not going to happen,” Heather says, singsonglike.
“It is too. Wanna bet?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Let’s make a bet. I bet that I will get back down to my pre-pregnancy weight by, let’s say, December 31st. That will be two and a half months after the baby is born. Is that fair?”
“You’re on. What should we bet? Dinner?”
“Dinner? No way,” I scoff. “Dinner won’t motivate me. I can afford to pay for my own dinner. We have to bet bigger than that. How about $250? Cash.”
“Okay, $250 that you can’t lose all that weight by New Year’s.”
“Are you willing to go higher? Like, let’s say, $500?”
“Yes. Let’s do $500.”
I’ve given up alcohol. Apparently gambling’s now my vice of choice.
“Okay. You’re on. That will get me motivated for sure to lose the weight,” I tell her.
“Hmmm,” says Heather. “Whatever will I do with that easy extra $500 I will make off you?”
“Hey, Heather. Do you have any cigarettes on you?”
“Yeah, I have a couple. Why? Do you want one?”
“Yeah. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“No. My mother smoked all during her pregnancy with me, and I’ve turned out just fine.” I still have my secret stash of cigarettes hidden under my couch cushion. But, for fear of being stoned, I would never dare bring a pack of cigarettes out in public.
“Okay, but do I look pregnant right now?” I ask, moving my chair as close to the table as I can, trying to hide my big, pregnant belly underneath the tabletop.
“No, you can’t tell you’re pregnant when you push yourself under the table like that. You just look like you have really big breasts.”
She hands me a cigarette and lights a match, and I inhale the first drag. It’s nice to have friends who don’t judge you.
“So are you walking back home?” Heather asks as we settle the bill.
“Are you crazy? If I walk home, I won’t get there until tomorrow. I’ll take a taxi.”
Though if I plan to lose all my weight within two months after giving birth, I should probably walk. Fuck it, I think, waving down a cab. I’m pregnant.
AUGUST 14
I haven’t been on the pill for a decade. I wasn’t good on the pill. Meaning I would forget to take my birth control pills on a daily basis like you’re supposed to. Then I would have to pop five pills in one night to make up for the forgotten pills, which doesn’t work anyway, so I just went off it. Plus, I was on the pill while still living at home. I was always afraid my parents would find the stash and then they’d know that I was having sex.
“I’m going to go on the pill when this is done,” I tell the fiancé during our nightly goodnight conversation. “They have this new kind of birth control which is like the patch and you just stick it on your back and it stays there all the time. I think you only have to change it once a month.”
“Or I can get a vasectomy,” the fiancé answers. Excuse me?
“You would do that?” I ask him, stunned. Aren’t men fiercely protective of their private parts? Most men I know refuse to go to a doctor even when they’re really ill. What kind of man offers to go in for the snip-snip?
“Maybe. We can discuss it later,” he answers. Is the fiancé fearful that my way of birth control won’t work and that we’ll end up being pregnant again? Or is he just being kind?
AUGUST 16
The fiancé bought a house. Just like that. He called me, out of breath, to tell me about it.
“I can’t believe I just did that. I put in the offer this morning and they just accepted it. The house has everything I want in a house. It’s the most perfect location on a beautiful property. And it has everything you demanded in a house, too. It’s within walking distance of a Starbucks. That’s all you wanted, right?”
“I can’t believe it,” I told him. “That’s amazing.”
“I know. You’re going to love it. It has four bedrooms and a huge kitchen and backyard. It needs a lot of renovation, but I already got the name of a good architect in town. There’s just one little problem.”
“What?”
“We can’t move in until June. And depending on the renovations we want, we might not be able to move in for at least a year. Do you think we’ll be okay with a baby for a while in my condo?” he asked.
“I always thought we’d be okay in your condo with a baby. In New York and Hong Kong, families of, like, eighteen live in tiny apartments.”
Truthfully, I’m happy we won’t have to move into a new house immediately. I’m still not entirely used to the idea that I will be living with the fiancé in his city, let alone living with him in a new city in a new home. Then again, I’m still not used to the id
ea that we’re going to have a baby.
AUGUST 18
I have what will probably be my last appointment with Dr. G. this morning. I haven’t figured out a way to tell him that he in fact won’t be delivering my baby because I’m going to have her in the fiancé’s city. It seems so wrong to have met with him all these times and then not have him see this “project” to the end. He’s been so nice. It’s almost like having to ditch a hairdresser you always enjoy talking to when you no longer like the way he cuts your hair. Hairdressers don’t take too kindly to being dumped. Do obstetricians? I figure I’ll ditch him by telephone, leaving a message on his office machine at midnight, when I can be sure no one is around to pick up the phone. I won’t be the runaway bride, I’ll be the runaway pregnant lady. I just hope his feelings won’t be too hurt.
AUGUST 20
Shannon called. “That man I was seeing who went AWOL called me last night. He wants to get back together. I’m weak, I know. But I really like him. So I went over to his house and I think we’re back on now.”
“So you had make-up sex, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And how was it?”
“It was fantastic. Unbelievable.”
I’m now living vicariously through my girlfriends. I’m happy to report that at least someone out there is having sex, and the best kind too— make-up sex. Maybe I should start a fight with the fiancé? Maybe that will force me to have wicked sex again. The last time we had wicked sex was the night this child was conceived.
AUGUST 22
9:00 p.m.
My worlds have collided. Cute Single Man has just asked me if there is a sexy new intern working at my paper.
“Yes,” I say, hesitantly. “Why?”
“Because one of my friends knows her and wants to set her up with me. Should I go?”
Knocked Up Page 18
