This. Cannot. Be. Happening. I am not ready to give up Cute Single Man. He’s mine! Not that he’s really mine. But I’m certainly not ready to give up Cute Single Man to Sexy Young Intern. This. Is. Not. Happening.
“Yeah. She’s really hot,” I tell him. “And talented too. She just wrote this great feature on trans fat and how awful it is for you.” Why am I pimping for her? I want to tell Cute Single Man that no, under no circumstances is he allowed to meet her. But who am I, an engaged pregnant woman who is in love with her fiancé, to demand such a thing?
“So should I go?” he asks.
“Why not? You could have fun.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll get her number and at least call her.”
This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
“Would you mind if I called her?” Cute Single Man asks me.
“No, why would I mind? It’s not like you’re my boyfriend or anything,” I spit out. Why did I have to spit that out? Why can’t I remain calm and breezy?
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Listen, I have to go. I’m really tired. I want to go to sleep. I have a big day tomorrow. Lots of work.” To keep up with Sexy Young Intern, who seems to be getting front-page stories every other day now.
Cute Single Man isn’t attached. Neither is Sexy Young Intern. God, they have so much in common.
11:00 p.m.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I had too many horrific thoughts going through my head about Cute Single Man getting married, living happily ever after. I couldn’t help it. I got out of bed and called Cute Single Man back.
“I’m sorry for being grumpy and getting off the phone with you so suddenly. I’m just in a bad mood.”
“Does your bad mood have anything to do with me telling you that I might call that intern at your paper?”
“Maybe a bit,” I admit. “But most of it I think is hormones. I can’t control them.”
“If you tell me not to call her, I won’t. Do you want me not to call her?”
“Yes. I want you not to call her.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
I blame my reaction on two things: One, I’m female. Females get jealous and insecure. Two, I’m pregnant. Together, the mix is toxic.
AUGUST 26
The fiancé has a lead on a nanny. It wasn’t even a question whether we would get a nanny. I don’t want to stop working entirely. How do women leave the workforce after working so hard to make their mark? What happens to all those years working their way up once they leave? How can women feel secure about what they’ve accomplished when there are younger, sexier, not-pregnant interns out there waiting to take over the world?
Of course, my baby only has her first year once and I don’t really want to miss that. But doesn’t hanging out with a baby all day long drive a woman wonky? Ronnie tells me stories about dying for adult company after days spent with her babies. “Sometimes it can be really hard,” she once told me. “My husband will come home from work and want peace and quiet and I won’t stop yapping at him. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to not have any grown-ups to talk to all day long. I find it hard sometimes to even form a sentence, I get so used to talking baby talk.”
A nanny allows one to still have a life. Plus, a good nanny knows what she’s doing, unlike the fiancé and me.
“She’s supposedly excellent,” says the fiancé. “She’s worked with newborns before. My mother knows someone who knows her.”
“So she’s free to work for us?”
“She’s prepared to leave her other job for us. Next time you’re here, we’ll meet her and see if we like her. Okay?”
“Okay. Is that allowed?”
“What?”
“Stealing someone’s nanny.”
“From what I understand,” says the fiancé, “it’s war when it comes to getting a good nanny.”
“When is the next time I’m coming to visit you, anyway?”
“When would you like to come?”
“Well, I’m not sure how much longer I can fly. Some airlines say you’re not allowed to fly past six months.”
“That seems early to not be able to fly. Why is that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe the airlines are scared pregnant women will go into labor or something and they’ll have to make an emergency landing or call out on the speaker like in the movies, ‘Is there a doctor on board? Is there a doctor on board?’ But it’s only a four-hour flight to get to you. Even if I go into labor on the airplane, a baby won’t pop out that quickly, right?”
“I guess. That would be a nightmare.”
“We probably shouldn’t leave it very much longer. I was thinking that maybe you’ll come here and then we’ll go back together, so you can help me bring all my stuff.”
“Will you have a lot of stuff?”
“No, just clothes and my laptop. And I don’t really have that many clothes left that fit me. How about the third weekend in September?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“That’s in like three weeks! In three weeks, we’ll be living together.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Are you sure you still want me to move in with you?”
“Of course. You still want to be with me, right?” the fiancé asks.
“Of course! I love you.”
Finally, after five years in this long-distance relationship, I’ll be living with the fiancé. Then a few weeks later we’ll have a baby. I wonder if we’ll get along living under the same roof. God, we’d better get along. Or else we’re screwed. I’m already making mental plans for the next time I can come back to visit my apartment, though. With the baby. Oh. My. God.
AUGUST 31
9:30 p.m.
Beep!
“Hi. This is Rebecca Eckler calling. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but I’ve decided to have my baby with the fiancé in his city. It’s getting too hard to be here alone. But I want to thank you for everything. Once again, you won’t be seeing me for any more appointments. But thanks for everything.”
The Runaway Pregnant Lady just left a message for Dr. G. I am a coward. There was no way anyone would be picking up the phone on a Sunday night.
SEPTEMBER 1
I lost it on Cute Single Man tonight over a dairy product. We had plans that he’d come over, and I had asked him to stop along the way and pick me up a carton of chocolate ice cream. I was dying for ice cream. I didn’t think I could live one more second without chocolate ice cream.
“Here,” he said, handing me the plastic bag with the carton in it. I peeked inside the bag. Ahh, chocolate ice cream. Wait . . . that wasn’t chocolate ice cream.
“What is this?” I asked him.
“Ice cream. Like you asked.”
“No, I asked for chocolate ice cream and this is toffee-flavored ice cream. You have to go back to the store. You have to go back now.”
“I’m not going back. Taste it. Trust me, it’s amazing. It’s so much better than chocolate.”
“NO. I WANT CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM. GO BACK AND BUY CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD.”
“Trust me, you’ll love this ice cream. I was trying to be nice.”
“No you weren’t! You bought the ice cream flavor you wanted, not the kind I wanted. I’ll go get it myself then!” I screamed, throwing on my jacket. “AND YOU’D BETTER BE GONE WHEN I GET BACK.”
He was gone when I got back. I think I crossed the line. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. If anyone ever screamed at me like that—and over ice cream—I wouldn’t ever want to see that person again either, even if she was pregnant. I’m a horrible, horrible person.
I tasted the toffee-flavored ice cream after he left. Cute Single Man was right. I loved it.
SEPTEMBER 2
“I’m really, really, really, really sorry,” I tell Cute Single Man over the phone. “Will you please forgive me? I can’t control my cravings. I can’t contr
ol my emotions.”
“What was that last night? I have never seen someone get that angry.”
I was prepared to sob, if I had to, to get him to forgive me. “I am really sorry. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“Okay, and I promise to get you chocolate ice cream next time. I don’t want to see you like that ever again.”
Even cute single men have their limits with pregnant women.
SEPTEMBER 3
My stomach feels like it’s been attacked by hundreds of mosquitoes. It is so itchy, I can’t stand it. Maybe I should put on oven mitts.
“Ronnie, you have to help me. My stomach is so itchy.”
“Of course it is. That’s what happens when the skin stretches out.”
“But what do I do about it? I can’t stop scratching, and it’s not helping.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it really except lather on the coconut butter oil, or vitamin A and E oil—and thick.”
ARGH. I head back to the washroom and butter myself up. Oiling myself up would be considered sexy—if I wasn’t so pregnant.
SEPTEMBER 5
I have decided Cute Single Man and I have to have a Talk. A Talk is something no woman looks forward to. Like when you have to ditch a man who is really nice and sweet but who you are not attracted to and who you realize you will never be attracted to, no matter how hard you try. Or when you want to know where the relationship with the man you are dating is going and have wanted to know where it’s going for weeks and weeks but you are too shy to be the one to bring it up. Or a Talk can be just a result of insecurity and wanting to know that the guy you are dating is as into you as you are into him.
The Talk I need to have with Cute Single Man is different from any other Talk I’ve ever had before. How do I go about ending something when there’s nothing concrete to end? I have decided that after the ice cream meltdown, I can’t continue with him. It’s too weird. It’s too . . . nice. I have not fallen in love with Cute Single Man. But somehow over the past couple of months, I have fallen deep in like with Cute Single Man. It has to end. I do not want to screw things up with the fiancé, whom I love to pieces. I will call Cute Single Man and ask him to come over tomorrow. I will tell him that “we have to talk,” so he’ll be braced for what’s to come. Everyone, after all, knows what the “We have to talk” line leads to.
SEPTEMBER 6
8:00 p.m.
“So what is it we need to talk about?” Cute Single Man asks, plopping himself down on my couch, moving into a far corner so there is room for me to plop down beside him. “You sounded serious.”
“Um, this is hard. What is it we’re doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you find this all a little strange? I’m starting to get weirded out.”
“About us?”
“Yes, about us. I can’t do this anymore. I got jealous when you mentioned you were going to call that intern at my paper. I’m not supposed to be jealous. I’m engaged! I love my fiancé! I’m going to have a baby in two months! So what is it we’re doing?”
“I don’t know. But aside from the ice cream argument, I’m enjoying myself. Aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah. But I can’t. I don’t think we should see each other anymore. And I don’t think we should talk anymore. I need to focus on my baby and my future, and I can’t handle any more stress, and whatever it is we’re doing is stressing me out. I’m moving cities soon and moving in with my fiancé. I’m going to have a baby, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Cute Single Man is silent.
“So, um, what do you think?” I say, pressing him. I feel dizzy.
“I know. This is fucked. Are you sure you don’t want to see me anymore? Are you sure this is what you want?”
“No, I’m not sure about anything. But I can’t do this, whatever it is we’re doing. I just can’t.”
“If this is what you want, then I’ll respect your decision.”
“I really like you,” I tell Cute Single Man. “I might like you too much, and that’s the main problem. If we don’t end whatever it is we’re doing now, what am I going to do when I live in a different city? I rely on you too much.”
“I know what you mean. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too.”
“I’m going to miss Baby too. I guess there’s nothing else to say, then. I guess I should split.”
“Well, you don’t have to leave right away. You can stay a bit, can’t you?” Don’t go! Don’t go!
“No, I think it’s best if I leave now. I’m sad now. Can I get a hug before I leave?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. We hug and look into each other’s eyes the way people do before they are about to kiss for the first time. Is he going to? If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen now. Will I kiss back? But Cute Single Man pulls away quickly, gives my belly a soft pat, and walks out my door, shutting it loudly behind him.
My heart pounds and I feel out of breath. I feel like I’ve just been dumped. How am I going to get through this when, technically, there is nothing to get through?
1:00 a.m.
Cute Single Man has not called. Why hasn’t he called? Isn’t he missing me at all? Did I make a mistake? Why couldn’t we just be friends? Should I call him? I can’t. I just can’t. We are not talking anymore. I was the one who ended it, and now I have to live with it.
SEPTEMBER 7
I need to call Cute Single Man. Everyone always told me to never get your hair cut when you’re pregnant because you’re not thinking clearly and don’t want to make any rash decisions. It doesn’t happen as often, but maybe you shouldn’t end a relationship or a friendship during pregnancy either. Was I too rash? Pretty soon I’ll be in another city anyway, so what does it matter if we continue to hang out until then? No. I can’t call. I just can’t.
SEPTEMBER 8
AHHHH!!! My belly button is missing. MY BELLY BUTTON IS MISSING! Where did it go? It’s just . . . disappeared. It’s vanished. My belly button, apparently, has been so stretched out it’s completely gone. What if it doesn’t come back? What if I never see my belly button again? I wonder if there’s a plastic surgeon out there who can do reconstructive surgery on a belly button. I miss my belly button. I miss Cute Single Man.
SEPTEMBER 9
Vivian, who has worn her pregnancy as well as Sarah Jessica Parker wears Dolce and Gabbana, is in a foul mood. I am too. It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Cute Single Man. I miss him. And I can’t talk to any of my girlfriends about it, the way we always do when one of us goes through a breakup. But I’ve never seen Vivian in a sour mood. She’s usually so happy. But, boy, is she sour now.
“My doctor told me five days ago that it could happen anytime now. I’ve been waiting five days and nothing. Not one damn contraction. I’ve been running around like crazy these past few days getting everything ready, and now everything is ready, and we still don’t have a baby. I want to have this baby out of me. Now!” she grumbles.
“Have you tried spicy food?” I ask her.
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard that spicy food is supposed to bring on labor? Everyone knows that. Maybe you should drink a bottle of Tabasco sauce or something.”
“Well, I have been eating Indian food and I’m still pregnant!”
“How about sex? I heard that sex also induces labor. Maybe you and your hubby should do it.”
“We just had sex two nights ago and that didn’t work.”
Phew. I was happy to learn that Vivian couldn’t handle the idea of sex anymore either. I can’t even remember when the fiancé and I last had sex, and if you can’t remember, that’s not a good sign.
“Well, I think you have to do it two times in a row for it to work,” I tell her.
“Maybe I’ll try Indian food again tonight. I can’t have sex again. It’s too uncomfortable.”
“Okay, no sex. But how about walking? Have you walked briskly?�
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“Yes. I went on three brisk walks yesterday and nothing, nothing, nothing!” Vivian is getting more upset with each suggestion.
“Calm down. Calm down,” I tell her. “I also heard that Chinese food works.”
“Chinese food? We’ve had Chinese food three times this week!”
“Yeah, you’re right. Brisk walks, sex, spicy food, Chinese food—I’m sorry, but I guess they’re all myths.”
“Yeah, whoever made those things up are big, fat liars,” Vivian moans.
“Maybe you should try eating Mediterranean food. Have a falafel or something.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You never know, right?”
SEPTEMBER 10
Something truly distressing happened today. The weather turned chilly, which wouldn’t normally be a disaster. That is what happens when summer ends. As North Americans, we know colder weather is always just around the corner. But I’ve realized that I can’t bend over anymore, and that is a problem when it’s too chilly to wear sandals and I can no longer bend down to put on socks. After five minutes I managed to get the socks on—albeit kind of twisted—by sitting on my bed, taking a deep breath, and lifting my leg into the air. The procedure took five minutes. Pregnancy is not only a pain in the ass, it’s time consuming. I miss the old me, the one who could put on socks.
SEPTEMBER 11
Not being able to dress my own feet in socks was distressing. Then this morning in the shower I realized I can’t wash my legs anymore. I can’t bend down to lather them up with soap. Which means there is no way in hell I can reach to wash my feet, either. How long before they start to smell? God forbid I should drop the soap in the shower. Perhaps I should have a backup bar of soap in the shower with me from now on?
SEPTEMBER 12
9:00 a.m.
I can barely wipe myself after I pee. My stomach is too large. No one—absolutely no one—warned me about this! The fiancé is arriving early tomorrow morning. I haven’t packed a thing. And, even worse, my friends are making me go out to a media party tonight at a local television station. What the hell am I going to wear?
“Come on. You have to come out,” demands Shannon. “You can wear whatever. Everyone is going. You can’t hibernate just because you’re pregnant. I haven’t been to a good party in what seems like forever. Actually, the last good party I was at was the Conception Party.”
Knocked Up Page 19
