by Judy Baer
“Is something wrong with your pregnancy? Talk to us, Mitzi, tell us what’s going on.”
With a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere near the soles of her feet, Mitzi straightened.
“We went to the doctor yesterday. It was my scheduled appointment, and I wanted to ask him why I was…you know…so big already.”
So the early maternity clothes and loose blouses she’d been wearing hadn’t been purely recreational after all.
“I know I’m small and wear things rather snug, but I didn’t dream that I’d outgrow my clothes so quickly. The doctor said he thought we should check it out, so he ordered an ultrasound. We could get in right away, so when it was finished, Arch and I went back to his office for a report. He had an odd look on his face, like he was surprised or puzzled. That’s when he dropped the bomb and told me about the babies.”
“Babies?” She’d made that slip of the tongue earlier, too.
“As in more than one?” Kim ventured incredulously.
Mitzi nodded forlornly and held up the right index, middle and ring fingers of her right hand.
“Three babies?” Kim gasped. “You’re having three babies?”
“The doctor told you that you and Arch were having triplets?”
Mitzi bobbed her head miserably. “At first I thought he was kidding. Me—three babies? How ridiculous is that? I’m not sure I know how to take care of one, but with Arch’s help I can muddle through. But three! It’s absurd!”
Mitzi plus three. That just doesn’t add up in my addled brain. Mind-boggling.
Then her chin came up. “But I can do anything I set my mind to. I got you married off, didn’t I, Whitney?”
Well, not exactly.
“Plus, I straightened out the Innova office and got things organized there.”
No, not really.
“And I did major work on that house the guys were refurbishing. I even held a hammer!”
Held it? Yes. Swing it? No.
“So I should be able to manage three babies.” Her eyes narrowed slyly. “And I have you two to help me.”
I glimpsed the look on Kim’s face. The only way we’d sign on as nannies was if Mitzi forged our signatures.
“That’s why I can’t imagine the doctor suggesting what he did. It’s awful. Just appalling.” Tears leaked from her eyes and down her cheeks.
“What did he say to you?”
“He told me that I was a petite woman and that it could be a problem for me to carry and deliver three babies.” Mitzi’s face grew even paler. “He said that because fertility treatments often cause multiple births, occasionally they consider what he called ‘planned reduction.’ He wanted to know if that was something I’d want to reflect on.”
“Reduce the number of babies you are carrying? Not…” My mind refused to go any further.
“I didn’t even know they did that!” Mitzi wailed. “I’ve been sick all day just thinking about it!”
Then, as Mitzi always does, she rallied.
“I have to admit I don’t like the idea of being fat. I know you’re used to it, Whitney, so it will be easy for you, but…”
At any other time, I would have taken issue with that statement.
“…now I realize that there is nothing more important than whatever is going on in here.” She put her palm across her stomach. “And I think everybody should know that life is precious. Why would I give up a child for my convenience? What’s wrong with people these days, anyway?”
A wave of sadness engulfed me. What indeed?
Saturday, August 21
I have lost my mind. I hope I’ll feel better without it.
When my mother was pregnant with me, she said she had a compelling desire to clean her house, put things in order and prepare for the time when her baby would arrive. She calls it nesting.
I’ve always told her that nesting is for the birds and that people simply don’t do that anymore. Yet lately I’ve been having these weird compulsive urges to do things I’ve never enjoyed all that much before, like washing windows, cleaning the stove, scrubbing air vents and cleaning the little holes in the dryer filter with a toothpick.
God gave all his creatures the instinct to prepare for and nurture new babies. Without that impulse, birds wouldn’t build nests, and then what? Robin’s eggs all over the patio furniture? I don’t think so. It’s a great design, God’s, but I, as a twenty-first-century woman, never thought I’d turn broody, too.
I’ve been dreaming about having every part of our house clean and picked up at the same time. That, of course, is impossible. While I’m cleaning the kitchen, Chase is showering, shaving and sending splashes of water all around the bathroom. We’ve had fights—or, as Chase calls them, “spirited conversations”—about it.
I tell him to use a towel to wipe up when he’s done in the sink. “Why waste a towel and make more work for you in the laundry?” he says.
“You’re not saving me work!” I reply. “It’s harder to scrub a sink and clean a mirror than it is to wash a towel.”
Whatever. He doesn’t listen. I wonder, does a tree falling in the forest still make noise?
The laundry is never completely done, because Chase and I always have some of it on our backs. Meals must be cooked, even though I’ve spent hours cleaning the top of the stove. I’m currently on a “No Fry” campaign to keep splatters off my cooktop. I also have been following Chase around the house with a paper towel, just in case he decides to wash his hands or get a drink of water and doesn’t wipe out the sink. He’s been patient, but he did say that he’s getting sick of TV dinners—the tidiest meal you can make—you can even throw away the dishes.
“What are you doing now?” Chase asked.
“Soaking the knobs from the kitchen cupboards in soap while I wax the fronts. Who knows how long it’s been since those knobs and screws were disinfected? I did the insides of the cupboards yesterday, so I thought I’d get the outsides done today.”
“Whitney, you washed every dish, spoon, fork and mixing bowl in the house with bleach!”
“Hardly. I put a splash in the dishwater to just to make sure they got sanitized.”
“Why don’t you just use the dishwasher?”
“We need to take it apart. The drain must be horrible. Can you imagine what’s been collecting in there? We can do it tonight, instead of watching a movie.”
“Just the kind of romantic evening I envisioned,” Chase groaned.
“Let’s not start another debate. It feels romantic to me.” I stopped waxing long enough to put my arms around his neck. “The two of us preparing for our baby is sweet.”
“It will all be dirty again by the time the baby gets here.”
“Not if I can help it. Mother cleaned until she went into labor, and even on the way to the hospital. Dad said that while he was driving she tidied the dashboard of the car with Q-tips and a soft cloth.”
“That’s what I have to look forward to?”
“Think of it, a perfectly ordered house with no germs and dust. By the way, we need a new mattress for our bed. Pillows, too. Do you realize how many dust mites and dead skin cells a mattress collects?”
“I think of nothing else,” he said resignedly.
“I also started packing another box for the Salvation Army.”
“What are you giving away this time?” He rocked a little on his feet, as if he were bracing himself.
“I thought we should get new bedding and towels. I’m sure I’ll nurse the baby in our bedroom, and I want it just right.”
“What’s wrong with the old towels? Can’t you wash them in bleach, too?”
“That wouldn’t matter. They still wouldn’t match the new wallpaper.”
He swallowed hard. “Wallpaper?”
“I tore down the old stuff while you were out. And have you any idea how dirty our light fixtures were? Disgusting!”
Being pregnant brings out strange things in a person. Oddly, the strangest things have been drawn
out of Bryan.
He didn’t take it well at first when I suggested that he might have Couvades syndrome and that his troubles could be sympathy pains for Mitzi and me. In fact, he agreed to go to a doctor to prove me wrong.
The physician said it was the first case he’d ever seen where the suffering fellow wasn’t the husband of a pregnant woman. His only explanation was that Bryan’s sympathy pains had developed because of our close proximity at work. The doctor asked if he could study Bryan further, but Bryan declined. I’m glad. We have enough trouble around here without being written up in The American Journal of Medicine.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday, September 30
How one’s sole form of entertainment for an entire month can be throwing up is beyond me. Yet that and cleaning are all I’ve done, except for showing up at Innova disguised as an employee. Fortunately, I’m good at my job and I can practically do it in my sleep. Or, in this case, engulfed in waves of nausea that rival a rough sea.
The nesting compulsion is still almost as great as my gag reflex. I’ve gone through three pair of rubber gloves this month. I noticed one day while I was showering that my nice clean tile grout had developed a dingy cast. Shame on me. I’d been neglecting those little lines between the tiles. And once I started cleaning the grout and found out how well Chase’s toothbrush worked for the job, I couldn’t stop. The same domino effect occurred in our living room.
All I wanted to do was paint the walls a soft sage color that would make me feel serene and maternal. Although sage goes with everything, it took several quarts of paint and many test patches on the wall before I found the perfect shade. And once the walls were painted and I’d begun to rehang my curtains, I noticed how dusty they were.
After the new curtains were hung, it became very clear to me that the living-room chairs and ottoman needed a face-lift. That, of course, meant new furniture and, inevitably, new accessories. This, naturally, made me realize how drab our foyer had become. And the boring eggshell color on the walls down the hall? Disgusting! Chase finally stopped me when I suggested that we rearrange the furniture in the bathroom.
I still think the stool would have looked lovely on that other wall….
I’ve been worried about Chase. He’s looking as peaked as Bryan these days, and I don’t know what’s brewing. It scares me sometimes. We have both been feeling very mortal ever since Chase told me about the patient he lost.
Mitzi rolled into the office carrying a box of éclairs and a purse the size of Georgia. Kim and I, like rats following the Pied Piper to their doom, trailed her into the break room to get the first two éclairs.
She plopped her purse on the table, and a remote control tumbled out of the bag.
“When did you start carrying the remote control to your television in your purse?”
“Arch has the week off,” she said, as if that explained everything. “And he’s supposed to be doing my honey-do list at the house, putting the cribs together, finishing the stenciling on the walls while I’m out so I don’t smell the paint, little things like that.”
“And the remote control fits in where?”
“The only thing Arch likes less than a honey-do list is watching television without the remote. Not being able to channel surf takes all the fun out of it for him. So, with the remote here and him there, I can count on everything being done when I get home.”
Smart Mitzi. Nasty Mitzi. Devious Mitzi. Mental note: Remember to see if it works on Chase.
At four o’clock, Bryan stopped in front of my desk, trembling with righteous indignation, and announced, “I quit. My food is gone again, and I can’t take it anymore. Jennilee made me stuffed mushroom caps and little smokies in barbecue sauce, and they’ve disappeared. Do you know how much I love stuffed mushrooms?”
Bryan has the most peculiar taste in food I’ve ever seen. Yesterday it was pickled pigs’ feet from the deli down the street. Last week it was a tuna fish sandwich made with horseradish and green grapes.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mushrooms, Bryan, but I’d like you to reconsider.”
I’ll bet nothing like this ever happens to Donald Trump.
Then Harry came out of his office and meandered over to my desk.
“Whitney, do you have a toothpick? I got something stuck between my teeth, gristle from those little sausages. They weren’t bad otherwise, though. Does anybody have dental floss?”
“Harry, did you eat the mushrooms that were in the refrigerator today?”
“Yeah. Not bad. Who made ’em?”
“Jennilee did. They were Bryan’s lunch.”
Harry turned to look at Bryan with surprise. “No kidding? I’m sorry. I thought that whoever has been bringing snacks brought those, too. You should put your name on your stuff, so I know not to eat it. Otherwise, the refrigerator and the stuff on the counters are fair game, right? Sorry I ate your sausages. Next time put your name on stuff, please.” And he disappeared back into HarryLand, where life is easy and personal contact is minimal.
Bryan’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Finally he managed to gargle, “Now what do I do?” he bleated at this unexpected turn of events.
“You have two choices,” I offered. “You can quit, as planned. Or you can start bringing food in well-marked containers. So are you going to quit or not?”
He sagged like a deflated balloon. “Not.” He turned away, and as he walked off, I heard him mutter, “Harry. Why didn’t I ever think of Harry?”
Mostly, dear Bryan, because you thought all men could be trusted.
Case closed.
Friday, October 1
“Want to go to Kim and Kurt’s tonight?” I asked.
Chase, who’d just come in from the garage, shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He crossed the kitchen and pulled me backward against his chest so he could lay his palm on my belly. “I’d like to stay home with you and mini-you. I don’t want anything more exciting than giving the cats a fresh catnip mouse.”
“Tough day? You’ve had a lot of them lately.”
“I’m strong, don’t you know that?” He spun me around and kissed me full on the mouth. He tasted like peppermint.
I smacked my lips. “Are you hiding candy in your pockets?” My sweet tooth these days is the size of the fiberglass tooth on display on the roof of the dental clinic I pass on my way to work. Four feet wide by six feet high.
He appeared puzzled momentarily, but then he laughed. “Not candy, antacid. Want some?” He pulled a packet of antacids from his pocket.
“Stomach upset again?”
“Just a little. No problem.”
“Maybe you’re getting ulcers. You should take an extra day off work to stay home and play with me.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the couch. My favorite place in the world is in Chase’s arms. Even though he’s been on edge lately, nestled against that warm, wide chest, with his chin resting on the top of my head, is my idea of bliss.
“But you’d be at work. Would Harry let you stay home just to make me happy?”
“Speaking of staying home, Harry’s begun to panic. We’re racing to finish all the projects we can, and I’ve enticed someone from an affiliate office to fill in, but Harry wants us.”
“Because you’re all so witty, intelligent and charming?” Chase asked with a chuckle.
“No, because we’re so slow, thickheaded and idiotic that he can control us like puppets and make us do his bidding. He’ll never find people like that again.”
“I knew you were special.” Chase rubbed his hand over my arm. If I’d been Mr. Tibble, I’d have started to purr.
“Besides, much as we fuss and complain, we all have great jobs. Harry is a good employer. He pays well, he’s generous and fair.” Now that he’s quit eating Bryan’s lunches, that is.
“He expects me to figure out how three of us can acquire babies at the same time and still keep the office running.”
“Would you like to stay home with
our baby, Whitney? You don’t have to work if you don’t want to, you know.”
“I know.” I laughed ruefully. “Believe it or not, I’d miss the zoo if I weren’t there every day. I wish there were a way to be two places at once.”
“A common mother’s complaint.” He kissed the top of my head. “Just know that I’m behind you, honey.”
“Then perhaps this is a good time to discuss baby names.”
“I told you, I like Benjamin Franklin Andrews. It was my great-grandfather’s name. A good, sturdy, reliable moniker.”
“And what do you plan to name it if it’s a girl? Betsy Ross Andrews? Or should we just do a presidential theme? George Washington Andrews, Abraham Lincoln Andrews and Theodore Roosevelt Andrews?”
Chase thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded. “Ben, Betsy, George, Abe and Ted. Sounds good to me.”
Grrrrrrr.
I’ve been thinking about the at-home mom versus the working mom lately. I got caught in the cross fire at a baby shower last week. I expected to witness a knockdown, drag-out fight between two women defending their stay-at-home-go-to-work positions.
It sounded to me as if each was a little envious of the other. As a working-away-from-the-house mom, I would wish for more time with my child. As a stay-at-home, I’d probably yearn for more creative outlets.
All I can do is ask Him to show me what He wants for me and be obedient either way.
The cats jumped onto the couch, entwined themselves in our tangle of arms and legs and purred softly until they both dozed off.
We both nodded off for a few minutes before I remembered Kim.
“Chase?”
“Hmm…?”
“I’d better call Kim and tell her we’re not coming. If we don’t go over there tonight, I’d like to spend some time with her tomorrow, if that’s acceptable with you.”
“I’ve got to do rounds at the hospital tomorrow morning. Go ahead. Is something wrong?”
“Cheerful and upbeat as she tries to be, she’s struggling again.”
“She’s getting a baby, too,” he reminded me.
“It doesn’t feel real to her yet.”
