by Judy Baer
It’s getting more and more real to me all the time, even though I still feel like a waif when I stand next to Mitzi. She’s growing by leaps and bounds. Those babies of hers are going to weigh fifteen pounds each, by the look of her.
“Maybe you could take Kim shopping or something,” Chase suggested.
How can I help loving a man who encourages me to go shopping?
“The only thing I need is maternity clothes. I’m not sure that would help.”
“How about shoes? Your feet haven’t changed sizes, have they?”
If they have, I’m not admitting it.
“Great idea, Chase. I’ll call her right…”
Then I thought about how cozy I felt and how I’d have to disrupt Chase and the cats if I got up right then. “I’ll call her later.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After our nap and dinner, Chase went to the foyer and came back to the dining room table with his briefcase.
“What have you got? Theater tickets?”
“I stopped by our attorney’s office today to get the questionnaires we need to write our wills.” He laid the stuff on the table. “I thought we could work on that tonight.”
That’s about as far from theater tickets as you can get.
“Wills?” It’s prudent and necessary to do these sorts of things, but frankly, it gives me the heebie-jeebies, as if we’re trying to hurry the inevitable by sticking our hands in the air and saying, “My will’s done, I’m ready to go, pick me, pick me!”
I also despise talking to life insurance salesmen. They are so cheerful about what your children are going to do with your money after you’re gone. I’d like to think the kids will be having fun with us all along and not be waiting for the time when they can finally buy new cars.
I know where I’m going for eternity, and I’m not worried about that, but I do hate the preliminary paperwork.
“With a baby on the way, we should get our wishes down on paper.”
“But what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours.”
“We do have to name a guardian for the baby, just in case. I thought Kim and Kurt would be a good choice. And we are already named as Wesley’s guardians.”
“This is not my idea of a fun Friday-night date, Chase. Maybe we should go have the roots of our teeth planed or pierce our noses instead.”
“It won’t take long. Now let me read this power-of-attorney and health-directive information to you.”
Chase isn’t usually so persistent, but tonight he was determined to get this done.
I went along with it, because it’s the prudent thing to do, and because Chase was so unwavering in his determination to get it completed. But why sooner rather than later?
After he’d fallen asleep, I felt restless and uncomfortable, like the princess with the pea beneath her mattress. I sat up, curled my arms as far around my knees as I could get them and watched Chase sleep.
A little shiver of apprehension slid down my spine as I watched my soul mate, my husband, my gift from God. For the second time in not so many weeks, I realized I couldn’t imagine my world without him.
Saturday, October 2
Mitzi can smell a shopping trip a mile away.
Kim and I were already at the Mall of America—in the Food Court getting sustenance for the day, where else?—when my cell phone rang.
“Are you shopping without me?” Mitzi demanded imperiously.
“Ah…could be. Right now, we’re eating Cinnabon and drinking coffee.”
“Well, stay there. I’m on my way.”
“Do you have shopping to do, too?” Mitzi practically lives at the mall in her spare time.
“I always have shopping to do, but that’s not why I’m coming. Whitney, If you’re going to buy maternity clothes, you need an expert with you or you’ll likely come home with one of those dreadful pink pup tents with the big bow in back and puffy little sleeves.”
“Thanks for the confidence in my taste in clothing.”
“You know what I mean. I want you to look elegant while you’re pregnant—like me.”
Actually, Mitzi is not looking all that elegant. Instead, she looks bulging and lumpy, as if she’s storing basketballs under her shirt. Or maybe she resembles a boa constrictor with its large lunch lodged in a big lump in the middle of its body. Yesterday, when Mitzi turned around near my desk, her stomach sent my pencil holder flying. By the time she gets to term, she’ll have to push a grocery cart just to support her stomach.
“I’m already in my car. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t buy anything until I get there.” And her phone went dead.
“I can never decide if it would be easier to have Mitzi as a friend or enemy,” I said to Kim. “She’s not an easy keeper either way.”
Kim smiled faintly. “You love her and you know it.”
I suppose I do, but it’s a conflicted relationship.
“Do you want to tell me what’s bugging you?” I asked bluntly. Kim and I never dance around each other’s feelings. We’ve been together too long for that.
She played nervously with the straw in her soda.
“It must be juicy. Spill it.”
“The doctor has suggested I increase my antidepressant medication. The red tape and hurry-up-and-wait process seems endless. Sometimes I feel so hopeless that I wonder if we’ll ever get a baby.
“Kurt and I are going to a support group tonight. I hope it helps, but…” She looked at me miserably. “I hate to admit it, but my real problem is jealousy. I’m still finding out for myself what Proverbs 14:30 means.
“‘A relaxed attitude lengthens life; jealousy rots it away.’” She exhaled a deep sigh. “I’m rotting away, Whit. Jealousy is like poison. I’m happy for you, and yet it’s just killing me not to be pregnant right along with you.”
“What if the baby you are meant to have isn’t born yet? God knows. Or maybe He’s uncrossing wires and running interference for you with all the administrative snarls that could occur. Sure, you’re ready, but is the child?”
Kim tilted her head thoughtfully. “Good point. I hadn’t thought about it that way. It makes all the difference, doesn’t it, to remember to lie back and rely on Him.”
“All the difference.”
“Come on, you lazy couch potatoes, let’s go shopping!” Mitzi’s battle cry rang out across the Food Court. Everyone looked up to stare as she trotted across the expanse, dodging tables as she came.
These days, Mitzi really is something to stare at. She’s the walking epitome of “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” As is the current style, she does nothing to hide the roundness of her belly. Today she wore snug black leggings, a black knit sweater that clung to the mound of her belly and enough jewelry to make Queen Elizabeth jealous. She looked like a bowling ball with bling.
She plopped herself down in the free chair at our table, helped herself to a bite of my breakfast, sipped Kim’s coffee and pulled out her shopping list.
“Make yourself at home, Mitzi,” Kim said drily.
“Thanks, I will.” She pulled Kim’s plate toward her and polished off the cinnamon roll Kim had been eating. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days, but I’m always hungry.”
“You’re eating for four. No wonder.”
She rubbed her stomach thoughtfully. “I can’t seem to get my head around the idea yet. It’s easy enough to buy three cribs or three high chairs, but to think of little people in them?” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll believe it soon enough.”
The idea of Mitzi with three children is almost impossible to get my head around, too.
Sometimes I don’t feel pregnant. I feel fat, nauseous and moody, of course, but I’ve been guilty of that without being with child. Yet here I am, the perfect little baby factory. How God figured all this out is beyond imagining. Every day I am more in awe of His divine plan.
Mitzi had turned back to her list.
Or rather, my list.
“You need new s
hoes, Whitney, with lower heels. You don’t want to get varicose veins. Arch says you should be sure that they aren’t too snug. Swelling and all that.”
“You consulted your husband about my feet?”
“He’s a podiatrist, isn’t he?” She continued along the single track of her mind. “I’ve found some lovely maternity underwear I want to show you, and I know every maternity section in the mall. Kim, while Whitney is getting all these sensible things, I think you should buy some high heels and something lacy. No sense in all of us looking like grandmothers in hideous lace-up shoes and undies with enough fabric to reupholster a Volkswagen. Besides, I can see it’s been getting you down, all this baby talk. Maybe you should buy something for your baby to cheer you up.”
Kim stared at Mitzi wide-eyed. “How did you know?”
Mitzi craned her neck and tapped her temple with her index finger. “I’m very intuitive when I choose to be. Come on, let’s get going.”
Just when you think she doesn’t have a brain in her head…
It took less than forty-five minutes of shopping for me to start whining.
“Why are all these clothes so snug?” I pulled on the hem of a T-shirt Mitzi insisted would be “adorable” with a pair of maternity jeans.
“One, because you’re pregnant and you’re growing the waistline of a sumo wrestler. Two, it’s the style. Be proud you’re pregnant. Show it off.” Mitzi slung another shirt at me.
“Whatever happened to modesty?” I complained. “When my mother was pregnant with me, she wore these plaid shirts with turtleneck sweaters underneath, and long, flowing dresses. I’ve seen pictures—”
“And how did she look in them?”
In the photos, she looked squat, chubby and lumpy, with the telltale bulge not all that well hidden despite the ugly clothing.
Dressing room mirrors are evil. They are made by the same company that makes mirrors for carnival fun houses. How else can I explain the weird shape I see every time I look in one? According to my reflection in these mirrors, I have developed the round midsection of Tweedledum or Tweedledee in Alice in Wonderland.
Not only that, these mirrors magnify cellulite, hair follicles and pores to twenty times their normal size. They can rip away hope and shred self-acceptance to ribbons with one quick pirouette in front of them.
“Mitzi, don’t bring me anymore clothes. Get me out of here. I’ll confess to anything, you’ve broken my spirit. Puh-leeze…”
“Don’t be a wimp, Whitney. I’m not letting you stop until you find something you like.”
“Then find me something suitable to my age. Chase won’t be seen with me if I wear a skimpy T-shirt with ‘Baby’ and a rhinestone arrow pointing to my stomach.”
She went off muttering something like “Such a prude,” but returned with a white hankie tunic with beautiful lace trim and a cropped khaki vest that flattered my figure and didn’t make me look trapped in the seventies. I was elated. After trying on only seventy-three outfits, I’d found one I liked!
And so it went. Mitzi would make sure I found something, then she’d turn to Kim and prod her into the fun.
By lunchtime, Mitzi had nixed several items of clothing, including a horizontal-striped tieback shirt and gauchos, a linen blazer that managed to make me look simultaneously like a small building and an unmade bed, and a tie-dyed green T-shirt in which I resembled a glob of floating seaweed.
To satisfy my particular brand of cravings at lunch, I ordered nachos covered with a poisonously orange “cheese-type food product” and a root beer float. Oh, yes, and a side order of steamed broccoli from the Chinese place. Mitzi had a submarine sandwich with tuna fish, jalapeño peppers, fried onions and mustard that she washed down with a mango and peach health smoothie containing lecithin, ginko biloba and chocolate sprinkles.
Kim had a burger.
No wonder she’s depressed, I thought as I dipped my broccoli in my fast-congealing blaze-orange cheese. She doesn’t eat anything fun.
“I think,” Mitzi announced imperiously, “I am going to have to do something about the state of fashion in the maternity world.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kim asked.
“I will design my own. I’ll start with fashions for the ‘multiple’ mother, those of us who have more…”
“Girth?” I suggested sweetly.
She glared at me and went on. “…substance. Who needs the pick-me-up of attractive clothes more than us?”
For the rest of the afternoon, she regaled us with what she would do if she were designing clothes.
By the time we headed for the car, I’d overdosed on shopping and I knew I’d hate myself in the morning, but Mitzi had one more stop to make.
She wanted to look at diaper bags. Designer diaper bags. The baby equivalent of the mink-covered toilet seat. Nice, I suppose, but totally, clearly, unnecessary. It’s a fever, this baby business.
“Five hundred dollars for a diaper bag?” Kim squealed. “You could give layettes to a hundred babies in an orphanage overseas for that.”
“But look at these lovely grommets down the sides. It’s very attractive.” Mitzi pointed out the merits of the hulking leather bag as if she were on the shopping channel. “And it has a leather key ring, as well as little pockets for baby bottles. What more could you want? It’s waterproof….” Seeing she wasn’t making any headway with us, she added, “And you could use it for your laptop when the baby grows up!”
Kim held out her hand. “I’ll make a deal with you, Mitzi. Give me four hundred and fifty dollars, buy a nice plastic diaper bag somewhere and I’ll make sure that a hundred layettes are sent to our church mission.”
Mitzi huffed and puffed and put the bag back on the shelf. “See if I show you the stroller I found that’s made to look like a Mercedes!”
To her credit, Mitzi did give Kim five hundred dollars for layettes. I hope she finds something that suits her taste in diaper bags in the discount store.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chase found me on the couch with my feet up, a cold compress on my head and Mr. Tibble sleeping soundly next to me.
“Too much shopping, I see.” He glanced at the bags still piled by the front door.
“Marines, Navy SEALS and SWAT teams aren’t trained well enough to keep up with Mitzi in a mall,” I muttered from beneath my ice pack. “I don’t know why I think I am.”
“I know what you mean. I’m whipped, too.” He sank down in the chair across from me.
“Anything wrong?”
“I’m just tired a lot lately.” He grinned a boyish grin. “Maybe I have Couvades like Bryan. It would make much more sense for me than him. You go shopping, I get tired. Hardly seems fair, does it? By the way, how’s Bryan doing? Do you think he needs prenatal vitamins or anything?”
“Don’t change the subject with me, buddy. If you aren’t feeling well, you’re the one who needs to see a doctor.”
“Whitney, I am a doctor. Don’t you think I’d know if something were wrong with me?”
I looked at him doubtfully. Though he’s casual about his own health, he treats me like a Fabergé egg. I would trust Chase with my life. Whether or not I trust him with his own is an entirely different matter.
Maybe he does have Couvades syndrome. Chase with a sympathetic pregnancy—wouldn’t that be ironic?
Monday, October 12
Mitzi breezed into the office carrying a large portfolio and flung it onto the break room table.
“What’s that?” Bryan asked. If it was more work for him, he’d probably head for the hills, or at least the men’s bathroom, where he could hide out until she found someone else to do her dirty work.
“My designs.”
“Designs on what?” Bryan is not trusting where Mitzi is concerned.
“No, just designs. Maternity clothes.”
“You mean you actually did it?” Kim gasped. “How awesome!”
“Of course I am,” Mitzi responded modestly. “Arch says that all
the time. Want to have a look?”
She flung open the portfolio with great flair, to show us vast pages of pregnant women in their fourteenth month of pregnancy.
Bryan whistled. Kim’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. I managed a “Wow.”
“Aren’t they great?” Mitzi burbled.
“Great with child,” Kim murmured.
When I looked beyond the bellies to the fashions, however, I had to agree with Mitzi. “They are breathtaking.” Ball gowns, tea-length dresses, flirty tops and lacy nightclothes—just the kinds of things Mitzi would wear.
“I decided to design what I’d want, and see if anyone else would be interested in it. Stunning, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t know you could draw. You’re very artistic.”
“Oh, that’s not me. I can’t draw.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But my cleaning lady is a wonder. I told her what I wanted, and she did it. If someone buys these—and I don’t see why they wouldn’t—we’ll split the profit. I made her sign a contract, of course, saying that even if she becomes rich and famous she still has to keep cleaning my house. Good help is hard to find, you know.”
“So you’re actually going through with this?” Kim inquired.
“Of course.” Mitzi preened a little. “I have an entrepreneurial streak, you know. If I decide to stay home after the babies are born, I’ll have something to do.”
“Stay home?” Harry, who’d come through the door to the break room, looked stricken. “Not come back?” He spun and faced me. “Not you, too, Whitney?”
“We’re just gabbing, Harry. No one has made that decision, least of all me.”
He turned to Mitzi. “And you?”
“I’ll have to work here at least part-time. All my friends are here. It wouldn’t be good for my mental health to quit entirely. Even Arch says so.”
I can imagine. Coming home to Mitzi after a day with three crying babies and no social contact would be downright scary. All her friends are here, and that’s true for all of us.
“Well,” Harry said as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, “if you can think of some way to keep us together…”
