Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  In the doctor’s office, Elliot suggests, “Why don’t you just get the epidural and then you won’t feel a thing?”

  I look at him like he’s proposed I run through the doctor’s office naked while spraying cans of whipped cream at everyone I pass. “Elliot, you do know what an epidural is, don’t you?”

  “Of course, darling. It’s a little needle in your spine transferring numbing medicine.”

  To which I roll my eyes and sigh, “That’s right. It’s a needle in my spine.” Then I throw him a very Italian gesture and repeat, “A needle in my spine! What’s wrong with that phrase?”

  He ventures, “I’m going out on a limb here but I’m going to guess the needle in your spine part?”

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” I touch my nose with the finger on one hand and point to him with the other.

  He’s saved from further trying to reason with me by Dr. Fermin’s arrival. “How are Sophie’s parents doing?”

  I respond, “Sophie’s mother is fat, tired, incontinent and excited.” Then I add, “Sophie’s father is insane. He’s talking needles in my spine again.”

  My OB laughs, “Well, Mimi, we’re going to have to have that talk pretty soon. You’re running out of time to make a decision.” Then she squeezes the warm gel on my stomach and continues, “But for now, let’s make sure little Miss Fielding is in the right direction.”

  I stare up at the monitor and look at my sweet angel. I can actually see the hair on her head and it looks like she’s giving me a thumbs up gesture.

  Dr. Fermin announces, “It looks like an epidural!”

  “What?” I demand. “Why does it look like an epidural?”

  She replies, “Your daughter is breech and it appears like she’s digging her heels in.”

  Elliot worries, “Does that mean a C-section?”

  The doc answers, “Most probably. I could schedule Mimi for an attempted turning, but it’s a bit late for that.” She explains, “The bigger the baby, the harder it is to turn them and a good percentage of our attempts wind up with an emergency C-section, anyway. I suggest we just schedule the procedure and avoid possible complications.”

  Two things. One, I’m kind of excited because this means I don’t have to pass an entire human being through my hoo ha and truthfully, that’s had me seriously freaking out. Number two, now I get a needle in my spine and have to lie there wide awake while they cut me like a ripe melon. I cannot believe these are my only two options for delivering this baby. What kind of an archaic world do we live in?

  I feel myself begin to hyperventilate and Elliot hands me the barf bag I carry in my purse for moments like this. I breathe into it and eventually catch my breath. I finally manage, “When are we going to do this thing?”

  Dr. Fermin types into her computer and answers, “Let’s plan it two days before your delivery date. There’s no guarantee you won’t go into labor before then but there’s a pretty good chance you won’t.”

  “Okay,” I manage. Good thing I didn’t bother with a birthing class. “What time?”

  “You’re going to need to be at the hospital by six. Don’t have any food or water after midnight the night before and by 7:30 or so, you’ll be holding your daughter.”

  Relief, excitement and nerves boil in me and begin to leak out of my eyes. Elliot holds my hand and stares at me like I’m the most miraculous thing in the world. And you know what? I feel like the most miraculous thing in the world. I grew a whole person inside of me! I can’t think of one thing that’s a bigger deal than that.

  Chapter 38

  Ginger assures me that her C-section was a breeze. “Seriously, Meems, I’ve had more painful facials. As long as you keep up on your pain killers for a couple of days, you’ll be fine.”

  Up until this point, I’ve been so focused on the needle in the spine portion of the program, I hadn’t even thought about the pain following delivery. I demand, “What about the epidural?”

  She tries to assure me, “They numb the area before even inserting it. You barely feel a thing.”

  “You better be right about that or I’m coming for you.” I’m only half joking.

  “Scouts honor,” she replies. “You’ll do great!”

  “Well, now that that’s over. How about we take the kids out for lunch?” Because the babies are still considered preemies, they’re not actually allowed out in public. So Ginger and I go to lunch via the drive thru at Burger City. The babies sleep through the whole thing but my sister gets an outing, such as it is.

  She declares, “I’d love to! I’m burning so many calories producing milk; I can’t seem to eat enough.” And right there is nature’s reward for putting you through all the pregnancy/ delivery hell. I’m totally looking forward to my binge fest during the nursing months. I seem to eat all the time now, but I can’t consume a lot at one time because there’s precious little room in there.

  When I pull up to Ginger’s house, Abbie helps her bring the babies out and buckles them into her mini-van. My car isn’t big enough for three infant car seats. On the way to Burger City, my sister declares, “I’m fucked.”

  “Excuse me, what?” Ginger is the least likely of the sisters to resort to vulgarity so this proclamation is more than shocking. “What are we talking here, literally or figuratively?”

  Ginger looks at me wild-eyed. “Never literally, again. Seriously, Johnathan has had his fun. He’s cut off forever.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Who cares what he knows? The asshole went back to work! Can you believe that?”

  I try to reason with her, “But honey, he’s been off for more than a month. Someone has to make the money.”

  Ginger yells, “Then I’ll make the money! God dammit, I made almost as much as he did. Why do I have to be the parent?”

  I reason, “Because you volunteered when you guys had the discussion about who was going to stay home?”

  Ginger slams on the breaks at a stop sign. “Well, I didn’t know what I was getting into. I plead ignorance and now that I’m not ignorant I want out.”

  This has me a little worried for my sister. I guess, “Were you up a lot last night?”

  “Every blessed half hour on the hour. As soon as I closed my eyes and began to drift off to sleep, another one of them woke up demanding to be fed. My God, they never stop eating!”

  I ask, “Why don’t you supplement with formula? That would give you a break.”

  My sister sighs, “I might have to. I was just hoping to be able to do this on my own for at least the first few months.” Then she looks at me, all panicked and adds, “Renée was right. This is flipping hard work.”

  I almost feel guilty for only having one baby inside me. I try, “Why don’t we drop you for a pedicure and you can eat your lunch there?” I offer, “I’ll drive the babies around while you get a little pampering.”

  My sister readily agrees. So, while she’s getting her nails done, I park under a tree to eat my burger and turn on my secret new radio obsession, The Preppy Prepper. Her stage name is Blaire Morgan and she’s a self-professed Doomsday Goddess. She claims the government is not actually run by the people we elect but by a shadow group that remains so far in the depths that we’ll never know who they are. It’s all a bit overboard on the conspiracy theory, if you ask me, but she does make some interesting points.

  On today’s episode, she’s outlined thirty-eight ways to use the pin of her kilt for survival. The obvious ones include using it to poke an attacker’s eyes out and to open cans, but did you know you can use a kilt pin to build a fire, signal for help and cut meat? This woman is a genius, a scary genius, but still totally brilliant. She’s almost convinced me to buy a kilt pin for my purse.

  On yesterday’s episode, she walked us through skinning an animal and tanning its hide. Because apparently, when the shit hits the fan we’ll be making our own deer skin moccasins and fur coats.

  My favorite show by far was the one on how to make vermin stew, whic
h is essentially the same as road kill casserole with more water. All you have to do is collect as many rodents or small wild animals that you can find, skin them and then boil them whole until the meat falls off their bones. Yum. Throw in as many weeds and herbs and wild berries that you can find to season it. Cook it down until it’s a nice stew-like thickness and eat up! She even explained how to remove a skunk’s stink gland without rupturing it. That’s in case a skunk is the only meat you can find for dinner. She didn’t cover how you’re supposed to kill it without setting it off though.

  Blaire hails from Texas and talks with a Southern twang. She sounds like Miss America meets Hulk Hogan. Some of her diatribe is very feminine and ladylike but then she goes all ninja on you. She claims to have been the president of her sorority in college and is the wife of a local oil tycoon. Her real name isn’t really Blaire Morgan. She’s keeping her real name under wraps so the government doesn’t take her out for sharing “the truth.”

  As soon as I’m done eating I drive the babies around for another hour to give their mama a break. When I pull up to the salon to pick her up, I can see her sitting in a massage chair fast asleep. I decide to let her catch up a little and listen while Blaire teaches me how to make a noose with common household items.

  Chapter 39

  Elliot’s parents have decided to come a week before the C-section is scheduled. Hurray! That means they’ll be here tomorrow and I haven’t begun to prepare for them, not that there’s much for me to prepare. My “staff” seems to have everything in order.

  Andrew has gone so far above and beyond in the guest room, where the earl and countess will be sleeping, that I’m surprised he hasn’t installed butt massagers in their bed. Although, who knows, maybe he has.

  The color palette he went with is nothing short of sumptuous. Golds, creams and hunter green are the main hues with some burgundy to accent. The drapes are a rich velvet over impossibly filmy sheers and the curtain pulls look like something Henry the Eighth might have used to tie up a misbehaving wife. I’m hoping they find their room so much to their liking they spend the majority of their visit there.

  Abbie is about as excited to meet Elliot’s parents as she was to meet Pip, but I’ve assured her that since she’s come to love both my husband and his sister, I’m positive she’ll do great with their parents. I don’t actually think that at all. Victoria and the earl are pretty much as royal as you get without having to kiss a ring, but I don’t want to panic the nanny.

  Now that she’s back with us instead of at Ginger’s, Abbie has asked to stay in charge of all the meals until Sophie’s born. I’m all for it, but I have no idea what Elliot’s parents are going to make of her beet Wellington.

  Richard is coming the day before the birth, so we’re going to be a pretty full house. It’s actually very nice to have the space to effortlessly house so many, and I find that I love having people around. I’m hoping he and Pip will play nice and might actually form a friendship. They are both such wonderful people, it would be amazing if they actually wound up together. Although, I’d settle for them being civil.

  Elliot has been playing phone tag with Beatrice for a few months. At first I thought it was because she and Clive were in the throes of new love and totally wrapped up in each other, but now I wonder if she isn’t avoiding us during our happy time. It’s occurred to me that Beatrice will likely never have children of her own, even if she gets rid of the cancer. I’m worried that our pregnancy has been hard on her, reminding her of something that probably isn’t in her future.

  Elliot’s ex is such an unsuspected friend for me. I used to think of her as my rival for his lordship and that caused some pretty nasty feelings, but when she learned Elliot and I were in love, she came forward with the truth that her feelings for him didn’t extend beyond friendship, releasing him to marry me. Her reward was Clive. I wish the two of them a wonderfully long and happy life together. I vow once Sophie comes out, I’m going to call her myself and invite her to visit. No, scratch that, I’m going to beg her to visit.

  Miss Sophie is camping on my sciatic nerve and I’m in utter agony most of the time. My lower back, butt and left leg are constantly hurting. The only time I get some relief is when I’m laying down, but being so hugely pregnant, I’m only allowed to lie on my side, preferably the left side. I can’t wait to roll over on my stomach, sleep flat on my back, or in the fetal position, if I choose. I’ve always loved a variety of sleeping positions and am finding my limited choice very frustrating.

  My latest pregnancy symptom, and thank God it only started last week, is snoring. I’m not talking soft little purrs either. I’m talking raucously loud hog snorts. The first time I did it and woke myself up, I thought it was Elliot, so I hit him and told him to roll over. The second time, I realized it was me and not my husband. Horror doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.

  Also, I’m just plain not sleeping anymore. I’m lucky to settle in and close my eyes for forty minutes before I have to go to the bathroom. Once I get back into bed and resettle, the pattern continues. Dr. Fermin suggests I take a Tylenol P.M. to help get into a deeper sleep cycle. With the thought that once there, I won’t be so aware of my need to go to the bathroom.

  I’ve given up caffeine and alcohol for this pregnancy so I reason a little sleeping aid won’t hurt. I’m nothing near rested, but its cut down my nighttime potty runs from ten to six.

  Most of the time, when I’m lying in bed, not sleeping, I dwell on what a wuss I am. I’m seriously not sure I can ever be pregnant again. This is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my entire life and that includes the time a tree fell on me in church camp and broke my arm. How my mother did this four times is beyond me. Ginger, doing it with triplets, makes her eligible for sainthood in my eyes.

  Then I think about how if I was giving birth to Sophie a hundred years ago, I might have very well died while they tried to remove this big breech baby from my insides. Died! That’s the thought that usually guarantees no hope of rest.

  Elliot seems to love my great big giant self more than ever and he’s always touching me. I find this extremely sweet and annoying at the same time. I’m thrilled he loves me and our baby. I’m delighted he’s still attracted to me even though I look like Shamu’s not-so-distant cousin, but seriously, I’ve got enough going on here, hands off.

  Have you seen those cast moldings woman have done of their pregnant bellies? You know, so they can immortalize the moment for life? Yeah, well I received a gift certificate for one of those at my shower. Renée gave it to me and told me I could have it bronzed, painted or even tiled so I can turn it into a planter. She regrets not having gotten them done when she was pregnant with Finn and Camille, so she’s torturing me with it.

  That’s what I’m off to do right now. I’m not particularly excited, but I don’t see how I can get out of it either. Renée’s driving me so I’m trying to focus on how nice it is to have a sister day with my oldest sibling and not obsess over some strange person covering me in plaster coated bandages.

  When we pull up to Castoffs, Renée exclaims, “Aren’t you excited?”

  I try to produce a euphoric response, but can only manage, “Help me get out of the car. I’m stuck.”

  We have to walk through a beaded curtain to get inside the place and the décor is a cross between I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle and an opium den. It’s way too groovy for me. I’m about to tell Renée I’ve had second thoughts and suggest she get her money back when a tall robust African American lady walks in. She introduces herself as Madam Lala.

  Renée takes her hand like she’s meeting the Pope and gushes, “Madam Lala, I love your work! You’ve cast so many of my friends that I just had to bring my sister in.”

  Madam Lala smiles hugely and looks at me. With a pure flat Chicago accent she declares, “I cannot wait to immortalize this beautiful woman! Come in, come in!” Well now I’m stuck. She’s a perfectly nice lady and I would be insulting her if I demanded Renée’s money back.<
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  Madam Lala shows us a wide selection of casts that can be done. Some women have gone as far as molding their entire bodies, front first and then the back. This, she explains, is usually when they are planning to bronze the whole thing as a statue.

  The look of horror on my face suggests this is not what I’m going for, although Renée is remarkably jazzed by the thought. “Oh Meems, I think you should do it! Have your whole body cast. Elliot will love it!”

  Not even trying to hide my revulsion, I demand, “Where in the hell will I put a bronze statue of this hugeness in my house?”

  Madam Lala, in all her wisdom suggests, “Why not put it in the garden?”

  I stare at her with my mouth hanging wide open and demand, “For the whole world to see?”

  She responds, “They don’t have to know it’s you. They will most likely just assume it’s a beautiful piece of artwork.”

  My sister feels the need to add, “And that’s exactly what it will be!” Then it turns ugly and she begs, “Oh please, Mimi, do it for me!”

  The only thing that saves me from this impending nightmare is that Madam Lala adds, “Of course you’ll have to hold your bladder for two hours.” She explains, “It takes a lot longer to cast a whole body.”

  I grab onto that out like the lifeline it is and explain, “Too bad. I go every half hour. Guess I’ll just have to do something less dramatic.” And hide it in my closet when it’s done, I don’t add.

  The next hour is spent posing me in the proper position and slapping plaster coated strips across my naked flesh. This crosses the border of unpleasant and lands smack in the territory of torturous for me, but it’s not the worst part. The worst part is sitting still for forty minutes while the cast dries. I conjure imaginary itches that I can’t scratch and just knowing I can’t go to the bathroom is enough to drive me insane. Then there’s my sciatic nerve which decides to hate the pose fifteen minutes after it’s too late to change it.