A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Looks pretty good. Yes. It was probably just some ancillary bleeding. Baby looks healthy.” Dr. Hoffsteder said, smiling at us.

  “Is that its heart?” I pointed to the flickering on the screen.

  “Yes, it is. And this mass next to it is the egg sac.”

  “I can’t believe I made a heart and an egg sac!” I shouted.

  Dr. Hoffsteder and Jake laughed. Jake audibly sighed.

  “So, we’re good, right?” Jake said.

  “Looks that way.” He switched off the machine and turned to us. “The risk of miscarriage is highest in the first trimester, so keep an eye on things and don’t hesitate to call your doctor if this happens again.”

  We nodded at him and he gave me some prenatal vitamins and discharged us.

  As we walked back to the car, Jake grabbed my hand.

  “Relieved?” I said to him.

  “Very,” he said.

  “Are you surprised?” I said softly.

  “That I’m so relieved?” We stopped next to our car and faced each other.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it OK if I say yes?” He studied my face.

  “Yeah. It doesn’t make you a bad person,” I said to him.

  “Are you?”

  “I’m relieved, but mostly totally surprised because for a moment, I really thought it was all over. A very small part of me said well, OK, that’s fine, but most of me couldn’t imagine losing the baby. Weird, huh?”

  He leaned forward and hugged me. “This whole situation is weird to us. We’ll just take it one step at a time and try to figure it out.”

  “Jake,” I said into his rugby shirt, “I’m really glad everything’s OK.”

  “Me too,” he whispered. “Me, too.”

  Thursday, May 24

  Last night and this morning, I’ve felt something new since I found out I’m pregnant: gratitude. I’m grateful for Jake, for being such a great husband. I’m grateful for the doctors, who took care of me last night. I’m grateful that everything’s OK with the Dragon. I’m still somewhat surprised at that last one. Not that I wanted something to happen, but I just didn’t realize I’d already become attached to the baby. Or at least, the idea of having a baby. I don’t know. I don’t have anyone to bounce these strange ideas off other than Jake or Julie. And I won’t for a while because we’ve decided to wait until after the first trimester to tell our families. Last night was just too scary to start announcing the news right now.

  I desperately wanted to remain in bed this morning in a vegetative state and let my body rest, but dragged myself to the office since the Trio of Torture came in today to discuss the RSVPs for the Gala.

  I was already in the conference room when they all arrived. I could hear their six-hundred-dollar heels click-clack against the floor; each knock filled me with more anxiety. I straightened my cardigan and smoothed my wool pants quickly. Finally, they arrived at the door.

  “Clare, hello. So nice to see you.” Carolyn’s tone betrayed her smile. She was dressed perfectly in a black Chanel knit suit. Betsy and Jessica were behind her, scurrying around in her wake. They both waved casually and smiled, turning to Carolyn to take the lead like two puppies following the alpha dog.

  “Clare, as you know, we are here to discuss our invitation list.” She stopped and stared at me for a minute until I realized that I was supposed to say something.

  “Absolutely.” My old standby.

  “Now, what we need you to do is to keep meticulous records in a certain format,” she looked in Jessica’s direction, silently giving her a signal, and Jessica slid an Excel spreadsheet across the table, “and coordinate the requests for table seating. They should be tracked in this specific way . . .” She looked over to Betsy, who slid another Excel spreadsheet across the table. I couldn’t believe how well trained they were. “Is this something that you can handle?”

  “Of course.” I was back into robotic prostitute mode.

  “Well, good. I need to run now. Felicity is home from Europe and there are things that need attending to.”

  Having no clue who the hell Felicity was or why she was in Europe, I simply said, “Good luck.”

  With that, Carolyn left the room and I could swear the temperature increased at least six degrees. I looked at Jessica and Betsy and asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to go over at this time?”

  They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. After a long pause, Jessica leaned forward and asked, “Is she driving you nuts?”

  “I’m happy to help you guys out however you need it.” I smiled angelically at them.

  “Well, she’s driving us crazy!” Jessica said.

  Wanting to hear more but not wanting them to stop for fear they’d gone too far, I tried to be casual. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she’s insane! She won’t let us make any decisions without her. We’re the cochairs but we have to run everything by her first. We are not allowed to meet with you without her present. She insists on leading every committee meeting and shoots down all of our ideas. We originally planned on a Brazilian Carnival theme for this event and she turned it down and said we were using this ridiculous Asian theme!” Jessica’s usually porcelain face began to turn pink.

  I shook my head, shocked, still trying to look even-keeled so she’d continue.

  “She treats Betsy and me like we’re her slaves, not to mention how she treats you!” Betsy nodded. “I’m sorry, but we’ve just about had it with her.”

  There were a few moments of silence.

  Still trying to be professional, I said, “Well, she certainly is a woman with strong opinions. I know this event is very important to your organization and I’m sure she’s just trying to ensure its success.”

  I really wanted to say, “She’s a big fat bitch and I hate her, too! Let’s draw mean pictures of her and prank call her cell phone! I bet she sleeps in a coffin at night!”

  “I know you have to say that since you’re the professional, but you know she’s completely impossible!” Jessica said.

  “She is!” Betsy chimed in.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure that this is the last thing that you want to hear. You have enough on your plate right now,” Jessica said.

  “Don’t worry about it, being in charge of something as enormous as this event has got to be incredibly stressful,” I said, even though I was thinking: Stressful—what do they know about stressful? I spent last night in the ER and didn’t even take the day off. They can leave here and get manicures and massages all day long if they want while this pregnant working schlub is going to be chained to her desk for the next six hours.

  “This event is going to be a huge success and you guys are both doing such an awesome job,” I said.

  “Thanks so much for saying that, Clare. We appreciate everything you’re doing, really. We honestly couldn’t do it without you.” Jessica smiled warmly.

  “We really couldn’t!” Betsy said.

  “Well, thank you, and don’t worry, I’ll be sure to get this invitation piece out the door ASAP.”

  Jessica and Betsy stood up and turned to each other.

  “Lunch?” Jessica said.

  Betsy nodded.

  Jessica turned to me. “Clare, would you like to join us for lunch? Our treat!”

  It sounded wonderful, but I didn’t think I could sneak out for three hours, so I turned them down.

  As I walked them to the door, Mule Face called out, her voice garbled by the omelet sandwich she shoved into her mouth, “Good-bye, ladies! It was lovely to see both of you!”

  Jessica looked at me for a split second and rolled her eyes slightly before leaving.

  I think I’m starting to like Jessica Greene. Even though I sort of hate her for owning fifty pairs of Manolo Blahniks.

  Saturday, May 26

  10:00 A.M.

  Today’s my first anniversary. Harumph. Most couples I know spent their first anniversary in Hawaii or somewhere exotic. Jake and I are
spending ours at home with Blockbuster’s latest. My life is so exciting I can barely stand it.

  1:00 P.M.

  So, OK, our anniversary might not be so terrible. Jake just surprised me with a reservation at the Four Seasons tonight as a present. He said we both need to get away, which I find funny since the last time we got away was the Conception Vegas Trip. I laughed when I said this. Jake did not.

  Anyway, I cannot wait to lie around on million-thread-count sheets and order room service. If I can’t have a glass of champagne, I’m going to stuff as much food as possible into my body.

  My life has become so romantic. On our honeymoon, Jake and I barely wore clothes at all, alternating between lying in bed, rubbing aloe vera on our sunburned shoulders while surrounded by international newspapers, and making out and having delicious middle-of-the-afternoon sex and then falling asleep until dinner. A year later, I am looking forward to lounging on two-thousand-dollar sheets, wrapped up in the comforter like a burrito, and gorging on room-service cheeseburgers. In one short year, I’ve gone from tanned sex goddess to Jabba the Pregnant Hut.

  7:00 P.M.

  Ooooohhh. I think my stomach is going to explode. I hate the Four Seasons. Why do the sundaes have to be so tasty? And the nachos? Oohhhhhh.

  Besides destroying my gastrointestinal functions, I think I’ve officially made the transition to Scary Pregnant Wife in Jake’s eyes—as if the whole Sixteen Candles episode wasn’t enough. I think it was the sight of his formerly sexy, hot wife lying in bed pigging out, not even caring when nacho cheese dripped on her chin. I’m pretty sure I looked like one of those fatsos on talk shows, who’ve lain in bed for the past three years because they’re too fat to fit through their bedroom door anymore. So Maury or Jenny or Sally Jessy has to hire a crane to rip off a side of their house and airlift the blob to the nearest hospital because Oh. My. God.

  It’s true, I saw it once.

  12:00 A.M.

  Despite everything, Jake still managed to have sex with me. Men. They’re so predictable, but I guess it’s how ugly girls get laid.

  We hadn’t done it since the whole “oh, by the way, I’m pregnant” discussion. (No, the In-Law Camping Trip didn’t count, because he was so wasted he would’ve humped a tree log.) It was good, but Jake continually stopped and asked if I was OK, really meaning if the baby was OK. Afterward, I explained to him the baby is still about the size of a grain of rice or something and please. Your penis is lovely but it isn’t gonna puncture whatever organs are holding the rice in place and injure it.

  Well, at least I hope not. It would be terrible if the child is born with a dented head and we have to come up with some half-assed story about it being hit with a baseball as a newborn.

  Sunday, May 27

  Sadly, we checked out of the Four Seasons this morning, but I was cheered, and mildly surprised, when Reese called me and invited me to lunch.

  I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late but it wasn’t my fault. It was Banana Republic’s fault for having such an amazing sale. I tore through the restaurant and found her already sipping a glass of Merlot.

  “Sorry! Sorry! Have you been here long?” I set my shopping bags down on the bar stool next to her.

  “Half an hour, no big deal.”

  “Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be early.”

  “It’s OK, I wanted to get out of the house before Grace woke up from her nap. I haven’t had an afternoon to myself in what feels like years.” She smiled and took another swig of her wine.

  We got settled at a table and ordered some food.

  “So how’s everything at home?” she asked me.

  “Nothing exciting. Just the usual—work, in-laws, family, going out.”

  “Well, enjoy your free time now because once you guys have kids, things get crazy,” she said quietly.

  I bit my lip and the back of my neck got prickly. I desperately wanted to tell her, but I knew I couldn’t say anything yet. I wished I could say, “Reese, I’m pregnant. You have to help me. I don’t know what to do or how to be a mother or anything. As a mom, please, please, please tell me it’s going to be OK.”

  “Happy to be out of the house?” I said instead.

  “Yep! So, how’s Jake?” Quick change of subject. I ignored her question.

  “Is everything OK, Reese?”

  “Couldn’t be better! Let’s order!” She gave me a bright smile and I didn’t press any further. I knew from experience it would take an oyster shucker to get information out of Reese before she was ready so I sighed and opened my menu.

  By the time we finished lunch, Reese had downed her second glass of wine and was hovering on the line between drunk and tipsy. After telling me all about Grace’s latest cute faces and sharing a thousand new pictures of her, she finally started to open up a little.

  “What are you doing after lunch?”

  “Probably shopping, I don’t know. Jake and I are going out to dinner tonight.”

  “Matt and I used to have so much time for each other. Now all we do is talk about things like babysitters and diapers. I can’t even remember the last time we went on a date.”

  “Things will be easier. You guys are still just figuring everything out.” I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but it seemed to help a little.

  “Of course we are. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just being silly. My whole life I’ve wanted to be a mother and a wife. I have a gorgeous husband and daughter and my life is just perfect.”

  It was a typical Reese rationalization. I squeezed her hand. “It’s just a rough patch. Besides, you are totally a MILF.”

  “Oh, right!” She laughed and her gloominess seemed to break. She downed the last of her wine and I could tell she was officially drunk.

  I suggested we do something totally frivolous like shop for bras or something but she said she had to go home to take care of Grace since Matt wanted to go golfing with some friends. So, we waited until she sobered up and then parted ways, me to go find some new bras and her to go find a hangover cure.

  It was great to see her but I can’t stop thinking about what really must be going on between her and Matt. She deserves every ounce of happiness; I’ll kill him if he’s being an asshole.

  Tuesday, May 29

  This morning, as I walked into the office, I got a frantic phone call from Betsy Fallon’s assistant, Lois.

  “Clare! You have to help me! Ohpleasehelpme!” She ran every word together as her voice rose five octaves.

  “What’s going on?” I unbuttoned my jacket and examined a hangnail, not alarmed in the slightest, since Lois recently went off her meds or something and lately I’d been operating as her stand-in psychiatrist for problems like the one she had yesterday—a fax machine running out of paper.

  “This time, it’s really, really bad. You have to help me.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Most likely. Do tell.”

  “Well, you know the cocktail party Betsy is throwing at her house in two weeks for the committee?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you know the invitations for the party? The ones that Carolyn picked out herself and gave to Betsy? And you know how all I was supposed to do was print the envelopes, stuff, and mail them?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I printed the envelopes upside down by accident and now we can’t mail them.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t use them. We need to get more of these exact envelopes or Carolyn will know. I’d go and pick them up at the stationery store but I have to pick up Betsy’s dog at the groomer’s in an hour. Please help me.” She sounded like a bleating lamb.

  “Fine. Give me the directions.”

  An hour and a half later, I was on the expressway, cursing the construction workers who had the nerve to close down two of the three lanes. They seemed really busy, too, with all of them gathering around to smoke cigarettes and stare at the
one guy operating the crane.

  My cell phone rang and I snapped it open with one hand while simultaneously turning down the radio. “Hello?”

  “Oh, good, Clare, I got you.” It was Lois again. When the hell did I give this woman my cell phone number? “I wanted to make sure you knew to buy the envelopes with the Chinese symbols in the upper right-hand corner. Not the one with the Chinese dragon across it. They’re both from the same manufacturer.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Number four-seven-eight. Gold leaf and navy blue.”

  Unfortunately, my role in assisting on this event has turned me into a virtual safety net for everyone involved. “Clare, can you get me reservations at NoMi?” “Clare, can you secure Trotters to Go for our committee planning meeting?” and “Clare, do you know where I could find a twelve-year-old prostitute who makes house calls?”

  After I found the envelopes it was nearly five, so I had the extreme pleasure of sitting in rush-hour traffic on the way over to Betsy’s house. I wordlessly shoved the envelopes into Lois’s fat fingers and downed several Tylenol on my way home. My cell phone rang again and I hurled it into the backseat, fatally cracking the battery. Which sucks since now I have to shell out several hundred dollars for a new one. The upside? New pretty pink phone.

  Despite ruining my cell phone and cursing everyone from construction workers to the politicians who authorize road work, today wasn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before. Being in the event-planning industry means handling odd requests, last-minute changes, and, inevitably, incompetent people with sky-high expectations. And I do all of that. Usually really well.

  Sometimes it feels like I’m really good at my job but really bad at my life. I can pull off a black-tie event regardless of the curveballs thrown my way, but when life throws me one of my own, I’m all, “Oh, shit! What are we going to do? How are we going to handle this? We’re so screwed!” I think it relates to being really good behind the scenes, horribly bad at being the star of the show. Although some refer to me as an Internet Rockstar, the blog is so indirect and passive, I usually don’t feel too exposed and in the forefront so that doesn’t count. But being pregnant? Kinda hard to be behind the scenes. And labor and delivery? Well, that’s just a Julia-Roberts-winning-the-Oscar kind of moment. Everyone’s staring at you, waiting for something to happen. And only you can give them what they want.