A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Gosh, I hope my boobs get as big as yours when I’m pregnant,” Jessica said as she eyed Julie’s cleavage. “It’s the one benefit of pregnancy, right?”

  “Yes, it is! Julie used to be an A cup before she got pregnant!” I chimed in.

  “Er, yes,” Julie muttered under her breath.

  “Well, I gotta run. It was great to see you, Clare! And congrats to you, too!” she said to Julie before swaying off toward the parking garage.

  When she was out of eyesight and earshot, I turned to Julie. “Even?”

  “Fucking even,” she grumbled.

  Tuesday, June 5

  Julie eventually forgave me yesterday but it took agreeing to step inside Abercrombie & Fitch so she could ogle the underage half-naked guys working. It helped that I told her to forgive me or I’d force her to be my date to Natalie’s baby shower.

  Julie may not want to attend, but Wifey1025 sure does. I thought about saying yes for a moment, just to enjoy introducing her to Marianne, but decided against it when visions of me hog-tied and gagged in her backseat flashed across my mind.

  Friday, June 8

  Despite my bout of nausea during the meeting with Tony G., I really thought I was going to escape the Pregnant Plague. Due to my seemingly endless appetite, I figured I was one of those lucky people who don’t experience morning sickness. But right after Jake and I watched a horrible movie, I started to feel horrible. I assumed that the rumbling, burning, twisting surge in my stomach was due to the craptastic acting in the movie, but this morning I woke up and felt like I’d drunk the better part of a bottle of tequila. Within seconds, my head was hanging over the toilet. I pray it was just a fluke because I can’t spend the next thirty or so weeks with my head in the toilet. The second I start making frequent bathroom trips, Mule Face will make the assumption that I am (a) a drug user who uses the stalls to shoot up, (b) alcoholic, or (c) pregnant.

  After I spewed every color of the rainbow this morning, I tried to get ready for work. Thirty minutes later, I gave up. It was no use—no matter how much concealer, blush, or mascara I shellacked on, the pasty white skin and purple bags under my eyes did not go away. Where the hell is the pregnancy glow? Or the shiny hair?

  Despite the way the day started, I put it out of my mind because today was my first doctor’s appointment. I made up a lame excuse about having a meeting with Jessica and Betsy and ducked out of the office. As I drove over, my heart raced from nerves because this would make it really, really real. Yeah, I’ve taken five thousand pregnancy tests, but once an actual medical professional is involved, oh so much more scary.

  It didn’t help my anxiety when a teenager in a Range Rover tailed me. She got really pissed off when I slowed down and stopped to let an ambulance pass. I stopped just for kicks and also because it’s the law. At the next light, she pulled up next to me and gave me the finger. Normally, I would’ve laughed and blown it off, but a red, blinding, hormonal fury came over me and I rolled down the window and yelled, “Learn how to drive,” followed by a word I have never, ever said. A word that I would never, ever let Jake use. A word all women hate. Which is exactly why I used it. Four letters, starts with a C and ends with a T. It’s so horrible. I have no idea where it came from. It must be the hormones.

  But, I’ve never felt like such a badass.

  I can’t believe it—being pregnant has turned me into a trash-talking hoodrat.

  Feeling very feisty, I cranked up Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg for the rest of the drive. I turned it down a little when I had the horrible thought of my unborn child hearing the lyrics and being born with a set of gold teeth and a clock around his/her neck à la Flavor Flav. I would have only myself to blame. I mean, the kid just heard his mother say the C word and crank up music about smoking pot.

  I thought, Hmmmm . . . must ask Dr. Clarke if it has ears yet.

  Regardless of my newly found badass status, the minute I walked into the office, the nerves returned. As I sat waiting for my name to be called, I discreetly glanced around the room. Immediately, I noticed the other pregnant women waiting. I also noticed almost all of them had their husbands/boyfriends/sperm donors with them, except for one girl who appeared to be a lesbian and had her female partner with her. Jake wanted to come, but I told him not to bother since I figured I’d just get the standard pamphlets and pap smear, so said the pregnancy books. But suddenly I felt like I did when I was in grade school and my mom forgot it was the one day we could wear our normal clothes instead of our uniforms and I was the only loser kid who showed up in a plaid skirt and kneesocks.

  I’m already screwing up this mothering/pregnancy stuff.

  “Clare Finnegan,” the nurse called. She looked surprised as she said my name. She glanced at my chart again as I walked toward her, and she smiled. Once we were in the room, she said, “Congratulations! I didn’t think we’d see you back so soon! You were just here a few months ago.”

  “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

  She took some blood and made me pee in a cup, which I screwed up like always and pissed on my new white cashmere pants. She asked me a million questions about my medical history and left. Dr. Clarke came in soon after.

  “Well, Clare, welcome back!” She smiled at me.

  “Yeah, well . . . thanks!”

  “So, I hear you had a little scare a while back. How’s everything been since?”

  “Great. Well, except for the nausea. But good, otherwise.”

  “Good to hear. Sometimes those kinds of things just happen. But you were right to get it checked out. So, how did your dad react?” Dr. Clarke and my dad went to medical school together and occasionally run into each other at the hospital. The last thing I want is for her to tell my father.

  “No one really knows yet.” Isn’t there some kind of oath that they take or something—she can’t accidentally tell him or anything, right?

  She saw my look and winked. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thanks. The last thing my father needs is a heart attack. My sister already has that angle covered.”

  She handed me a packet with a bunch of leaflets and crap. I caught the word “incision” and quickly looked away.

  “Here is a bunch of information on everything. Do you have any questions?”

  “Um, yeah. A few.”

  “Shoot,” she said, and sat down on one of those miniature stools.

  “Well, I heard there’s a bunch of stuff I’m not supposed to eat like cheese or something, lunch meat, caffeine . . .”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s all bullshit. Unless you’re eating a pound of bologna a day, you’ll be fine. Everything in moderation.”

  “Really?” I love Dr. Clarke.

  “Really. Our relatives in Ireland ate corned beef every day and drank stout and we all turned out OK. You’ll be fine. Don’t kill yourself trying to be perfect. Just limit the obvious ones, like alcohol.” I seriously am in love with that woman.

  “Do people ever give birth like on TV, with those blue sheets on and all covered up?” She just stared at me after this question and I wound up blurting out another, more ridiculous question: “Can you really get a brain aneurysm while giving birth, like I saw in a movie?”

  Pregnancy has turned me into an idiot.

  After more staring, some stifled laughter, and a bunch more leaflets, she gave me her estimate of the Scary Day, a.k.a. my due date: January 6.

  Apparently, according to medical research, in January, an organism bigger than a cat will be forced out of me. It looks like my New Year’s Eve is going to be a real hoot.

  On my way out, I set up more appointments. I never knew pregnancy was so time-consuming. I was almost out the door when I saw Abby, my office’s receptionist. She gave me a friendly wave and furrowed her brow in slight confusion. Probably because she knew I was just here a few months ago since Dr. Clarke’s office called to confirm my appointment and she gave me the message. She’s probably thinking I have some weird, u
ntreatable STD requiring multiple visits, and will tell everyone about my mutated strain of venereal disease.

  Sunday, June 10

  The entire office gave me questioning looks all afternoon, no doubt due to Abby telling them about my contagious new disease. I’m going to let them think what they want for now, because I’m nowhere near ready to tell work since it would involve actually having a plan for maternity leave and such. Besides, I think my own parents should hear the news before Mule Face does. I’m planning on telling them tonight at dinner, although I have no clue how.

  5:00 P.M.

  Here we go again! Yes, my apartment has officially become Vomitville.

  5:05 P.M.

  Have. To. Pee. Again. Then. Puke. Again.

  5:20 P.M.

  It’s time to peel myself off the bathroom floor and get dressed.

  6:05 P.M.

  Jake’s hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

  6:35 P.M.

  “Great! You guys are here. The lasagna’s just about ready.” My mom looked busy as usual, tossing a salad with one hand and typing a PowerPoint presentation with the other.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked as Jake immediately disappeared into the family room to commandeer the TV.

  “Nope. I think I’m good.”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “Oh, she’s lying in bed. She was at a sleepover last night and is pretty tired so she’s lying down.” My mother lost about a thousand radar points and two thousand uptight points after I graduated from high school. If I came home from a sleepover totally hungover, the jig would’ve been up and grounding would’ve ensued. But Sam just gets a house full of whispered voices and a parental blind eye.

  “How’s everything with the in-laws? Natalie pulled anything lately?”

  No, but I can’t wait to make that phone call, I thought to myself.

  “Not really.” I tried to sound casual but my voice came out all squeaky.

  “Everything OK?” She looked at me suspiciously.

  “Yeah!” I said quickly. Goddamn it, I’ve never been good at lying to my mother, which is one reason why I spent most of my teenage years without phone privileges. I knew she wasn’t going to let it go.

  She just stared at me. “What’s going on? Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I laughed.

  “Did you get fired or something?”

  “No. Mom!”

  “OK. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I know something is up.” She shot me another wary look and clicked on her laptop a few more times.

  “You’ll know soon enough at dinner,” I muttered under my breath. Then, a very, very bad thing happened: I let my guard down. I never should’ve done it—it’s my mother’s classic trick. She waits until I’m not paying attention and then socks me with some amazingly accurate question so I can’t even attempt to cover up my reaction.

  “Are you pregnant?” WHAM! My face turned pink and my stomach dropped. She didn’t even look up from her laptop. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, well . . .” I laughed again, feeling slightly hysterical. I would be so horrible in a military interrogation. All they’d have to do is bring my mother in and I’d spill the country’s secrets.

  She looked up from her laptop. “I knew it.” She broke out into a huge smile and I got the pang in my stomach again. “I take it this wasn’t planned?” I shook my head, unable to speak because I suddenly felt like crying. Maybe it was out of fear, maybe out of relief, or maybe because I knew this was something my mom couldn’t make all better. I wanted my mom to fix it, but she couldn’t. Because I was going to be a mom myself. Gah.

  She put her arm around me. “Well, honey, it does change your life but don’t be afraid of it. I know you didn’t plan for it but the second you see that baby, you’ll know everything will be OK. You weren’t planned either but the first time we held you it was like . . . instant love.” I silently nodded my head and the tears started to well up again. Before either of us could say anything else, the oven timer went off. My mom took the lasagna out of the oven and set it down. “I’m so proud of you,” she said and kissed the top of my head.

  Jake, my dad, and Sam all appeared, having heard the timer go off.

  “Hi, hon,” my dad said.

  “Ew. Gross. You know I hate lasagna,” Sam said, wrinkling her nose. She bent down and sniffed the dish and stuck her tongue out.

  “I made it without meat,” my mom said, wiping her hands on a dish towel as Jake and my dad discussed their early predictions for the World Series or something.

  “MO-OM! I TOLD you I’m on an all-meat diet now. Like the one I showed you in last month’s InStyle.”

  “All meat?” I asked her.

  She turned to me, barely able to keep her eyeballs in her head. “DUH. It’s only like the best diet ever.” She examined her manicured fingernail. “I SO need an effing manicure,” she muttered to herself.

  “Let’s eat, everybody,” my mom said, giving my father and Jake a little tap.

  Nobody even took their first bite before I cleared my throat and paused. Jake gave me a quick nervous glance.

  “So, I have some news for everyone,” I said, and smiled widely.

  “You have spinach in your teeth,” Sam said as she glanced up.

  “What?”

  “Spinach. In between your two front teeth. It’s gross. Go look in the mirror.”

  Not wanting to get up and lose my chance to announce the news and not wanting to announce my pregnancy with spinach hanging from my teeth, I looked helplessly at Jake and raised my eyebrows. He shook his head and mouthed, “No.”

  “Yes,” I hissed at him.

  “No,” he said, a little louder.

  “What’s going on?” my dad asked, his head ping-ponging between the two of us.

  “Nothing, Dad.” I smiled at him with my mouth closed. “Do it,” I hissed at Jake.

  Jake shook his head in silence.

  “I’m pregnant.” I tried to say it without moving my lips.

  “What?” my dad said while my mom smiled and Sam examined her split ends.

  I decided to screw the spinach and loudly said, “Jake and I are going to have a baby.” Even as I said it, it didn’t seem real. The second I got the words out, I started laughing hysterically.

  My dad looked at my mom and she nodded. “Oh, well, um, yeah, um, congratulations!” he finally said.

  Sam still didn’t look up from her blond split ends.

  “Sam?” my mom asked.

  “What? Oh, sorry. I missed it. What did you say?”

  “Your sister is pregnant,” my mom said.

  Her mouth dropped open. “You?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, are you going to have it?”

  Jake and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes as my mom screeched, “Sam!”

  “What? I was just wondering . . .” She trailed off and looked thoughtful for a moment. I thought she was going to say something nice or insightful.

  “Can I have the new jeans you just bought? I mean, you’ll have to wear high-waisted mom jeans now anyway. Oh, and your BCBG silver top?”

  “Shut up, Sam. So, are you going back to work?” my mom asked.

  “Yep. I’ll take maternity leave, but I want to stay at my job and besides, having running water and paying our bills is important to us,” I said as I fiddled with my earring.

  “What are you going to do about child care?” my mom asked.

  “Uh, we’re still trying to get used to the idea that we’re going to have a child. We don’t know anything beyond,” Jake said.

  “How much is child care these days?” my dad asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably a lot. Let’s not talk about that now, OK? We’re not ready for that discussion quite yet,” I said.

  “Do nannies make a lot?” Sam interjected, looking thoughtful.

  “I’m not sure. Probably.” I shrugged.

  “Like how mu
ch?”

  “I have no idea. We probably won’t be able to afford a nanny. But listen, like I said, we’re not ready to have that particular discussion.”

  “I need, like, LOTS of money. I am effing broke,” Sam said. “You can give me money to watch your kid.”

  “We will probably want someone who would actually WANT to take care of our baby. Would you?” I said to her.

  “No. But I WANT money.” She widened her eyes and pursed her lips.

  After a million more questions that we couldn’t answer, Jake and I drove home so we could continue sharing our news with other family members and continue to answer their questions in our half-assed manner.

  10:30 P.M.

  I just got off the phone with Mark. After I told him the news, he said, “Congratulations! Did Dad act weird?”

  “Not really, why?”

  “Because it’s pretty much a confirmation you’ve had sex.”

  “I’m married, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’ve moved from ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ to flamboyantly out of the closet now,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just teasing you. Listen, congrats. Tell Jake I’m proud of his swimmers.”

  10:45 P.M.

  Reese is thrilled I’m joining the Motherhood Cult. She claimed she “knew” and her mother’s intuition told her. I told her it wasn’t her intuition but rather my quickly horizontally growing stomach. She laughed and said she’s packing up all of her maternity clothes to give me. Score!

  Now it’s time to call the in-laws. . . .

  11:00 P.M.

  I wimped out and made Jake make the phone call to the Grandalskis.

  “Well, dear! Congratulations. This is a surprise—what a surprise indeed! I can’t imagine this was planned. Anyway, welcome to the mom club,” Marianne said after Jake handed me the phone.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Have you thought about moving yet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Move, dear. You can’t raise a baby in an apartment.”