A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Oh, right.”

  “So where’s Jake?” Julie said as she adjusted the ice pack.

  “Playing softball.”

  “In this heat?” Julie shrieked. “He’ll die of heatstroke! Isn’t he tired?”

  “Julie, you need to remember not everyone on earth is hungover. I know you’re probably dying inside, but we got about ten hours of sleep last night, so I think he’s up for a few hours of exercise.”

  “I got ten hours of sleep last night. Lot of good it did me,” Julie muttered. She threw a blanket over her head. “You guys still doing it?” she asked casually.

  “I wish,” I sighed. “I feel guilty, but I’m way too exhausted and sick most of the time to muster up the energy to do anything remotely sexual.”

  “I simply cannot relate.”

  “I know. I tried to tell Jake to find a nice girl who’ll have sex with him, but he turned it down. It’s too bad, though. Since R—” I started to say Reese, but stopped myself. “—other women tell me men get a little freaked out by sex at the end. Hopefully I’ll feel better so I can get some while the gettin’ is good, so to speak.”

  “Rother women?” Julie eyed me suspiciously.

  “Other. You know what I meant,” I said quickly.

  “Well, suck it up, sister. Remember what I said about increased blood flow.”

  “Please. Don’t torture me.”

  “So, what’s new with work? Have you told them yet?” Julie stretched her arms over her head like a cat.

  “Not yet. I’m putting it off as long as possible. Although that might be a bit difficult if you don’t keep your mouth shut in public.”

  “I apologized for that, OK? Besides, you should apologize to me. You told someone I’m pregnant. What if you cursed me and now I’m going to get knocked up, too?”

  “It wouldn’t be that bad. What did you say to me? Oh, yes, something about designer jeans and Reese Witherspoon. So, yeah! I hope you get pregnant, too!” I said, and smiled at her.

  She pointed her finger at me and sat up. “You take it back.”

  “Really, why? I thought you said accidental pregnancies were very Hollywood.” I looked innocently at her.

  “Say another word and I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? I don’t think so. I’ll blackmail you to hang out with me if necessary.” I switched on the DVD player. “This should keep you here for a while.”

  The television screen flickered and George Clooney’s gorgeous face filled the screen.

  “You win.” Julie sighed and snuggled down on the floor. “You have me for another three hours. Two for the movie and one to discuss his hotness.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Friday, July 6

  Miraculously, I’ve felt better ever since Julie and I had the George Clooney movie marathon. I’m attributing it to his gorgeous eyelashes rather than the end of the first trimester. Although, according to every pregnancy book I’ve read, the second trimester is considered the honeymoon period. The first trimester is something like this:

  Nature: “Hey, bitch—enjoy the upset stomach, cold sweats, and dry heaving.”

  Me: “But I didn’t drink last night, Nature. Aren’t you supposed to drink to get a hangover?”

  Nature: “Ha, ha, ha! Don’t you know that your body can’t distinguish between three martinis or a tiny embryo? Enjoy the next nine months, sucker!”

  And apparently the third trimester involves lots of waddling, water retention, and shooting hoo-ha pains. Can’t wait!

  To commemorate reaching the end of the first trimester, today is my second appointment with Dr. Clarke. According to the Internet, we will get to hear the heartbeat today. So naturally, I’ve spent all week worrying about everything from what if we can’t hear the heartbeat because my stomach has gotten so fat the blubber muffles it to what if the baby’s heart sounds weird and the doctor tells me it’s because I’ve been eating goat cheese to what if there is no heartbeat, and in fact, despite already seeing the baby on the ultrasound in the ER, there is no baby and I’ve dreamt this whole thing and will need to be institutionalized due to early onset of dementia? (It actually happens. Some women have phantom pregnancies, a.k.a. pseudocyesis, according to Wikipedia. I also saw it on CSI.)

  2:00 P.M.

  OK, so there is a baby and it’s not a phantom one, either. My theory of early onset of dementia is false.

  Jake came to the appointment and became very shy around Dr. Clarke. I think he was just freaked out by the stirrups and diagrams of ovaries and uteruses (uteri?) everywhere.

  She asked him if he would like to ask any questions and he said, “Um. Can it hear us?”

  “Not yet. Hearing usually comes around eighteen weeks.”

  He looked relieved. He mentioned yesterday he was concerned about all of the rap music I’d been listening to and that the child’s first word would be “crunk” or something.

  After more peeing in a cup and blood testing, we finally got to hear the heartbeat. It really was amazing. First of all, because my stomach is not so chunky it obscures sound altogether and second because, a heart! My child has a heart! A real one! A teeny-tiny heart, but it works! And beats fast—like it had just run a marathon.

  The room became very quiet and my skin became prickly when Dr. Clarke switched on the Doppler and turned up the sound for me and Jake to hear. I looked over at Jake and his mouth was open and I smiled at him, the same squishy and warm feelings we’d experienced in the ER washing over us.

  I reached out my hand and he grabbed it and kissed it, still looking amazed. In spite of myself, my eyes filled with tears that I quickly wiped away, slightly embarrassed.

  I’m pretty sure that Jake was emotional, too, based on the fact he bear-hugged Dr. Clarke on our way out.

  As we left, we scheduled our ultrasound for August 13, which means in about T minus five weeks we’ll know if we’re having a boy or girl. It’s so cool but a little freaky at the same time. Although we’ve pretty much accepted the pregnancy, knowing the baby’s gender is just one step closer to having a real-life baby in our hands. And although pregnancy is OK in my book now, a wriggly infant is still not totally comprehendable.

  I don’t have much time to wonder over these miracles of my life. I need to focus on Natalie’s Li’l Miracle since her baby shower is this weekend and I still need to assemble about fifty infant-shaped cup-cake favors.

  Saturday, July 7

  Recipe for the Most Torturous Event Ever, also known as Natalie’s baby shower:

  70 bored women, assorted ages

  5 old-as-hell women enjoying themselves

  2 mothers to be, one nine months pregnant, weighing close to two hundred pounds, and the other four months pregnant, defiantly wearing four-inch stilettos and taking lots of pictures to post on her Web site

  1 cake in the shape of a baby

  250 pieces of confetti shaped like baby bottles

  2 bottles of wine

  3 lame shower games

  Assorted presents, all baby related

  Separate the bored and old-as-hell women. Place bored women at random tables to discuss the weather, the cake, and when they can leave. Set old-as-hell women aside to discuss how late Clare’s thank-you notes were and how she didn’t change her name when she got married, but she’d better use that monogrammed kitchen utensil holder I bought her.

  Place mother-to-be in the center of the room, loudly complaining that her feet hurt and her pelvic bone is throbbing while screaming, “Get me more cake!”

  Mix in infant-shaped cake slightly resembling Rosemary’s Baby. Take extreme satisfaction in cutting off baby’s head when handing out the cake.

  Sprinkle confetti around the tables so guests can find it in their purses, hair, and shoes when they get home.

  Evenly distribute all of the lame gifts after they’re opened. Force everyone to pass around gifts robotically and think of something original to say such as, “Wow! This breast pump rocks!”

  Watch m
other-to-be open your gift, which you spent an hour trying to buy on your lunch hour so you can see her smile real fakey and pass the godforsaken, heavy-as-hell motherfucking high chair to the next person.

  Garnish with a generous helping of jealousy when mother-to-be receives Coach tote bag to be used as diaper bag. Smile too widely and resist the urge to grab the bag out of her fat fingers and run out the door.

  Forcefully beat the guests with the lame baby shower games until they are so bored they start to offer you money in exchange for letting them leave.

  Drizzle a large quantity of pop down Clare’s mouth and voilà! You have Natalie’s baby shower, known in some regions as the Most Torturous Event Ever.

  Monday, July 9

  9:30 A.M.

  With Natalie’s baby shower behind me, I called Julie to recap the torture this afternoon as I ate lunch at my desk. I barely said hello before she cut me off and went into a diatribe.

  “. . . came into the office on the first day wearing a sweater with Winnie the fucking Pooh fucking crocheted into it with the words ‘Pooh Bear’ written in cursive across the chest. The next day, she wore a sweater with a cat on it and hung a poster by her desk that has a kitten on it hanging from a tree branch that says, ‘Hang in there.’ Can you fucking believe it?” Julie said.

  Apparently the “Metrotab” nurse got fired for distributing nude pictures of herself on the Internet during work hours and Julie had a new, even weirder nurse in her unit.

  “What a freak,” I said, twirling my salad around and examining a crouton. I thought: Man, this crouton is huge. It must be like a couple inches wide. Hmmm . . . that’s about the same size as the baby. Weird. I popped it into my mouth. Crouton. Crouton Finnegan-Grandalski. The baby doesn’t have a tail anymore, so I should probably think of a nickname other than the Dragon.

  “I was really nice to her at first because I thought she was mentally challenged because when you talk to her, she just stares at you and smiles, looking back and forth a lot.”

  Wonder if Crouton will be a she or he. Would like a girl because cute! But a boy would be fun . . .

  “. . . knows quite a bit about the mating habits of dragon-flies . . .”

  Jake would love a boy to hang out with, although the thought of a teeny-tiny penis growing inside of me slightly repulses me.

  “. . . husband touches his crotch a lot while pretending to adjust his Mr. Rogers sweaters . . .”

  Wish Crouton would stop messing with my bladder. Have to pee again.

  “. . . told work yet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Clare, are you even listening to me?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Sorry, Christina just walked into my office,” I lied. Crouton is already making me a bad friend.

  “I said, have you told work yet?”

  “No. I can’t deal with Mule Face’s pity and condescending looks yet.”

  “You’d better tell them soon so you can plan your maternity leave.” I’d forgotten about that part. Despite the inevitable never sleeping again/diaper explosions/horrible labor pain/being alone all day with a human baby I’d have no idea how to care for and who would probably be smothered by my cat, three months off sounds pretty freaking good right now.

  Friday, July 13

  Since indulging in the idea of maternity leave earlier this week, I’ve taken great pleasure in recounting everything I’m going to miss at work while I’m gone: the annual employee retreat, Mule Face’s birthday lunch, taking on an administrator role while Christina goes on her annual two-week European vacation. Although I still have to coordinate the Flynn-Shepard wedding while practically in labor, I’m trying to focus on the positive.

  As I happily penciled Xs in my calendar for my twelve-week maternity leave, I heard “Hey there, stranger!”

  It was Reese. She stopped by my office to kidnap me on my lunch hour to get manicures and pedicures. Her mom watched Grace so we could spend some time alone together. She’s such a great friend. She told me I’m pretty much the “cutest pregnant woman” she’s ever seen and my hair looks very “shiny and pretty” and I’m going to be “all baby” and won’t gain any extraneous fat.

  She’s totally full of crap, but I don’t care. Hearing I look fabulous rules. Especially since all this bloating has turned my stomach, from boobs to hips, into one giant bloblike mass. As though all of the fat got together and colonized or joined forces in the name of love handles everywhere.

  She also gave me a huge spa basket full of pretty lotions, soaps, and bath salts. She said I deserve it because she knows pregnancy is hard work and people who’ve never been pregnant sometimes don’t understand. She’s right. Jake bought tickets for next weekend to an improv show starting at eleven o’clock. Never mind my new bedtime is nine o’clock. He didn’t say anything but I sensed his annoyance when I told him I would be happily dreaming of a world where men get pregnant, like seahorses, by the time the show starts.

  Reese also mentioned she read my blow-by-blow of Joel and Megan’s party on my blog. She looked really depressed when I reiterated how much fun it was, despite my sobriety. I tried to cheer her up by reminding her of how horrible her hangovers are, but she sadly said, “It would’ve been worth it,” and gave me a small smile.

  Saturday, July 14

  This afternoon, as I slathered on lotion from the basket Reese bought me, Jake appeared at my bathroom door with some news: Nine pounds, ten ounces.

  That’s how much Natalie and Doug’s toddler-sized newborn girl weighs. Nine freaking pounds!

  At first, Jake didn’t have any reaction to the clearly ginormous size of this child, until I pointed out ten pounds is roughly the size of Butterscotch.

  When we spoke to Natalie to congratulate her, she informed us her doctor told her it appeared to be the most painful labor she’d ever seen anybody go through and she deserves a medal for being such a champ. Never mind she took every kind of pain medicine legally available in the United States when she delivered.

  She also said they’ve decided to name her Ash Leigh.

  As in two words.

  First word “Ash.” Second word “Leigh.” Middle name “Sierra.”

  The second I heard it, all I could picture was: “And now, appearing on Naughty Girls center stage, our featured performer: Ash Leigh Sierra!”

  Poor girl. It’s bad enough her parents are Natalie and Doug, now she has to live with an exotic-dancer name.

  Doug got on the phone and described to us in exact detail all of the “gnarly stuff” that apparently came out of Natalie’s crotch during birth, as if picturing her bottomless isn’t frightening enough.

  I’m so happy Natalie and Doug don’t read my blog. The name Ash Leigh Sierra procured quite a few snarky comments.

  After Jake hung up the phone with Doug, he looked at me, eyes wide. “Can you believe my brother had a kid? That he’s a dad?”

  “It’s even weirder that Natalie is a mom.” I shuddered.

  “Whoa,” he said, and slowly walked into the kitchen.

  I followed him. “What?”

  “It’s just . . . weird.” He shook his head as he opened the fridge. “They’re going to have to pay for diapers and clothes and college.”

  I knew where this was going. I walked over to him and put my hand on my hips. “Don’t. Just don’t. We’re going to be fine.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No. Fine,” I said, looking up at him.

  “I know.” He sighed and pulled me to him.

  “Good,” I said. I closed my eyes and leaned against his chest and silently wondered how the hell we were going to pay for diapers and clothes and college. I started to total it but gave up. I figured no need to add extra stress right now. Thinking about tomorrow is stressful enough since I’m going to tell my work about my bun-filled oven. So, I have enough to worry about, like Mule Face asking how much weight I’ve gained, without estimating college tuition circa 2028.

  Monday, July 16

  Genitalia countdown:
T minus four weeks.

  Well, I did it. I’m a fearless career woman who deals with all matters, both personal and professional, in a mature, businesslike, polished manner. When I walk into a room, dressed in a crisp suit, hair neatly pulled back, people take notice and give me the utmost respect.

  Well, at least in my dreams. It was more like my hair stuck up wildly due to hair-dryer/come-to-Jesus moment with styling crème coupled with extreme frizz. My pants not pressed neatly but wrinkled accordion-style around the crotch due to my expanding ass. And so, instead of my flawless and not-at-all uncomfortable pregnancy proclamation at work today, I stammered, red-faced and sweating, until I finally got it out. As expected, Mule Face overacted, giving me a huge hug and exclaiming loudly, “I thought you looked bigger! You seemed really worn out lately. I had no idea you were pregnant, though—I just thought you had a drug problem! Was it planned?” She even tried to pat my stomach while shoving a Chips Ahoy cookie into her mouth.

  Christina said, “But you’re so young! I thought you planned on waiting several years before you guys had kids.”

  “Yeah, well, best-laid plans, right?”

  “Yeah, but when I think back to how immature I was in my late twenties . . . Whew! I can’t imagine having a baby now, let alone back then. There are so many things I would’ve missed if I had a baby at your age. You poor thing.” She sympathetically patted me on my shoulder.

  “Er, uh, thanks.”

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mule Face blurted out my news to George, our postman, as he came in this afternoon to drop off our mail. He looked at me and whistled. “Shit, girl! I read somewhere that babies cost forty thousand dollars the first year. You guys got that kind of money?”

  I’m sure there’ll be many more months of pitying looks and whispers behind my back about how fat I am, how I’ll be a bad mother, how my child will probably be born headless with cloven hooves, but at least everyone knows now. Including the woman in the Wendy’s bathroom who saw me hurling into the sink and said, “Oh, honey, are you pregnant?” To which I nodded and heaved again.