A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  I picked Tyler up and examined him. He seemed to have all of his fingers and toes and wasn’t bleeding from any orifice. He immediately started giggling.

  “Look!” Jake pointed to the floor, looking stunned, a plastic baby-proofing plug on the floor, next to a blackened penny. “I think he stuck it in the wall.”

  “OH MY GOD! He could’ve DIED. WE ALMOST KILLED HIM.” I hugged Tyler to me, which only made him laugh even harder. I thought, Oh, great, have given the kid brain damage.

  “He seems OK, I don’t think he’s hurt or anything.”

  “How can he not be hurt? WE ALMOST KILLED HIM!” Tyler stopped laughing and stared at me, transfixed, his mouth open.

  “Did you stick the penny in the socket?” I asked him.

  He stared at me blankly, probably thinking, What the hell is a socket?

  I grabbed his hand and examined it for any signs of damage.

  “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” He leaped out of my arms and ran over to the eight million farm animals and started throwing them at the television.

  “Tyler! Don’t do—,” Jake started to say.

  “Jake, let him do whatever he wants. We almost killed him! I don’t care if Reese’s TV gets shattered.”

  Tyler’s mother, Meredith, finally came to pick him up an hour later. We didn’t tell her about the electrocution episode. I figure Reese can tell her. She did ask why Tyler was clutching my ruined pink phone. I explained what happened and the bitch didn’t even offer to pay for it. She just said, “Well, that’s what you get for leaving stuff within reach of a toddler!”

  As he was leaving, Tyler gave me and Jake an angelic little smile and waved good-bye. I’ve never been so happy to see a kid leave before, other than my friend in second grade who came over and ate all of my Twinkies, but that’s beside the point.

  We left a note for Reese explaining why her couch is now tie-dyed red and one of her walls has singe marks coming from the socket. It read something like this:

  Reese,

  Hope Matt is OK. Tyler’s mom picked him up at 4:30. He ate a red Popsicle on your couch and stuck a penny in the socket by the phone. He is fine, though.

  Sorry,

  Jake and Clare

  P.S. He threw my phone in your toilet.

  P.P.S. Do you know anyone who is looking to adopt a newborn in five months or so?

  Monday, July 23

  Genitalia countdown: T minus three weeks.

  After our disastrous afternoon with Tyler, Jake and I slightly doubt our ability to be good parents. Granted, that kid is a toddler and somewhat of a brat, but the image of the blackened socket coupled with the real possibility he could’ve gotten seriously hurt is freaking me out.

  I didn’t have much time today to worry about all the horrible ways we could accidentally injure or kill our own child, because something very important is on my radar: I’m in maternity clothes now. Yes, scary stretchy-panel, tentlike maternity clothes. Up until now I’ve gotten away with wearing regular clothes in bigger sizes. I looked pretty good and even Julie told me two weeks ago I am still a fashionable knocked-up lady, which I took with the utmost pride. Now I’ve been banished from the land of cool clothes into Maternity Land, much the same way I was sent away from the cool kids’ cafeteria table in seventh grade when I got the Bad Spiral Perm We Don’t Speak Of. (I blame my mother—she should’ve known my naturally wavy hair + spiral perm = death to coolness. I mean, I was in seventh grade and didn’t know any better. She was my mom and supposed to protect me from the boogeyman, pedophiles, and spiral perms. I swear, Crouton, I will never let you exercise poor hair judgment. I’m pretty sure when those spiral rods touched my hair, the gods ripped a black hole in the universe and destroyed part of the ozone layer as punishment.)

  I now wear clothes that “show off the new cleavage” and “draw attention away from the stomach area with embellishment” like a huge-ass bow, or jackets that appear to have been molested by a Bedazzler, neither of which are appropriate for work.

  Don’t pregnant women work anymore? I have been completely unable to find a black suit that is (a) not polyester or made out of another highly flammable, nuclear-winter-survivable material, or (b) not ridiculously expensive for something I’ll wear for five months. So, I have about four outfits as a result.

  My dreams of being a stylish, well-dressed, classy pregnant lady have been flushed down the proverbial toilet. Along with my dignity, when I bought maternity underwear.

  I complained to Jake we need more friends with kids and thus women willing to lend me maternity clothes and he reminded me Wifey1025 offered to send me all of her maternity clothes from when she was pregnant in 1995 if I would please, please just meet her in the parking lot of Bob Evans around midnight.

  Tuesday, July 24

  9:00 A.M.

  It’s a good thing I bought maternity clothes yesterday, since it’s my birthday today and the only presents I’ve gotten so far are a stomach that, overnight, looks like I ate the Pillsbury Doughboy and an obnoxious call from Marianne.

  My phone rang shrilly and I gave it a wary glance, debating whether or not I should pick it up. Usually, I let most calls go to voice-mail this early but today is my birthday, so I answered it.

  “Clare Finnegan.”

  “Hel-lo, darling. Happy birthday!”

  Marianne.

  “Oh, hi, Marianne. How are you?”

  “It’s Mom, honey! And I’m just fine. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, dear.”

  “Oh, thanks, um, thanks!” Long pause. “Well, how’s everything going?” I finally asked, desperate to end the silence.

  “Oh, you know Dad and I, always so busy, busy, busy. We’ve been spending so much time with Ash Leigh and helping out Natalie. You know, grandparent stuff! Stuff we just can’t wait to do with your little one. Speaking of which, are you taking birthing classes?”

  “Birthing classes? I don’t think so, why? I’m planning on having lots of drugs at the birth.”

  “You’re not going to have a natural birth?”

  “Well, any birth is kind of natural, isn’t it? I just plan on having the assistance of all the drugs the good Lord gave us.”

  “You really should take a birthing class and reconsider. When I had Jake, Frank told me again and again how much he admired my strength. Wouldn’t you rather Jake admired you instead of your epidural?”

  I paused, not knowing how to answer. I simply said, “Not really,” as I eyed a Snickers bar on my desk.

  She clucked her tongue. “Well, consider it. Don’t worry, should you choose to have a natural birth, I am planning on being there for you every step of the way. I will be your personal doula.”

  “Doula?”

  “Yes, doula. A doula is a person the birthing mother hires to comfort and support her during delivery.”

  Screw. That.

  “Um, I have to go.” I started to unwrap the candy bar.

  “You should get my birthday gift in the mail in the next couple of days. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  Every gift-giving occasion, Marianne gives us something for our apartment. The problem is she has quite possibly the worst taste in the entire world. This is a woman who decorated her living room in a jungle theme one year, complete with furry rug, zebra-print pillows, and weird palm plants her cats kept eating, which made them barf on said furry rug. Last year, she bought me a huge giant crucifix statue of Jesus, complete with blood dripping from the hands and feet. Since neither of us are particularly religious, it is buried in a drawer under the ugly plaid serving dish she gave us as a wedding gift. She also likes to give gifts she knows we already have, and then repeatedly ask why her throw pillows or knife block or shower curtain or whatever isn’t out when she comes to visit.

  Basically, I’m not too jazzed to see what she got me.

  6:00 P.M.

  Jake and I are on our way to dinner with my parents, Mark, and Sam. It’s the only time during the year I can enjoy a fifty-dollar steak without
having to fork over my own credit card and eat Hamburger Helper for two weeks just to pay for it.

  Not surprisingly, Sam freaked when she heard I picked a steak place, because she’s trying Madonna’s macrobiotic diet she read about in US Weekly. And filet mignon is “so not in the diet” and she is “never going to lose two pounds” if we keep sabotaging her.

  8:00 P.M.

  “So how’s work been going, Clare?” My mom looked at me, truly interested, but I knew my time was very, very short to answer, like on Jeopardy.

  “Well, I’m working on a wedding right now and it’s been going pretty well. I’m basically just the point person for everything and,” I paused to take a breath, “the wedding is going to be held at—”

  “Why do we always have to go to places she wants to go?” Yup, that was it. My five seconds were up.

  “Because it’s her birthday, Sam. You get to pick when it’s your day.” My father cut her off with a disapproving look. A lot of good it did.

  “This place is gross. I mean, who wants to eat nasty cow meat practically bleeding on your plate? Ew. Make me puke. Why don’t you just take me to a slaughterhouse?”

  “Actually they didn’t have any reservations. Sorry. Yum, I can’t wait for my bleeding rare filet,” Mark said.

  “You guys are so retarded,” she retorted.

  “Sam,” my mother warned.

  “What? Oh, jeez, sorry. You guys are so stupid, is that better?”

  “Yes, now shut up. I’m trying to talk to your sister.” My mother still has hope we can go out to dinner together civilly even though I’ve tried to tell her Sam won’t be normal until she has a lobotomy.

  “Jake, how’s your family doing?” My mom turned to my husband in an attempt to turn him into a performer rather than a spectator.

  “Everybody’s doing well. Parents are good, spending a lot of time with Ash Leigh.”

  “How’s Natalie doing?” my mom asked, keeping one eye on Sam furiously texting on her phone.

  “Great.” She shot me a look and I met her eye, silently saying she’s as psycho as ever and I’ll tell you later when he’s not around and I can speak freely. “Mmmmm,” is all she said to Jake.

  “Has Marianne read your blog yet?” Mark asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “Did you know ceramic ionic straighteners are, like, from heaven?” Sam asked.

  We all looked at her silently for a moment, and thankfully the steaks came. Sam made a gagging noise as we all cut into our food, which prompted Mark to wave a piece of meat in her face until she created such a scene most of the restaurant wound up staring at us.

  “Clare, Jake, we’ve been meaning to ask you guys, are you free the last week of August?”

  I mentally paged through my calendar. “I think so, why?”

  “Well, your father has a medical conference in Hawaii that week and we were hoping you two could housesit.” What an incredibly loaded opportunity. Housesitting for my parents usually means one thing—supervising whatever party Sam decides to throw.

  “Sure, we’d love to,” Jake answered, grinning from ear to ear. He loves supervising high school parties since all of Sam’s friends treat him like he’s a god or something. All of the girls think he’s “totally tight” and the guys think he’s “the shit.” Probably because he’s socializing with them while I’m flipping out and running around picking up beer cans and kicking out people who are too wasted.

  I noticed Sam’s ears prick up like a dog’s and she furiously began texting again, undoubtedly sending out hundreds of invitations as I cut into my strip steak.

  “Great! We’ll pay you guys as usual, since it’s such a big favor.” The money was really my only motivation for putting up with Sam for a week. There’s a lot of things I’ll do for five hundred dollars.

  “How come you guys never ask me?” Mark said.

  “Because I wouldn’t dream of asking you to halt your postcollege party tour for a weekend,” my mom said.

  “Thanks, Mom. You rule.”

  “This is true,” she said.

  Now that Sam knew she had another party on the horizon, her mood perked up significantly for the rest of the meal. She still didn’t really eat anything, but she managed to forcibly choke down some of her salad. She even managed to smile, which made me worry she’s planning a true kegger.

  1:00 A.M.

  My phone beeped a few minutes ago. It was Julie wishing me a happy birthday. She was at Sauce’s weekly half-off margarita party. She went on and on for fifteen minutes about how much she loves me and how much she loves Pedro, the bartender. Pedro even came on the phone to wish me a happy birthday, too. Except he kept calling me “Clear.”

  I missed the phone call because Jake and I were finally having sex. Finally. I was starting to worry my girl parts had vanished or atrophied and I’d become like a Barbie doll down there, which would make childbirth somewhat difficult.

  Friday, July 27

  “So, how was the birthday dinner?” Julie asked me today over the phone.

  “Fine. Sam was her usual charming self. Jake and I had good birthday sex.”

  “Finally! Thank God. I was worried you’d become celibate.”

  “You’re not kidding. So, what’s going on?”

  “Not much. Except I’m a drunken whore.” She sniffed into the phone. “I made out with a married man last night.”

  “Julie, you didn’t!” I said, and put my head in my hands.

  “I did. I didn’t mean to. I only meant to go out for a casual happy hour drink with my coworkers and then go dancing. Instead, I ended up doing tequila shots with Roger the Male Nurse/Married Man and tonguing him outside the women’s restroom. I think everyone saw it so now they probably think I’m a giant dirty whore. I am a whore.” She sniffled.

  “No, you’re not! Don’t say that about yourself. It’s not your fault at all—he’s the one who’s married. It’s his responsibility to keep it in his pants,” I whispered, fully aware of Mule Face loitering around outside my office, pretending to look for a floral order.

  “Then, this morning when I came in, Roger gave me this creepy smile and asked when the next happy hour party is.”

  “Julie, listen. This guy’s a slimeball. You shouldn’t feel guilty at all. It’s so not your fault. Don’t let that prick make you feel uncomfortable. Just ask him how his wife is, that should shut him up. Oh! I know! If he doesn’t lay off, tell him I’ll do an entry on him, complete with pictures,” I hissed into the phone.

  Mule Face stopped pretending to look for files and leaned against the doorjamb of my office, shoveling microwave popcorn into her mouth. I gave her an evil look, which she misread as an invitation to sit down in my office.

  “I feel like such a dumbass though. I mean, who does something like that? What kind of person makes out with a married guy?”

  “I think the better question is what kind of guy cheats on his wife with a coworker during a happy hour party?”

  I heard a lot of rustling and she said, “Clare, I have to go. I need to check on a patient. I’ll call you later.” I hung up the phone and Mule Face looked at me with an encouraging smile.

  “So, what’s going on? Who was that?”

  “My friend.” I started to straighten papers on my desk and hoped she would go away.

  “Was that Julie? She’s my favorite character on your blog.”

  I didn’t have the strength to explain to her once again that the people I mention on my blog aren’t “characters,” but real people, so I just said, “Mmmmmm.”

  She didn’t get the hint. She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Well, your friend isn’t the only one to have had an affair with a married man. This one guy I dated a few years ago was married and used to offer to leave his wife for me but I didn’t want to be tied down so I just told him to stay married. Just another episode in the life of a single gal!”

  “Um, sure. It wasn’t Julie though.” Time to change the subject. “Ho
w’s the Castle sweet sixteen party coming along?”

  She licked butter off her chubby fingers. “Wonderful. Easy. Isn’t it weird how my events are always so straightforward and yours always have so many problems?”

  “Yeah. And isn’t it weird how my events always get the best feedback from the clients?”

  I desperately wanted her to react but she just smiled, popcorn stuck between her teeth, and shrugged. When she left my office, I saw a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe and I silently thanked Jesus for the small token.

  Sunday, July 29

  Julie’s still depressed over making out with the disgusting married man. I’ve told her many times over that it’s not her fault, but she’s still upset. So, that makes two now. My two best friends are now officially depressed with their lives, for very different reasons.

  Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be emotional and depressed and hormonal? Instead, I’m trying to help them put fires out all over the place.

  Since Reese and Julie have their own problems to worry about, I don’t want to burden them with the latest “crisis” in my life: a complete inability to name my child.

  After much introspection, I’ve discovered the reason for this: I watched an excessive amount of television as a child. And not the good, educational stuff like Sesame Street or Reading Rainbow, either. I’m talking every bad sitcom aired in the mideighties. I not only watched them, but absorbed and crammed into my brain every bit of information relayed to me. I mean, there are days when I can’t remember my debit card PIN number, but I sure as hell can recite the theme songs from Full House and Perfect Strangers.

  Besides taking up valuable space in my brain, these ’80s television shows also crippled me in a much more serious fashion: they’re the reason I can’t find a suitable name for Crouton. Any name Jake or I think of evokes images of one of the characters from some horribly acted, laugh-track-filled sitcom aired between 1981 and 1990. An example: Jake came home last week and suggested the name Kevin. A perfectly benign, normal name, right? Negative. Kevin was the name of the tall, geeky son with the freakishly large Adam’s apple on Mr. Belvedere, a show about a refined English male housekeeper and the wacky antics of the American family who employed him.