A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  All in all, we could actually see dropping Mr. Skeletor off there without a shred of guilt. Which means—how much and do you take American Express?

  But alas, we wanted to check another place out: the home day care. We heard about this place from one of Jake’s coworkers who brought her kid there. We wanted to look at it because it is much, much cheaper than the yuppie day care place. And, being that we are never ones to make a major decision without researching our options, we drove over to check it out.

  As we pulled up, the wheels in my head started turning: It’s only five minutes from work, I could totally do this. And look at how cute this street is, it’s like a little neighborhood. And how adorable are those neighbor kids next door? Mr. Skeletor would totally have like a million friends. And then we committed our first error—we got out of the car. As we were walking up to the cute white house with pretty marigolds in the front, the mom/babysitter/whoever of the kids next door opened the front door, leaned out, and yelled, “KIDS! I told you it was time to come inside. Get the fuck back in the house!” Jake and I stopped dead in our tracks, whirled around so quickly we nearly got whiplash, and drove our car away from that horrible, horrible place where people use the F word. (I know. Am hypocrite.) I reasoned at the yuppie day care, at least they would be saying the curse words in Spanish. So, we’re pretty sure Mr. Skeletor will be entering yuppie-ville in a few short months.

  While the decision of where to send Mr. Skeletor was a pretty easy one, the fact that we’re sending him anywhere at all has not been well received by Jake’s family. Apparently, every time we mentioned the words “day care” or “maternity leave,” they thought we really

  weren’t serious and I’d stop being a crazy feminist and just make the decision to stay home already. Marianne reasoned, “Kids in day care are usually much less well behaved than ones whose mothers stay at home since they aren’t disciplined well.” That argument might’ve worked if I hadn’t heard the story about Jake and Doug setting their neighbor’s garage on fire when they were in grade school. Sorry, I don’t buy that one.

  I’ve also heard, “I think children should be raised by their parents and not a day care worker or nanny,” from Natalie.

  So I asked her, “OK, that’s fine. Are you planning to homeschool your children, too?”

  “No,” she said tersely.

  “No? Oh, well, I don’t want my kids to be ‘raised’ by a schoolteacher so I’m keeping them home all day, every day, only with me.”

  I don’t think she understood the sarcasm.

  Plus, let’s get serious. When they all said they think one parent should stay home to take care of Skeletor, they weren’t really talking about Jake, were they?

  Seriously though—these people would rather me stay home and be a miserable, cooped-up woman addicted to General Hospital (which is exactly who I would become), than a happy, well-adjusted, although admittedly somewhat stressed working mother. I mean, I don’t think I’m a bad person or I will be a bad mother because I will look forward to spending time with adults during the day rather than changing diapers. I also want to give my kid the best—vacations every year, a nice house, a paid college education. I don’t want him to be a spoiled brat but I want to be able to give him the One Thing he wants for his birthday.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve been brainwashed because my mom worked. But God, I’ll take that kind of brainwashing any day over the kind of brainwashing that means I’m responsible for laundering Jake’s underwear. I want to be the best role model I can be for my son, and to me, that is being a working, professional woman. I hope I’ll show him that while I love him and he is the absolute best thing in my life, the entire world doesn’t revolve around him, and someday when he gets married, the housework and child-raising are shared responsibilities between husbands and wives.

  And that is when his wife will send me a dozen roses every day.

  Tuesday, September 11

  My oak tree beckoned to me again today. I had planned on grabbing a sandwich at the deli down the street, but I stopped as I saw the oak tree. Desperate to clear my head after all the day care drama, I bought a slice of pizza and plopped my huge self down on the ground. I figured winter is about to kick all of our asses, so I may as well enjoy the fall while it’s still here for a brief period.

  I rubbed my stomach as I watched a mom pushing a stroller across the park. I knew she was a stay-at-home mom. Her leisurely gait and her sweatpants gave it away. I decided to make sure Skeletor knows he’s going to be well taken care of.

  “Listen, Mr. Skeletor. I’m not going to be staying home with you after you’re born. I know, it’s kind of a bummer, because I’m sure you’ll want to hang out with me and only me all the time.” I laughed. He didn’t respond. “But,” I continued, “it’s going to be OK. We found a wonderful day care for you that you’ll love. The babysitters are so nice and they’re going to love you. And when you get older, you can play with all the other kids and have best friends. Does that sound all right?” I waited until I got a kick. “Good. I just want you to know, though, that you’re going to be the most important thing to me. Nothing, not work or money or friends or anything else, will come between us. Although I might work during the day, it doesn’t mean I love you any less or that we won’t be close. I will always make sure you have the best, even if it means your father and I don’t. Sound good?” He kicked and I knew he understood.

  Wednesday, September 12

  Jake didn’t completely buy my story about having a conversation with Mr. Skeletor yesterday afternoon. He just doesn’t get it. It’s that women’s intuition crap Reese is always preaching about. I know he heard me and I know he understood everything I said.

  I couldn’t debate my clairvoyant powers with Jake for any length of time after I got home from work last night because I had plans to meet Julie in the city for drinks.

  “Thank God you’re here! This jerk to my right kept trying to steal your seat,” Julie said as she saw me walk into the restaurant. She jabbed her thumb toward a very fat and sweaty man glaring at her. “I almost put my new boots through his ass.”

  “Holy shit! I totally forgot; let me see!” I shoved the fat and sweaty man aside and sat down. Julie happily extended her leg and pointed her toe inside her brand-new buttery leather boots.

  “Fab! I’m about to drool all over them!”

  “Ugh. Please don’t. They cost a fortune,” she said.

  “Lucky bitch. All of my shoe money will be going toward day care soon. What are you drinking?” I asked.

  “Saketini. It’s to die for and has enough alcohol to make me forget about Perverted Married Man.”

  “Ooohhh, do tell.” I signaled to the bartender to bring me a glass of wine. He pointedly looked at my stomach and I just stared back at him.

  “Well, he—”

  “Wait!” I interrupted. “I need a drink first.”

  The bartender brought over my wine; I took a small sip and then looked at her. “OK, go!”

  She took a long, deep breath in and exhaled while reapplying her lip gloss. She smacked her lips together.

  “So! Disgusting Perverted Married Man finally stopped stalking me.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The freak gave me flowers last week that said, ‘Hey, stud. Let’s get together for another Happy Hour again.’ What a loser.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Not to mention the fact he has a wife who probably never gets flowers,” I said.

  “That, too. Anyway, that was the last move from the fuckwad. I took the flowers to his office, threw them at him, and told him I’d be happy to forward the card to his wife so she’d know what a pathetic shithead he is.”

  “So he left you alone after that?”

  “No. He asked me to go on vacation with him. So I kneed him in the crotch. And then threatened to expose his cheating ass all over the Internet.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “So, what’s new with you and Jake?”
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  “Besides my ass rapidly expanding? Nothing, except I have to deal not only with my own pregnancy but the excruciating torture of hearing about Ash Leigh’s every diaper change from Marianne.”

  Julie gave me a sympathetic look. “That’s why I’m never getting married. No in-laws to deal with, no wedding showers to attend. And I certainly don’t have to worry about that stuff in my family—you know how they are.”

  Yes, I do. Julie’s family parties usually consist of people drinking kegs of beer while watching NASCAR and listening to Toby Keith.

  “Believe me, I would’ve married an orphan had I found one,” I said.

  “You guys see his parents so much. Doesn’t it drive you absolutely insane?”

  “Of course, but it means a lot to Jake so I try to do the best I can. But it’s hard. Especially now that Natalie keeps sending me forwards at work with titles like ‘Why Liberals Hate Christmas’ and ‘The Ten Commandments Belong in Public Schools.’ ”

  “Natalie is a piece of work. Tell her to go fuck herself.” She opened her bag and pulled out a compact and examined her dark eye shadow and adjusted her gigantic cleavage.

  “At least she’s still really big and fat and squashy from being pregnant.”

  “Well,” Julie said, snapping her compact closed and throwing it back into her purse, “just remember she had to push a human being out of her cooter.”

  “Um, hi. I’m pregnant, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Oh my God! I almost forgot to tell you!” she suddenly shrieked, nearly snorting her drink out her nose. “I haven’t told you about the new nurse who just started, have I?”

  I gave her a blank look.

  “Oh, Jesus. You’re going to die. It’s so disgusting. OK, so there’s this new nurse who started last week and she’s young, like early twenties, and mildly attractive though sometimes her eyebrows remind me of Russell Crowe’s . . .” She trailed off, looking far away.

  “Point?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. But her eyebrows are really weird. So, when she started working I noticed something really disgusting but I didn’t know if anyone else noticed it so I didn’t say anything. Clare, it’s so bad.”

  “What?” I whispered, a look of horror on my face. I realized the bartender was washing glasses very slowly in front of us, hanging on Julie’s every word.

  “She has an, um, odor problem.”

  “Like BO?”

  “Uh, an odor problem in a certain area.”

  “No!” I sat back in horror, noticing out of the corner of my eye the bartender still listening.

  “Yes! Everyone else has noticed it, too. People have to hold their breath when she walks past.” That did it. The bartender started gagging and walked away.

  “Well, how do you think I feel?” she snapped at him.

  “And the entire office talks about it?”

  “Well, yeah! I mean, we can’t even use the bathroom on our floor anymore because it smells so bad. I don’t know what her problem is or if she doesn’t shower or what. I feel bad for her but she’s always talking about having one-night stands so you know there is something nasty growing down there. Oh! And get this—her name is Eve. Like Summer’s Eve!”

  “No!”

  “Trust me, I couldn’t make this shit up.”

  I always know whatever great story I come to dinner armed with, Julie will top it in about five seconds. I could come to dinner after winning The Apprentice and she’d tell me she gave Donald Trump a blowjob during her lunch hour.

  My stories involve things like: I found a coupon for hamburger buns in Sunday’s paper and it was for forty-five cents. Can you believe it?

  “Man, that’s nasty. I don’t want to hear any more.”

  We realized that the bartender wasn’t the only male listening to our conversation. A group of yuppie businessmen still dressed in their Brooks Brothers suits heard every word about poor Eve and her problem and were looking at us with complete disgust.

  I whirled around on my stool. “Here’s a solution: don’t listen.”

  “Whoa, chill out, baby,” one of the yuppie guys said.

  “Assholes,” I muttered.

  “Hey, why don’t you let us buy you a water and your friend a drink and we’ll call it even, OK?” one of the other guys said.

  “No, that’s—,” I started to say.

  “Well, it’s the least you could do!” Julie jumped in quickly, giving me a look that said I will kill you if you ruin my chance for a free drink.

  “Thanks,” I said tightly as one of the assholes handed me a glass of water.

  “So, what are your names?” the asshole with the plastic hair and cosmically unnaturally white teeth asked.

  “Linda,” I said.

  “Jane,” Julie replied.

  We turned to each other and started talking about a new BCBG dress I bought at an outlet last week for like fifty bucks.

  “So, you’re obviously taken,” the asshole with the Cartier watch jabbed his finger at me, “but what about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No, but I have a girlfriend,” Julie replied and put her hand on my knee.

  The assholes’ faces lit up.

  “Score! All right!” They high-fived each other. They bought Julie another drink and I gave her the Sign.

  “I have to check my lipstick. Will you come with me?” I asked her. She looked at me sharply, seeing as how she was actually having fun flirting with these losers.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Yes. Now.” I am too pregnant to pretend to be interested in what they are saying.

  We told the assholes we were going to the bathroom and promised on a stack of cocktail napkins we were not ditching them and then slipped out the back door of the restaurant.

  As we walked out, my cell phone beeped.

  “Mark wants us to meet him at Barleycorn’s for a drink.”

  Julie raised her eyebrows.

  “Forget it.”

  We arrived at Barleycorn’s fifteen minutes later. As we pulled our IDs out of our purses to show to the bouncer at the door I heard a familiar voice yell from inside, “Don’t let them in! They’re underage!” The bouncer waved away my ID and stared at my stomach. The bright spot is apparently I don’t look like a pregnant teenager.

  I craned my neck to see Mark and spotted him at the bar, draft beer in hand, surrounded by guys in their early twenties. He waved me over.

  “Hey, sis. Glad you guys showed.” He put his arm around Julie. “And you brought my favorite girl.”

  “Too bad Clare will never let us consummate our relationship,” Julie said, and rested her head against his broad chest.

  “Don’t even think about it. In fact, excuse me.” I pushed them apart and walked in between. “Jules?”

  “Apple martini.”

  “She’s such a bitch,” Mark said.

  “An apple martini and a water,” I yelled to the bartender, who completely ignored me to flirt with two girls with giant breast implants.

  “I’m hitting the bathroom,” Julie yelled to me.

  “Yo, Steve—hook this girl up,” one of Mark’s roommates (Neil?) called to the bartender.

  “An apple martini and a water,” I said again.

  “Steve! On my tab,” Mark yelled.

  “Thanks, bro. Web design lucrative these days?”

  He smiled and sucked down half of his beer. “Not really. But remember—I live on ramen noodles.”

  “Unfortunately, so do I.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “Lemon drop shots!” one of Mark’s friends yelled. He thrust a tray containing what looked like five thousand shots in front of us. Mark picked up two.

  “That for me?” Julie said from behind me.

  “Yep. Here you go. Toast?”

  “Sure. Here’s to big tits,” she said.

  “Seriously, you have to marry me,” Mark said.

  “Marry? Dream on. Everything else is fair game.”

  “
Fuck me,” Mark said after he downed the shot.

  “OK.” Julie smiled at him.

  “We have to go,” I said, and grabbed Julie’s arm.

  “What? No way. I’m not ready to leave,” she said, wiggling out of my grasp.

  “C’mon, Clare, let her stay. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman and get her home safe.”

  “I don’t care about safe, I only care about alone.”

  “Sure,” he said, and smiled sweetly at me.

  “Not buying it. Let’s go.” I grabbed Julie’s arm again and led her out the door.

  “You really have to get over this overprotective older sister bullshit,” she said once we were outside.

  “Julie, I am too pregnant and too sober to deal with the consequences of you two hooking up.”

  “Fine. But after you’re done being knocked up, game on.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be ‘knocked up’ forever.”

  When I finally got home it was almost eleven. I collapsed into bed next to an already snoring Jake and promptly passed out.

  Friday, September 14

  Seeing how supportive my in-laws were regarding the Great Day Care Debate, I really couldn’t be happier they’re staying with us this weekend during their kitchen remodel.

  Jake and I spent the past two days cleaning, organizing, and straightening our place until it is overnight-guest ready. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I realized sometime late last night I’m going to have to deal with my mother-in-law for an entire weekend without a drop of alcohol. I’m going to have to survive forty-eight hours without help from my friends Mr. Jack Daniels, Ms. Grey Goose, or Mrs. Heineken.

  Monday, September 17

  So I present: My Weekend, a screenplay.

  Friday, 5:38 P.M. Interior apartment.

  Jake and I sit apprehensively, trying to watch the Weather Channel to distract ourselves from the incoming hurricane. I’ve already chewed off most of my nail polish and started on my cuticles. I start to regret the thirty-five bucks I just paid to get a manicure, seeing as how I’ve rendered it almost completely obsolete.