A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  Friday, November 16

  Jake remarked today that I’m in the “home stretch.” I rolled my eyes at him and declared him to be crazy. Because, obviously, I have tons more time left, right?

  Uh, no.

  He pulled out the calendar and counted down the number of weeks for me until I started to have a mild panic attack. I pulled out my pregnancy books, hoping to find a chapter on “Third Trimester Psychosis,” but all I read was a bunch of congratulations on the baby being viable outside the womb were it to be born now. And while that’s great news, I guess, it made things worse.

  Most people say they’re terrified during the first trimester something will go wrong; they’ll miscarry and lose the baby. Of course, we had our moment in the ER when we thought we lost the baby, but the first trimester was mostly about trying to come to terms with having a child. While we were scared, the fear was nowhere near as crippling as it is now.

  The real fears have started for me now that I’m in the last leg. I know if he was born now, he’d have to stay in the neonatal intensive care unit for weeks and probably would have serious disabilities to overcome. For some reason, that thought is a jillion times more frightening to me than miscarrying when I was six or eight weeks. Because he’s a real person now.

  I don’t even know what I’m talking about. But I know I can’t talk to Jake about it and I certainly can’t blog about it; jen2485 would just twist my words and imply I’d rather have no baby than one with disabilities. There’s just no good way to explain to anyone what I feel right now. But don’t worry, Mr. Skeletor, I’ll do everything, including sew my knees together, to keep you cooking in there as long as possible. I want nothing more for you than to be a big, strong boy who can run, play, and romp around with all the other kids.

  Monday, November 19

  We’re still nowhere near agreeing on a name. I’m still offering suggestions but Jake’s shooting every name down. Like today, when I watched Legends of the Fall and drooled over Brad Pitt’s gorgeous long hair and Aidan Quinn’s eyes.

  I started thinking hmmm . . . Aidan.

  As Jake left to run an errand, I said, “What about Aidan?”

  He stopped and looked at me. “Were you watching Legends of the Fall again?”

  “Um, yes. Why?”

  “Because every time you watch that movie you come up with a freaky new name like Tristan.”

  “You don’t like Tristan?” I called after him.

  Tuesday, November 20

  Today was a horrible day. Awful. I want to crawl under my covers. Or travel to a secret fantasy land with rivers flowing with mint chocolate-chip ice cream and the only men are the nice ones. Not the ones that ruin your best friend’s life and cause you to get into a giant fight.

  The day started off fine until Reese called to thank me for sending her flowers after the shower. (Only Reese calls people to thank them for a thank-you gift. It’s like a never-ending circle of gratitude.)

  “They’re just beautiful. I can’t believe you remembered peonies are my favorite.”

  “Of course I remembered. They were in your wedding bouquet.”

  “Good memory,” she said.

  “Reese, was everything OK after the shower?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean between you and Matt. Things seemed kinda tense before he left with Grace.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It just seemed like you guys were fighting about something.”

  “Clare, everything is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You’re imagining things.”

  “Well, not really. I know things have been strained for you guys.”

  “Clare. Everything was fine. Let’s drop it.”

  I took a deep breath. I could drop it for the frillionth time or I could keep pushing her and hope she would come out of the fog.

  “I don’t want to drop it, Reese. You’re obviously hurting. You need to talk about this.”

  “No, really, I don’t.”

  “Please don’t shut down again. I’m here for you. Talk to me.”

  “Clare. Stop. My marriage isn’t your concern.”

  “Like hell it isn’t. You are my concern. That includes your marriage. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. Worry about Julie. She’s the one who needs help. I’m perfectly fine.” Her voice began to rise, something I’ve rarely heard. I knew I should stop. But I didn’t.

  “No, you’re not. I’ve never seen you this miserable.” There was silence on the other end.

  “I’ll help you through this, if you let me. Please, think of Grace.”

  After a long pause, she said, “Clare, I have to go. I can’t discuss this anymore,” and hung up the phone.

  Monday, November 26

  I submitted my articles to The Daily Tribune today. I’m pretty sure they blow. Kyle told me to write them in the same style as my blog, but without the excessive use of the F word. Which was much, much harder than anticipated.

  Fuck.

  Wednesday, December 5

  Poor Jake. He’s been a surrogate therapist, butler, maid, cheerleader, and emotional rock for me since I turned in my articles. This entire situation is very, very Clare. Not only do I have the stress of being almost ready to give birth to my very first, unexpected child, but I’m stressed about two additional things: finishing the details on the Flynn-Shepard wedding and securing an awesome column in the Tribune.

  What, worrying about feeding, clothing, birthing, naming, and caring for a newborn baby wasn’t enough?

  Jake, of course, isn’t worried about anything. He spent the evening dozing, watching sports on the couch while I made a list of possible names. “What do you think of George?” I asked him.

  He didn’t even open his eyes. “George who? Costanza?”

  “George Finnegan-Grandalski.”

  “Oh,” he said, “funny.”

  “What?”

  “Oh. You weren’t kidding?”

  I guess George is out.

  Tuesday, December 11

  What with being convinced our child is going to enter first grade as Mr. Skeletor, my mood did not improve when Dr. Clarke told me today that by the end of the week I’ll be considered full term. Full term means the baby can come out if it feels like it and be healthy, but it probably won’t. So, full term does not mean I get to be done with this pregnancy stuff anytime soon. Which is good and bad. Bad because if I gain any more weight, I think my body will be able to be used as a flotation device in case of an emergency airplane water landing but good because I’m nowhere near ready to care for a newborn.

  Holding a helpless little baby in my arms without an instruction manual scares the shit out of me.

  Things I’m also afraid of: giving birth, forgetting I have a child and leaving it somewhere inappropriate like a Victoria’s Secret dressing room, forgetting to feed it and letting it starve to death, having an ugly child, having a child who thinks I’m ugly, being an uncool parent, being a parent who won’t let her kid watch an R-rated movie, being a cool parent who buys her kid beer, and accidentally killing or maiming it.

  The last one is a horrible, although valid fear. I killed my turtle when I was seven because I noticed when I put it in hot water it would move around a lot, which I thought was “dancing.” My friend came over and I wanted to show her my pet’s trick, so I put it in the hot water and boy, did it dance. And then it stopped. Forever. It wasn’t dancing. Boiling alive does not equal dancing.

  My panic was not assuaged when I turned on the news tonight and the first story was about a newborn baby that had been kidnapped while the mom was shopping in the mall. Immediately, I began worrying about Skeletor being snatched away by some mentally ill person. By the time Jake got home from dinner with a client, I was lying on the couch, my face buried in a tissue while sobs wracked my body.

  “What’s wrong? Are you in labor?” Jake said. He threw down his laptop
case on the hardwood floor and a loud crack echoed throughout the room as he rushed to my side.

  “What was that?” I said, and sat up halfway.

  “Forget it. What’s the matter? Is something wrong with the baby?” He grabbed my hand and I could feel his palm beginning to sweat.

  “Seriously. I think you just broke your computer,” I said as I struggled to pull myself up into an upright position.

  “Fuck it, Clare. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, uh . . .” Suddenly, I felt very silly. “It’s just . . . this story . . . um . . . kidnapped baby . . . so sad.” I stared at the crumpled tissue in my hand.

  Silence.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the baby?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you’re OK?”

  I nodded, still looking down.

  “Well, that’s good.” He sat down next to me on the couch. “But my laptop’s pretty much screwed.”

  “Sorry. But who cares about a laptop when your child is kidnapped?”

  “He isn’t kidnapped, remember?” Jake pointed to my beach-ball-sized stomach.

  “You’re missing the point. He could be. There are lots of sick, demented people in this world. People who we can’t protect him from. I mean, I couldn’t even protect my turtle. From myself.” I threw my hands up in the air as though I’d lost all hope. I stared at Jake and waited for him to throw himself against the couch in distress and agony, but he simply stared at me. So, I pulled out the most clichéd pregnancy line I could think of: “YOU DON’T EVEN CARE, DO YOU?”

  He tried to explain that yes, he would care if Skeletor got kidnapped, but that he isn’t going to worry about it because it isn’t likely, and we are going to be great parents blah, blah, blah. I gave up and waddled to the kitchen to eat a Popsicle. Jake was almost to the bedroom when I let out the Fat Pregnancy Scream Heard ’Round the World.

  He’d eaten all the Popsicles.

  He doesn’t care if I kill the baby or if the baby gets kidnapped, and he certainly doesn’t care about his chubby pregnant wife.

  Wednesday, December 12

  Thankfully, the pregnancy psychosis ended when I woke up this morning and I apologized to Jake and took back everything I said last night. Well, at least this one: “You ate those Popsicles on purpose because you hate me. You think I’m fat and ugly. You know what? I hope someone kidnaps you.”

  Although I don’t want Jake to get kidnapped, I do worry if Jake thinks I’m fat and ugly right now. Every time I look in the mirror, once I get past the World’s Largest Belly, my eyes migrate to the lovely dimpled cellulite now colonizing on my thighs and butt. He can’t think it’s attractive. But having a big stomach is kind of like having giant boobs, I’d imagine, in the sense that there’s something else to distract him from any other flaws.

  It doesn’t help that he’s become too freaked out to have sex anymore. He claimed it would be too weird. Actually what he said was: “I’d feel like the baby could stick his hand out and grab me or something.” That statement alone pretty much killed my sex drive along with his.

  At least I can always count on Wifey1025 to boost my self-esteem when I’m feeling like Aaron Spelling’s house in human form. She e-mailed me today and asked what plan I’ve followed for pregnancy fitness since I’m, in her words, “So small and petite and in shape.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to admit my fitness routine is clocking how many doughnuts I can fit into my mouth at once, so I was vague and said “cardio.”

  Thursday, December 13

  Reese met Matt our freshman year of college at one of those gigantic fraternity parties where I ran into everyone I knew and proceeded to say really stupid things to classmates and pray they were just as wasted as I was and wouldn’t remember a thing I said.

  I don’t remember how they started talking, but Julie and I found them sucking face on the dance floor. We congratulated her and snapped a few requisite photos before leaving to go back to the dorm and pass out.

  Reese came home around nine the next morning, still a little drunk and smiling widely. They dated for the next six years, and two years after graduation, Matt proposed. We all cried and bought cheap champagne and watched Father of the Bride.

  They got married exactly one year later in a huge beautiful wedding ceremony with four hundred guests. It was Reese’s fairy-tale wedding and she was the princess.

  Reese quit teaching when she became pregnant with Grace. She loved her job, she loved her students, but happily walked away to raise her daughter. She thought getting married and having a family was enough. The marriage, kids, big house, expensive car, and housekeeper would be enough. Matt cheating on her didn’t fit into the equation, so it was ignored.

  The only thing scarier than the rumors being true is her world becoming gray.

  But she’s going to do it.

  She’s confronting him tonight.

  She called an hour ago and asked if I could watch Grace tonight.

  12:00 A.M.

  I’m exhausted. I feel like crying and vomiting at the same time.

  Reese brought Grace over after I got home from work.

  “Is there anything I can do? Are you OK?” I asked her after she handed Grace to me and showed me eight million times how to make a bottle.

  “No. I think I’m good.” She gave me a wavery half smile and I was struck at how young she looked.

  “What are you going to say?” I asked, shifting Grace to my hip.

  “I don’t even know. I think I’m just going to ask him about the e-mails and see what he says. Like I said, I’m sure it’s nothing but I have to ask.” She shrugged.

  “What made you change your mind? I mean, last time we talked, you were so angry and then I got your message today . . .”

  She studied the scuff marks on the ceramic tile in our kitchen and slowly raised her eyes to meet mine. “I thought about what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “What you said about Grace. About thinking of her.”

  “Oh. Reese, I’m sorry if I upset—”

  She held up her hand and shook her head. “No, it was good. It made me think of my mother. She’s been miserable her whole life. She thought she stayed with my father for us, but really, she stayed for her. Because she was too afraid to change her life.” She gave me a rueful smile and smoothed her hair back. “I don’t want to be like her. I can’t be like her. I won’t let myself turn into her.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you, too. Are you sure you’re going to be OK with Grace?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Even without Jake?”

  “Oh, please. He’d just sit on the couch and watch TV anyways. We’ll be fine,” I said, and gave Grace a little pat on the butt.

  “Well, OK. I’ll be back soon,” she said.

  I hugged her tightly, as tightly as I could with my beach-ball stomach and Grace.

  The second the door closed, Grace screamed. I tried to feed her, burp her, sing to her, change her, offer her a drink, but nothing worked. Her face contorted and turned purple. I barely heard the doorbell ring over her screams of fury.

  “Hi!” I said brightly as I let Julie in.

  She looked confused. “What is all that noise?”

  “Oh. That’s Grace. I’m watching her for Reese.”

  “Oh, God. Why? Oh, wait, is she asking Matt if he’s doing other women?” she asked as she walked straight into the bedroom. “So, where’s the shirt?”

  “In the second drawer.”

  “Great,” she said, and started for the dresser.

  “But I’m holding it for ransom.”

  “What?”

  I raised my eyebrows and gestured toward the still screaming Grace. “Fuck no. I don’t need to borrow the shirt. Forget it.” She tried to walk out the door but I grabbed her arm.

  “Please, Julie. I need some help. Jake isn’t here and it’s impossible for me to take care of
her with this giant stomach. Please,” I pleaded, “I will so owe you.”

  She folded her arms.

  “I have vodka!”

  She softened a little.

  “I’ll consider letting you make out with Mark.” I’m a horrible person for pimping out my brother but I was desperate.

  “Deal.”

  I poured Julie a hefty vodka tonic and we finally got Grace to shut up so we flipped on the television to watch Grey’s Anatomy. After it was over, I put Grace to bed (it was so weird to see an actual baby in Skeletor’s room) and came back to the living room and collapsed on the couch.

  “You’re huge, you know,” Julie finally said.

  “Thanks. I know.”

  Julie flipped to MTV. A rerun of the Video Music Awards was on and Jared Leto’s band was playing.

  “Gawd. Remember when he used to be hot?” Julie said.

  “Oh! I know! He made me want to kill myself, he was so hot. Remember him as Jordan Catalano on My So-Called Life?”

  “Yes!” she shrieked. “So hot. Now he’s all gothic and wears eye makeup.” She flung herself back on the couch and sighed. “Ben looks a little like the old, hot Jared Leto.”

  “Really? Damn, if that’s even somewhat true, I’ll sleep with him.”

  “Yep. I’ll get a picture tomorrow night. Your pink boob shirt should be a winner.”

  “Your boobs aren’t even going to fit into that shirt.”

  “That’s the point, my dear.”

  “So what’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing serious. Other than we have seriously good sex. And he’s seriously hot. But just having fun. The other day, he did this thing . . .”

  Before she could finish, I saw Reese’s car pull into our apartment complex. Shit. I didn’t think she’d be back so early. I planned on kicking Julie out before she got here. Immediately, my stomach began to cramp up and my heart to pound.