A Bump in the Road (19 page)

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.

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 mother-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.

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.

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.