A Bump in the Road (20 page)

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.

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.

Most important, I can now announce my pregnancy to the Internet.

8:30
P.M.

Why the hell did I tell the Internet I’m pregnant? I’ve already gotten 150 comments and close to 200 e-mails. Most of which are of the
congratulatory type, but a few are in the not-so-supportive category. Like this one from jen2485:

Clare,

I’m sure your hapy about the baby. While i’m hapy for u, what are you going to do for babysitting? U shouldn’t go bac8k to work. but U will since u r the type to pick more designer purses over time with baby.

jen2485

I called in “pregnant” today. I figured I have a very small window of opportunity to slack off before the Flynn-Shepard wedding. I settled in this morning to watch some quality daytime television. After
The Price Is Right,
I figured I should get myself out of the house before
Montel Williams
started (topic: “Kids Who Have Rare Genetic Disorders.” Not good for pregnant woman to watch.) so I called Reese to make a lunch date since Julie was at work. She sounded weird over the phone but invited me over anyway. When I got there, she answered the door all red-faced and puffy-eyed and I could hear Grace screaming in the background.

“Are you OK?” I said, closing the door behind me.

“Yep!” she said, but her voice cracked.

“Reese, you look awful. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Her face crumpled and I tried to put my arms around her to hug her but she backed away.

“Everything’s fine. God! You look amazing,” she said, and sniffled.

“Cut the shit. What’s going on?”

“Not much. Except I think Matt might be having an affair.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just forget I said anything.” She turned on her heel and walked toward the kitchen.

I followed her, not processing what she said.

“How do you know?”

“Oh, just something I found in his briefcase,” she said. Grace continued to scream in her high chair.

“How do you know?” I repeated. She disappeared into the next room. I picked up Grace and tried to quiet her.

Reese appeared back in the kitchen, holding a piece of paper. She tossed it to me with a flick of her wrist and took Grace and rocked her.

It was an e-mail from someone named Leslie sent to Matt’s work address.

The Four Seasons is perfect for lunch and more. See you at 1.

“This could mean anything,” I said too quickly. She grabbed the paper out of my hands, giving me five pretty serious paper cuts.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s nothing. I was just surprised when I saw it. It’s really no big deal.”

“Reese, you have to ask him about it. It could be a misunderstanding; don’t freak out until you know what’s going on.”

“I’m not freaking out. I was just acting silly for a moment. Must be the lack of sleep. Everything is fine.”

“Reese, you have to talk to him.” Grace finally stopped screaming.

“I don’t think so. Oh, did I tell you the news?”

“What?”

“I’m pregnant again,” she said.

“What?”

“I just found out last week. We wanted to wait a while before trying again, but last month we went out for margaritas and . . .” She trailed off. She shook her head. “Anyway! Isn’t that incredible?”

“Congratulations! Oh my God! How exciting! How did Matt react?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“Are you kidding?”

She shook her head and grabbed my hand. “No. I’m just waiting for the right time to tell him. He’s been so stressed-out lately and I don’t want to worry him. I’m sure he’ll be just thrilled when I tell him.”

“Reese, what is going on? You’re acting like a fucking Stepford wife or something.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “I said everything is fine. Now let’s have lunch and you can tell me all about how you’ve been feeling. Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll still give you my maternity clothes.”

“Reese . . .”

“Clare, I’m serious. Drop it. And don’t you dare mention any of this on your blog.”

“Of course not, Reese.”

“Good.”

“But I’m not taking your clothes. You’ll need them.”

“Fine.”

She started to turn but I grabbed her hand tightly and pressed her bony shoulders to me before she could wiggle out of my grasp. “It’s going to be OK,” I whispered.

I didn’t sleep much last night, as my conversation with Reese wafted through my head every time I started to drift off. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I snuggled up against Jake. Gratitude and calm washed over me and I finally passed out sometime after four.

I put my head down at my desk this morning, exhausted. Not only was I trying to survive on a few hours of sleep, but Mule Face
hasn’t shut her mouth about her wedding all morning. I’m going to throw myself out the window if she doesn’t stop. I want to grab her by her pudgy muffin top and shake her and scream, “SHUT UP! I need peace and quiet to stress about being pregnant, worry about Reese’s marriage, and freak out about my Visa bill and the cost of formula!”

She’s gabbed on the phone all day about her bridesmaid dresses, loud enough for everyone to hear, since Christina called in sick today. Her dresses are a “beautiful bright purple, almost like a magenta.”

She should just go all out and get matching hats if she really wants to humiliate them. I bet the guys will even have matching purple cummerbunds and bow ties to maintain consistency. I’m sure the bridal party is going to look attractive dressed as prom dates from 1987.

“It’s OK. We’re going to make it. I’m so sorry you have to hear this,” I whispered to the baby after I heard Mule Face scream, “PARASOLS! THEY SHOULD HAVE PURPLE PARASOLS, TOO!”