A Bump in the Road (22 page)

“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?

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.

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.