by Glynis Astie
Chapter Five
The past month has gone by in a blur and I’m still not sure if I have adjusted to the idea of being pregnant. I have dutifully read my pregnancy books, followed a relatively balanced diet and started doing prenatal yoga. I have even started seeing a therapist to help me deal with my, um, overly active imagination for the sake of the baby. (No, you will not be privy to THOSE conversations. I share enough with you as it is.) Whatever measures I can take to keep us both happy and healthy will be taken, even if it is a bit grudgingly.
Unfortunately for all parties involved, my hormones refuse to stay in check. Louis took me out for a romantic birthday dinner and I spent most of it crying about how I would be turning thirty NEXT year. My poor husband took it all in stride and kept handing me tissues. However, upon returning home, a very different kind of hormone overtook me and I more than made it up to him. At least Hurricane Sydney leaves some happiness in the wake of her chaos.
So, here we are in early November and I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to get Maya to speak to Devon. I can’t believe she has gone a whole month insisting she isn’t going to marry him! I had initially taken the presence of her engagement ring on her finger as a good sign, but as more time passed, I began to wonder if she simply couldn’t bear to part with such a beautiful piece of jewelry. Make no mistake; diamonds really are her best friends. If Maya and Devon do eventually break up, I highly doubt she will give the ring back. (In case you haven’t noticed, she has very little sense of decorum.)
As far as I’m concerned, Maya should be grateful someone as kind and giving (and HOT!) as Devon would voluntarily attach himself to her for the rest of his life. I realize this must sound pretty harsh, but you have been listening to my description of Maya for the past year, haven’t you? She is…she is…well, she is very, um, high maintenance. Oh, screw it! She is a GIGANTIC pain in the ass! Anyone willing to put up with all her crap—with a smile on his face no less—should be canonized.
Not that I can say any of this to her though. (I doubt she would hesitate to bitch slap me, even if she knew about my pregnancy.) Confidence simply isn’t an issue for Maya. I’m sure in her mind Devon is the lucky one. This is precisely why I have spent the last month being very careful about what I say around my extremely opinionated friend.
Thank goodness I have had an ally in this intensely difficult task. Kate and I have spent several evenings over the last month in heated phone discussions about how to get the two of them back together. We have even pulled Louis and Nick in for consultations on a few occasions. (I have taken to calling them “The Dream Team.”) Devon has been completely open to all our ideas—“chance meetings,” group activities and/or romantic gestures—but Maya hasn’t been a willing participant.
Whenever she sees his face, she runs the other way, insisting she needs “time to think.” I think, scratch that, I know, she is being a spoiled brat and is trying to punish him for questioning one of her decisions—however foolish it may have been. (Who spends ten thousand dollars on ROSES? Were they spun from gold? Or perhaps encrusted with diamonds?!?) I’m absolutely terrified that my friend is going to ruin her life over an imaginary battle of wills and there isn’t much I can do to stop her.
On top all this, I have to live with the knowledge that I still haven’t told Maya I’m pregnant. I feel like a total coward, but she has an inordinate amount of pent up rage these days; I’m afraid if I tell her my news, she will release the brunt of it on me. Maya is scary enough in her “resting” state. God knows what I would be facing with her heightened state of emotions.
This convoluted nonsense was knocking around in my head as I considered getting out of bed. It was a lovely Sunday morning and I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop lounging yet. I debated picking up my well-worn copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary versus finding my wayward husband, when Louis came in with a breakfast tray laden with all my favorite foods. My eyes widened in anticipation and I clapped my hands with glee.
Louis took one look at me and laughed. “It is not hard to please you these days, is it, mon coeur?”
I giggled. “No, it’s not, Bluey.” For a moment I felt a bit sorry for my husband, since these days I had a far more voracious appetite for food than I did for him. Then I got a whiff of the delectable meal he had prepared for me and those feelings were quashed. This baby needed to eat!
Once I had propped myself up on my winning combination of pillows, Louis laid the tray across my lap and presented me with a napkin—which I promptly tucked under my chin. The days of being concerned about my appearance were long gone. Now I was more concerned about dripping syrup on the sheets. There were very few things I hated in this world as much as changing sheets and I had a sinking feeling my pregnant body would make it an even more unpleasant task.
I gazed down at the tray to find Louis had prepared a true culinary masterpiece. He had made me French toast with Challah bread, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and a side of turkey bacon. The plate was brimming over with fried goodness and I couldn’t dive in quickly enough.
After a moment of watching me inhale my eggs, Louis pointed to the bowl of strawberries at the edge of the tray. “Don’t forget to eat your fruit, young lady.”
I grinned, enjoying the gooey cheese and perfectly seasoned eggs. A girl could get used to this kind of treatment.
Unable to contain the anticipation of the best part of the meal, I took the syrup container and poured a generous dose over the French toast. This was one of my favorite foods EVER and my husband was quite adept at making it. (Once he had gotten over the whole issue of it being referred to as “French.” In his humble opinion, this dish is simply not refined enough to deserve the name.) The first bite was pure heaven. The toast was so soft and buttery, I had to stop to release a small moan of pure ecstasy.
Almost immediately, my husband began to cackle. This had been happening quite often lately. Louis seemed to find the behavior of pregnant women highly amusing. Or at least the behavior of this pregnant woman in particular.
I chose to ignore this fact for now, solely because it was to my benefit to keep him in his current state of amusement. I was a bit worried about how he would handle the scarier parts of pregnancy—the fits of rage, the swollen body parts and the endless cravings. I had a hard time believing he would find the request for a grocery store run for pickles and ice cream at two in the morning adorable. (It may seem a bit cliché, but I have a great affinity for pickles, so something tells me I will feel the need to try them as an ice cream topping.) At that point, he will definitely feel like he is in a horror show instead of a comedy.
I stopped chewing momentarily and waited for the inevitable comment.
He finally regained his composure and choked out, “I am happy to know I can still satisfy you, Syd.”
Cue Louis’ second fit of laughter. I continued to enjoy my breakfast—with the absence of moaning—while he continued to be quite pleased with himself.
After breakfast, Louis and I watched a That Seventies Show marathon. I had no idea what prompted my surge in hormones, but after finishing our third episode, I launched myself into my unsuspecting husband’s lap. One thing led to another and Louis satisfied me quite well for the second time that morning. Life as a pregnant woman appeared to be unpredictable, but it certainly had its benefits.
Following a leisurely bubble bath, I settled myself on the couch with a mug of Chamomile tea (I preferred to save my caffeine intake for chocolate) and one of my pregnancy books. Today I chose the one which explains your pregnancy week by week. The descriptions of the baby’s development are comprehensive and each sentence makes the reality of a tiny human growing inside my body a little easier to handle.
There was one teeny thing which freaked me out about this book. The way it outlined how my body is going to stretch, swell and contort to accommodate my lovely parasite? Nah. The thousands of things which could possibly go wrong for both me and the baby at any point during this process? Nope. What sent shivers
up my spine was the part of the weekly progress report comparing your growing baby to a type of food.
On the surface, I get it. It is much easier for people to conceptualize how the baby has grown each week by giving them an object to compare it to, such as a poppy seed or a blueberry. My question is: does it have to be something edible? Couldn’t the author compare the fetus to a button or maybe a paper clip? Or possibly even a marble?
I suppose I should explain myself. Though, by now, you are used to my eccentricities. So here it is: when I was little, my brother, Charlie, used to think it was funny to lock eyes with me in a most sinister manner and tell me we were going to have roast baby for dinner. He would even get out the roasting pan, measure it conspicuously and then chase me around with the tape measure. I ran away in terror every time, convinced I would spend my last moments inside my mother’s beloved roasting pan. I’m fairly certain I was THE most gullible child on the planet.
Years later, my status as an intelligent, seemingly rational adult hasn’t completely erased the creepy feeling associated with my childhood “roasting incidents.” So, go ahead and shake your head in the Sydney-is-so-crazy fashion which you normally do, but it won’t change my revulsion to the idea of comparing my child to a piece of food. Enough said.
Louis broke me out of my borderline psychotic daydream by jumping up and down and making funny faces. There was no way I couldn’t laugh.
When I turned my gaze to him and cracked up, he grinned. “Where were you, mon coeur?”
I shook my head. “Nowhere fun. What are you up to? I mean, besides doing your best orangutan impression?”
His eyes lit up. “It is getting really good, is it not?”
“I think you can add a new skill to your resume, Bluey. I bet it will come in uber handy in the software trade.”
He rolled his eyes and sat down next to me. “I have been thinking about the baby’s room. Well, the baby’s nook, I should say.” He paused and tapped his finger against his temple.
I gave him a minute to complete his thought, but he continued tapping his finger.
I decided a prompt was in order. “And?”
The finger tapping stopped. “I think we should paint it blue.”
I raised my eyebrows. I was torn between the shock I felt for his desire to add color to any part of the apartment and the idea that he wanted to paint the baby’s nook BLUE. I knew he desperately wanted a son, but did he think the color of the baby’s surroundings would honestly make a difference? The die has already been cast, my friend.
He took my silence as protest. “It would be a good idea for the baby to have some kind of stimulation. Color is good for this, right?”
I mulled it over. When do babies actually see color? Many of the toys for infants these days are black and white, perhaps with a little red thrown in. I struggled to remember reading something about the development of a baby’s vision. Rats. How was I going to remember all this stuff?
I was about to tell Louis about my uncertainty regarding his color choice when the phone rang. I held my finger up to pause the conversation and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Duck! How is the expecting mother?”
I hesitated. What should I tell him? Crazy? Overwhelmed? Underprepared? I decided it was best to lie.
“Wonderful, Dad! How are you?” Louis headed for the bedroom once he realized I would be on the phone for the foreseeable future. No doubt some type of combat video game was calling his name.
“How do you think I am? I’m about to have two more grandchildren.” He paused.
With my dad, this comment could go either way. He would either carry on about what a burden we were to him and now there would be a second generation to take him for granted (drama queen!) OR he would gush about how excited he was about the possibility of grandchildren to spoil. It all depended on his mood. And how much crap he wanted to give me.
I cleared my throat. “So this means you are…?”
He waited another moment before finally putting me out of my misery.
“I’m ecstatic!” It seemed he had elected to go easy on me today.
He cleared his throat. “So what’s the good word?” Translation: what have you been freaking out about today?
I arched my back, attempting to remove the kinks. “Everything is great, Dad. Louis and I were discussing painting the baby’s nook blue.”
“Oy vey! He really wants a son, doesn’t he?”
I giggled. “What man doesn’t, Dad?” As far as I knew, all men seemed to want a boy to erect in their image. Yikes! Pun absolutely not intended. That was just AWFUL. Please don’t tell me pregnancy has affected my knack for puns!
“I don’t know, Duck, there’s something about girls. Every little girl loves her daddy.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic. I loved my dad with all my heart. When he chose to, he did an incredible job of clearing my head of needless clutter and reminding me of the simple joys in life.
He chuckled. “Of course, Louis will want to get himself a nice gun if you have a daughter. I can get a referral for a reputable gun shop in California if he’s interested.”
And then he snatched it right back from me. Nicely done, Dad. Nicely done.
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you, Dad, but we won’t be needing any recommendations.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having guns in the house, Duck. You grew up with guns in the house.”
I froze. I didn’t know we had guns in the house! “Pardon me?” No. No way! My mom wouldn’t have allowed such a thing! Not with three unpredictable children in the house—OK, well, two unpredictable children since Kate was, and still is, perfection personified.
“I had a handgun and a shotgun in a lockbox in our closet.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Why? It’s not like we lived in a dangerous area.” I grew up in classic suburbia. We walked home from the bus stop alone each day, let ourselves in with our keys and stayed out on our own until dark. Nothing ever happened.
My dad chuckled. “You’re old enough to know this now. There were a rash of robberies in the area and I convinced your mother it couldn’t hurt to have a gun in the house to deal with intruders.”
Huh. I wonder if Charlie knew. He probably did. I always seemed to be the one out of touch. (Please try to contain your surprise.)
At a loss for anything else to say, I stayed silent.
“My only point is, Duck, guns don’t have to be scary. They have a practical purpose in the world.”
“This is a rather odd turn of conversation, Dad.”
“Indeed it is, Syd. And it also is my cue to go. Your mother wants me to do inventory this afternoon.”
Inventory was one of the things my father hated most in the world—second only to peanut butter. (He once touted the delightful nut spread as “the most disgusting substance on earth.” Pretty rich talk from a man who consumed pickled animal entrails with delight.) But my mom was better with the customers than he was, so he had to grin and bear it. If only he could wrap his head around the concept of political correctness.
“Give Mom a kiss for me. I love you!”
“Will do. I love you too, Duck.”
I hung up the phone and shook my head. I hadn’t expected a conversation with my dad to end up in a discussion of the need for firearms.
“What is the matter, mon coeur?”
I jumped. When did he come back into the room? Either my husband had become as stealthy as a ninja or I was becoming more clueless. I was betting on the latter. I imagine you were too.
“My dad seems to think you’ll want to buy a gun if we have a girl.” I laughed nervously.
Louis considered this idea. “Makes sense.”
I eyed him carefully. “Are you serious? Or are you messing with me again?”
His expression remained innocent. “How else can I back up my statement to our daughter’s suitors?”
I didn’t want to ask the question, but I had to.
“What statement?”
He looked at me with steely eyes. “I got a forty-five and a shovel. I doubt anybody would miss you.”
I found myself torn in my reaction to my husband for the second time that morning. Part of me wanted to laugh at the timely Clueless quote he pulled out of his arsenal (Ha! The puns are back!) and part of me wanted to weep because I was fairly certain that he wasn’t joking.
The prospect of becoming a parent clearly evinced different reactions from different people. I was focused on practical matters—crib, car seat, clothes and breastfeeding supplies—while Louis thought about color stimulation and weapons for defending his child’s honor. Hopefully, between the two of us, this baby’s needs would be met.
The more I thought about Louis’ sudden interest in a handgun, the more other nagging concerns came bubbling to the surface. We had fought hard to find solid ground as a couple, but what would happen to our hard-won dynamic once a third person entered into it? Would we still have time for each other? Would the baby change everything? Would we even agree on how to raise him/her?
As the feeling of incompetence overwhelmed me, I realized it was time to focus. I had to lay out a plan of attack. No detail could be left unturned! One way or another, I was going to make everything work. If it was the last thing I did, I would get Maya to see reason and reconcile with Devon.
Not what you were expecting? I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not quite ready to deal with the extent of the lists I will need to prepare for the task of being a parent. Trust me when I say I’m happy, eager, exhilarated—you name it—about becoming a parent. (OK, there may be a small amount of terror.) But there is nothing that says I can’t avoid the impending responsibility for a little while...
Chapter Six
The very next day I realized it would be impossible to avoid thoughts of being a parent for the immediate future. Louis and I were going for my first ultrasound that very morning. According to my favorite pregnancy website, we might be able to hear the baby’s heartbeat! This possibility made me anxious, excited and agitated all at the same time. It was disconcerting to cope with such an array of emotions, but I was pretty sure this was merely the tip of the iceberg in terms of the feelings coming my way over the next several months.