by Glynis Astie
Our technician, Courtney, turned to us with a huge grin on her face. “Are y’all ready?”
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to tell her I was so ready I could ‘bend and snap’ at that very moment. She was the spitting image of Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde. So much so I kept looking around the room to find her dog, Bruiser, in his matching lab coat.
After a nod from me, Courtney pulled back my gown, applied the gel and placed the transducer on my abdomen. (I became tired of calling it the “thingy” and asked for its proper name.) Within seconds, the room filled with the melodious sound of the baby’s heartbeat. Louis stroked my hair tenderly as we both stared with rapt attention at the little one floating on the screen in front of us.
“What a strong heartbeat!” Courtney gushed. “Now, Mrs. Durand, I’m going to check a number of things—the position of the placenta, the amount of amniotic fluid and the appearance of your cervix. I’m going to survey the baby’s organs and take a variety of measurements to make sure everything is going as it should. As I do this, I may or may not find clues to your baby’s sex. If I do, would y’all like to know?”
Louis and I exchanged glances and nodded eagerly.
Courtney laughed. “Then let’s get this party started!”
For the next twenty minutes, Courtney methodically examined and measured every last centimeter of the baby. I heard her throw out terms like BPD, HC, AC and FL which my baby books taught me to recognize as biparietal diameter, head circumference, abdominal circumference and femur length. These measurements combined with my abdominal circumference would not only provide an accurate assessment of the baby’s size, but also confirm the due date.
Bursting with anticipation, I stared at Courtney until she met my gaze.
She chuckled to herself before saying, “Are you ready?”
I grabbed Louis’ hand. “Yes, we’re ready.”
Courtney repositioned the transducer and pointed to a small protrusion from the baby’s body. “Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Durand. You’re having a boy!”
Oh boy.
As we drove home, the grin on Louis’ face seemed to grow exponentially. I savored his glee-filled face, imagining him running through a series of scenarios in his head: teaching his son to ride a motorcycle, teaching his son how to pick up girls, teaching his son how to bungee jump. You know—all the important things.
I giggled. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“You may gladly know them for free, mon coeur.”
I regarded him expectantly.
Louis flashed a grin. “I was thinking about names for the baby.”
I sighed. “I suppose we do need to start discussing names.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t sound very excited.”
I shook my head. “I am excited. Very excited. I promise. It’s just…” I didn’t want to tell him I had been hoping for a girl as much as he had been hoping for a boy. I had fallen in love with the name Emma while watching the eighties sitcom Kate & Allie and had always hoped to give the name to my daughter.
No, I didn’t jump on the bandwagon with the rest of the country due to Ross and Rachel’s fictional progeny. I decided at the age of eleven, my daughter would be named Emma. It had been a given that not only would I have a daughter, but my husband would have no objection to my choice of name. Things seemed so simple when you were young.
Yet, here I was with my husband, about to learn what his choice of name was for our SON.
“Syd? Do you not want to know the name?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to, honestly. What if he wanted some awful name like Xavier or Rupert or, I don’t know, Howard? If I HAD to choose a boy’s name, I wanted it to be something like Matthew or Ryan. Oooh! Or Charles, so we could call him Charlie. Though, Charlie might be too hard for his relatives to say. I might have to rethink my choices…
“Earth to Syd!” Louis was practically screaming at me.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry, Bluey. I got distracted.”
His enormous grin was back. “Are you ready?”
I quickly put a smile on my face. “Let’s hear it!”
“Luke!” He raised his hands for a moment in a “ta-da” gesture, before returning them to their rightful place on the steering wheel.
I met his eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter. Poor Louis looked like I had bruised his ego severely.
After a particularly exuberant chortle, I composed myself and appeared properly contrite. “I’m sorry, Bluey. I didn’t expect the usual Star Wars geekery from you.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you actually say ‘Star Wars geekery’?”
“Indeed, I did. Every guy who loves Star Wars, which seems to include most men on the planet, wants to be able to turn to his son and say, ‘Luke, I am your father.’ It’s so sad.”
Louis narrowed his eyes at me. “While Luke would be a very cool name, it is not the name I selected. I want to name him Luc. Like my Uncle Luc.” He enunciated the name very slowly, inflecting a very large “ooh” before the hard “c” at the end.
While I thought it very sweet he wanted to name our son after his favorite uncle, I had to roll my eyes. Pronunciation was clearly going to be a sticking point.
Have you seen the movie, French Kiss? You know, the one with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline where Kevin Kline plays a French man named...Luc. There is a VERY memorable scene where Kevin Kline’s character, Luc, is trying to get Meg Ryan’s character, Kate, to say his name correctly. I’m pregnant and paraphrasing, so I won’t get it exactly right, but it goes something like this:
Luc: “My name is Luc.”
Kate: “Luke?”
Luc: “No, Luc.”
Kate looks at him with confusion. “That’s what I said.”
Luc shakes his head. “No, you did not. My name is Luc.”
Kate rolls her eyes at him and says what sounds to me like, “Lnnnuke.”
They went back and forth a few more times and both ended the conversation frustrated, thinking the other was a complete idiot. I closed my eyes and sighed. I had no desire to live through this on a daily basis. My child, correction, my son (holy crap!), is going to grow up in the United States, not France. NO ONE is going to call him Luc.
He will be known as Luke, by everyone other than his father, including his American mother. The last thing I wanted after pushing a gigantic being out of a small hole in my body was to have my husband constantly correcting me about how to pronounce our son’s name. I just might have to kill him.
Rather than scare the hell out of Louis with my deliberations and receive another pompous lecture about the degree of hormones released in a woman’s body during pregnancy, I simply offered, “It’s a nice name. I have a few ideas myself.”
You see? This maturity thing isn’t so tough. You merely have to bury the irrational feelings until you can either unleash them on your therapist (who is paid a large sum of money to deal with your idiosyncrasies) or if you are desperate, release them in very small, watered-down doses to your closest family and friends. Being mature isn’t synonymous with being completely sane. Being mature translates to controlled and well-timed releases of insanity.
Chapter Fourteen
After last week’s ultrasound, I received a clean bill of health for both myself and my little guy from Dr. Bauer. As soon as we arrived home from the appointment, Louis and I called our families and joyfully spread the news of our son. Louis’ mother, of course, was disappointed to learn she wouldn’t have a granddaughter. However, she got over her disappointment in record time and then gave her son an extensive list of possible names for her first grandchild. I couldn’t possibly put my feelings about the names Marcel, Thibaut and Chauncey into words. Arguing with my husband over the pronunciation of the name Luc was looking like a better option every day.
With the name discussion tabled for the present time, I was able to turn my attention to more pressing matters—in the most literal sense. Lately I had be
en wishing Emily Post had a philosophy regarding pregnancy etiquette. Though the “decorum diva” as I like to call her, has long since passed away, her legacy continues to comment on the proper way to conduct oneself in a variety of situations. Much to my disappointment, my web research had only shown commentary regarding how to announce your pregnancy in the technological age. Make no mistake, I’m not concerned with how to announce my pregnancy (that ship has sailed) or with how to conduct myself as a pregnant woman, but more with how others should treat pregnant women.
As of the start of the twenty-first week of my pregnancy, I have gained a total of eighteen pounds, most of it landing firmly on my thighs and butt. Lovely, I know. The point is I’m not obviously pregnant, which protects me from certain behaviors from strangers, but the knowledge of my pregnancy has opened up an enormous can of worms to the entire population of my friends and coworkers.
I greatly appreciate the concern I have been shown by the people whom I have seen on a daily basis for the last three and a half years. My coworkers have brought me everything from herbal teas and back massagers to organic fruit and pregnancy pops (a morning sickness life saver). However, I have also had to endure an endless parade of questionable behaviors.
I have sat through countless descriptions of pregnancy woes and birth complications. And not just from the female employees! I can’t even imagine what the poor wives of these motor-mouthed men would think if they knew the extent of the intimate details I have been privy to—involuntary as my participation may have been. I shuddered every time the thoughts crossed my mind.
Difficult as it has been, I have found the strength to deal with these complications while maintaining a small, albeit strained, smile on my face. What I can’t handle is the touching. First, I’m your Human Resources Partner. I have been the one to teach you about inappropriate behavior on multiple occasions. Putting your hand between my breasts and my lady parts and rubbing back and forth is the very definition of INAPPROPRIATE. (My stomach is barely protruding, so where do you think that hand is going?)
Second, while the company appreciates cultural differences in general, it will not tolerate behavior that could easily qualify as sexual harassment. Bottom line, I really don’t care if it is good luck to rub a pregnant woman’s stomach in YOUR culture. Touching someone without their consent is called battery per current legal standards in this country.
Yes, I realize I sound like a total bitch. Pregnancy is rapidly wearing down my filter and my impeccable manners. My mother would be horrified by the behavior I have nearly exhibited over the last two weeks. I’m totally violating my only-worry-when-absolutely-necessary clause since I’m not sure how much longer I can hold back the acerbic responses percolating in my mind.
Dr. Bauer has scheduled my maternity leave to begin two weeks before the baby is due. What are the odds I will be able to retain my neutral exterior for another seventeen weeks? Perhaps I should speak to Vivian about telecommuting two days a week? Ranting and raving prior to responding to a ludicrous request is far more acceptable in your own home. (Employing the mute button on the phone is key to this approach.)
As I searched for the will to go through the latest compensation report for the engineering department, I heard a knock at my door. (I had always been a proponent of keeping my office door open, but pregnancy had only enhanced my bat-like hearing which meant I could hear every yawn, sigh, burp and hiccup. This level of intimacy with my coworkers was completely unnecessary.)
With a sense of enthusiasm I didn’t feel I called out, “Come in!”
In walked Maya carrying a tray of beverages from Starbucks and an ominous garment bag. I gasped. Not another dress!
She paused slightly when she saw my face. “Sydney, you look like a serial killer.”
I suppressed an eye roll. “Nice to see you too, Sunshine. What’s up?” I sincerely hoped I didn’t sound as impatient as I felt. I was already behind on the analysis for these reports and the last thing I wanted to do was view another crimson monstrosity which I was expected to wear in front of hundreds of people. Even if I did see a brown paper bag poking out of the beverage tray. I was betting she threw in a chocolate chunk cookie to hold my attention. Maya knew how to play dirty.
She closed my office door, hung the garment bag on the hook below my coat and placed the drinks on my desk. “I didn’t know what you were in the mood for, so I brought you a decaf caramel latte and a cup of Chamomile tea. Oh, and this double chocolate chunk cookie.” She held up the bag and waved it, grease stains and all, in front of me.
I beamed at her. “Thank you! I have a mountain of work to do and a snack will make a world of difference.” I gratefully accepted the cookie and motioned for her to sit down.
She removed her coat, draped it over one of my guest chairs and smirked. “Thank goodness your desire for sugar has returned. I almost didn’t recognize you without it.”
I pulled a face and took the Chamomile tea, quickly popping the top and inhaling the calming scent.
Maya shook her head. “I’ve missed you, Syd.” She then surprised me by walking over, crouching down and hugging me very carefully. I had to laugh.
“Maya, I’m not going to break.”
She extracted herself from the hug and put her finger under my chin. “I know, Syd. I don’t want to jostle you too much and cause any, um, unnecessary eruptions.”
Oh. That. In addition to my morning sickness increasing in severity, we can now add uncontrollable gas to the list of horrific and highly embarrassing pregnancy behaviors. I have had to dart out of numerous meetings to either throw up or release a loud and smelly fart. Life continues to become more problematic.
I know people like to believe pregnancy is a beautiful occurrence and I will admit the act of creating life does indeed qualify as such. But, the day-to-day inner workings of the body creating the beautiful life is often…disgusting. Unless you’re part of the very lucky percentage who have a fairly uneventful pregnancy, like my perfect sister, Kate.
Returning my attention to Maya, I reddened so deeply, my face would have rivaled the color of the dresses she was about to unveil.
“Relax, Syd! I love you no matter what.” She paused to remove an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. “I only have a few moments, so let’s get down to business.”
I warily took a sip of my tea as she retrieved the garment bag from the door. (I planned to save the cookie to console myself with after she showed me her latest vision for my matron of honor dress.) A closer study of the bulging seams of the bag led me to believe there were multiple dresses.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I prepared myself for Maya’s latest selections. The last dress was a crimson sequined baby doll which any woman who was not a size zero would have had a hard time getting away with. I had serious doubts as to whether the teeny yet fluffy skirt would be able to cover my ever expanding derriere. I still retained the smallest glimmer of hope that Maya was simply toying with me, but given how hard I worked to get Maya and Devon back on track, if I had to look like a pregnant circus clown, burlesque dancer and/or Lady Gaga impersonator, so be it.
Maya cleared her throat impatiently. “What do you think?”
Wrestling myself back to the present, I noticed she was holding up two short sleeved dresses: a black jersey wrap dress and a hunter green A-line dress with an empire waist. I stared at her in confusion. She had been adamant her bridesmaids wear red. Pardon me, crimson. (I’m using my hoity-toity maître de voice from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when I say this.) Red is red, people. We don’t have to give everything in this world a fancy name. Aside from the erroneous color, these dresses were fare more demure than anything she had shown me so far. I had absolutely no idea what to say.
Maya shook the dresses on their hangers. “These are for you, silly. You need some serious help with your maternity wardrobe. Your fat clothes simply aren’t cutting it anymore.”
My eyes widened in shock. As insulting as it sounded, she did have
a point. (I kept meaning to shop for maternity clothes, but I couldn’t find the time or the energy.) I glanced down at my fraying gray trousers and lumpy black sweater. I had been so exhausted this morning, I didn’t even take the time to accessorize. The outlook was rather grim.
She smiled tentatively at me. “I have a friend who manages a Motherhood Maternity store and she gets a huge discount. I brought a bunch of other stuff if you’d like to see it.” She motioned to the overstuffed bag. I could see swatches of purple, blue and pink poking out.
I inhaled sharply at the possibilities of what was in the bag. Would everything in there be as tailored and elegant as the dresses she showed me or was I about to be shown garments one would find in RuPaul’s closet? As you well know, Maya’s taste was normally quite elegant, but the selection of ostentatious bridesmaid dresses she had brought forth thus far had forced me to question if her sense of style had been somehow damaged by her current status as bride-to-be. I bit my lip in contemplation of my options.
Maya’s eyes lit up. “I even brought accessories!”
The girlie-girl in me tossed aside her concerns and started hopping up and down in anticipation. The pregnant woman abiding the same space told her to stifle since all her bouncing was stirring up some serious problems in our shared stomach.
I ceased bouncing and grinned at Maya. The wave of happiness suddenly crashed into a pit of blubbering sincerity. As tears fell from my cheeks, I whispered, “Thank you for doing this for me.” Being pregnant is a roller-coaster ride of epic proportions. Yippee.