by Glynis Astie
“Hi, Dad.” I decided to give him the short version. “Simone left for a walk an hour ago and she hasn’t come back.”
My mother had regained her senses. “Why didn’t you stop her, Sydney? What were you thinking?”
Was she kidding? “What could I have done, Mom? Tackled her? Forced her to the ground? I’m on BED REST.” I tried to tamp down my annoyance. “She’s a grown-ass woman who’s well aware of her poor sense of direction. SHE put herself in this mess.” And she dragged me right along with her. Thanks, Simone.
I heard my mother gasp. Great. Now I was going to get lecture not only about my blasé attitude concerning my missing mother-in-law, but also about my excessive use of profanity near my baby’s tender ears. Kill me now.
I tried to rectify the situation. “Mom, I’m sorry for getting upset. Please try to calm down. Lloyd is keeping an eye out and Louis is on his way home. Everything will be fine.”
My father’s voice cut across the start of another line of questioning from my mother. “Duck! Tell us how you and the baby are doing.”
This request snapped my mother out of her hysteria. “Yes, sweetheart, how are you doing?”
Glad to know MY health is still important to you, Mom. “We’re fine. Dr. Bauer has been satisfied with my labs from my last three checkups, but she hasn’t taken me off bed rest.”
My dad cleared his throat loudly. “Well, that’s good to hear. Isn’t it, Lyn?”
She hurriedly joined in. “Absolutely. But how are YOU, honey? It has to be hard being stuck in your apartment.” There it was. She had finally come to her senses, realizing she had been berating her daughter for something she couldn’t control. Her pregnant, bedridden daughter, no less.
I swallowed slowly. “I’m fine, Mom. All is well.”
There was a note of skepticism in her voice. “That’s wonderful.”
What did they want to hear? That I’m bored out of my mind and have set a new record for the clumsiest person on earth? What about the fact that I have to have my husband put arnica cream on my hooha every night which has resulted in his lack of desire to jump me ever again? (I may be exaggerating a tad.) Do they want to hear about how I can no longer touch my toes and how I feel lucky when the entirety of my meal stays down? None of this lends itself to pleasant conversation.
My mom tried again. “Have you and Louis considered taking a babymoon?”
I frowned. “What the heck is a babymoon?”
My mom laughed. “It’s all the rage. Expectant couples go away for a weekend to enjoy some final alone time before the baby arrives. You and Louis could certainly use some intimate time.”
What?!? I wasn’t sure if I were more surprised by her knowledge of babymoons or by her use of the word “intimate.” Ew. I heard a very pronounced click announcing my father’s exit from the conversation. I fervently wished I could follow him.
I took a moment to control my revulsion before answering. “Mom, I’m thirty-four weeks pregnant. Sexy is out of the question.”
“Don’t be so closed-minded, Syd. I’m sure the two of you would have a great time. You know, one of my customers recommended this book about intimacy during pregnancy and—”
Gah! There’s that word again!
“MOM! Can we PLEASE talk about you? How did your dream date go?” I curled into the couch, cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder.
Eureka! My mom squealed in delight. This topic would keep her far, FAR away from completely inappropriate references to her daughter’s sex life.
“It was wonderful, Syd! Maya got us tickets to see Kiri! Can you believe it?”
Of course I could believe it. It was my idea to get tickets to a Kiri Te Kanawa concert, but I wasn’t going to tell my mother. Maya toiled tirelessly to get the tickets since the show had been sold out for months. She deserved all the kudos she could get.
She continued to gush. “We had high tea at the Plaza before the concert! It was incredible! We must go there the next time you come to New York. Oh! And after the concert, we stayed the Waldorf Astoria for the night!”
“That’s amazing, Mom! You’re lucky to have such a romantic husband.” My father had really worked his magic this time.
She scoffed. “Maya orchestrated the whole thing! And to think she did all this amidst her grueling wedding planning! She is such a saint.”
Uh-huh. I wasn’t feeling the same at this moment since Maya had taken full advantage of my bed rest by badgering me into making ALL of her wedding-related vendor phone calls. She was getting on my last nerve!
I was about to point out my father’s extensive efforts when the door opened and Lloyd walked in with Simone in tow.
“Um, Mom, I’m going to have to call you later. Simone is back.” I didn’t wait for her response, certain she understood the necessity of speaking with my mother-in-law immediately.
Lloyd waved at me. “Hey, Syd! Sorry for using my key, but I knew you weren’t supposed to get up if you could help it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Lloyd! Where was she?”
He laid a number of brown paper bags on the counter. “Well, I went to University Café to grab a snack and I found her sitting outside drinking a cup of tea, surrounded by these bags of pastries. I think when she couldn’t find her way back to the building, she stopped for a snack.”
I glanced back and forth between Simone and Lloyd a few times, trying to make sense of his statements. Simone said nothing; she simply smiled conspiratorially at me, as though we were sharing some kind of secret. I was thankful my French wasn’t good enough for me to say, “I sold you out to your son already.”
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but realized there was no point. “Thanks again, Lloyd. I’m so grateful you found her.”
“You bet. Take care, Syd.” He mimed tipping a hat and left the apartment.
I turned to my errant mother-in-law. I had no idea what to say. Forget knowing how to say it in French; I had no idea what to say in English. My mother tongue. I winced when I realized I did have one thing to say to her.
“Je suis désolée, Simone.” I was truly sorry. I had no choice but to call my husband.
After informing Louis of his mother’s whereabouts and listening to a stream of profanity which would have made even my father blush, I hung up the phone and peered guiltily at Simone.
She seemed to be completely nonplussed, patting me on the head and handing me a chocolate chunk cookie. (Oooh! Chocolate!) I’m fairly certain I saw a glint of mischief in her eyes. University Café was only two blocks down the street. It would have been easy for her to find, even with a poor sense of direction. As I munched happily on my decadent cookie, I wondered if Simone’s lack of common sense was all an act. Was she, in fact, playing a role? Or was she actually that clueless? The world may never know…
Chapter Twenty-Four
It took Louis a full week to recover from his mother’s disappearance. The screaming match which took place upon his return to the apartment was unforgettable. First he lectured her about compromising her own safety, then he lectured her about compromising MY safety (he was kind enough not to add the safety of her unborn grandchild, but it would have been hard not to infer such a thing) and ended with the ridiculous amount of worry she had caused all parties involved. She appeared to take everything in stride, being no stranger to her son’s displeasure with what he deemed to be her irresponsible behavior. I suspect she felt badly about worrying me in my present condition, since she kept apologizing and calling me “ma chérie.”
Now entering our fourth week of confinement, Simone and I had resigned ourselves to our current living conditions. While I fully appreciated my mother-in-law’s ability to make herself comfortable in our home, there were certain inherent difficulties in sharing such close quarters. Most concerning to me was that Simone no longer felt the need to remove the sheets from the couch when she woke up each morning. This meant I had the choice of spending the majority of the day in my bed OR spe
nding it floating in the cloud of her perfume emanating from the sheets.
Describing her perfume as overpowering doesn’t even begin to do it justice. Reminiscent of the scent wafting from the plentiful pink package Simone had sent last fall, her perfume was so sickly-sweet that I gagged just thinking about it. And it was so pungent! How did she maintain a strong enough scent to provide such a high degree of transfer to her sheets? Did she reapply her signature fragrance before going to bed? Or did she give an extra spritz or two right before she got up? Wait! Maybe she sprayed the couch itself? Dear God, if that was the case, we were going to have to purchase a new couch, because I was going to burn this one.
When I posed this question to Louis, he smiled and reminded me of every French woman’s need for lipstick, heels and perfume. (He also subtlety reminded me of my powerful sense of smell at this juncture in my pregnancy.) His mother, in particular, wouldn’t leave the house without these three items. Hanging around the farm all day allowed for a kerchief and sweat pants, but any sort of public appearance was taken VERY seriously. I, for one, would never understand the idea of taking a long walk in four inch heels, but then again, I’m just a lowly American.
Despite the slight increase in nausea as a result of Simone’s perfume addiction, I felt the need to cut her some slack. I may have been experiencing my own rather generous olfactory stimulation lately. The larger the baby became, the more compressed my organs became and the more pressure built inside my body. Try as I might, I had not been able to hide the, um, expulsions from my mother-in-law. The severity of the condition had caused my mortification to reach a record high. Long gone were the days when my farts could be considered cute. (Louis still laughs about the first time I farted in front of him. Attempting to hold it in only made the inevitable more ridiculous; the sound which eventually escaped was almost musical. “Plew!”) Now I would liken my indiscretions to an overactive fog horn. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be confined to the apartment. At least I could limit those exposed to my…indiscretions.
Another interesting development had been my switch from napping like it was going out of style to having insomnia. Oddly enough, I felt too wired to sleep, but couldn’t force my brain to concentrate enough to tackle the gigantic stack of books I had set aside for my maternity leave. The end result had been spending numerous hours watching TV while Louis and Simone slept. I had completely cleared out my backlog of TV shows—even those of questionable quality.
I can’t even begin to express my opinion of the array of reality shows available today. Forget the usual singing and dancing competitions—there were shows about meter maids, bounty hunters, animal hunters, storage unit hunters, gold miners, loggers, hoarders and much, much more! I was still trying to understand why these types of shows were so popular (not a of lot action, if you ask me), yet I couldn’t stop watching them. It was downright creepy.
Thankfully, I had been able to catch up on some sleep during the day, but still found myself with a few hours to fill before Louis came home each night. Once I’d made the usual round of phone calls, I settled back down for my afternoon TV. Bored with my extensive movie library, I had taken to watching…dum, dum, dum… pregnancy reality shows.
At first it was an accident. I had been flipping through the channels and came upon a graphic birthing scene that caused me to gasp loudly. Simone came running in to check on me, saw the show and sat down to join me. We remained glued to our seats for the next hour, completely fixated on the women and their unique birth stories. Simone’s curiosity probably stemmed from her lack of experience with labor. Louis was delivered by caesarean, so she the concept of a vaginal birth held a certain mystery for her. After my experience with Bertha and her explicit video, I wanted to get another perspective on the process of labor prior to my own experience. Before we knew it, we were addicted.
While watching these shows was a wonderful bonding experience for me and Simone, there was one rather unfortunate side effect. I was now chock full of possible labor…unpleasantries. I had no idea it was possible to “miss the window” for receiving an epidural, not have a doctor present or…or… poop on the table during delivery. That’s right. I just said poop in reference to the moment my son enters this world.
Following each of these discoveries, I would call Louis and lament in great detail to him. These were certainly not my finest moments, but I thought it best to relieve my worry PRIOR to the birth rather than during it. Being proactive is a good thing, isn’t it?
One night, my poor husband decided he could take no more. He entered the apartment, sat down next to me on the couch (I was feeling brave that day) and informed me we were going on a babymoon. Clearly, he had been talking to my mother.
Two days later, following a clean bill of health from Dr. Bauer, Louis took me to the W Hotel in San Francisco for the night. As we took the elevator up to our room, I chuckled to myself. (Try not to be jealous of the vinyl wheelchair Dr. Bauer required me to travel in at all times.)
Louis squeezed my hand. “What are you thinking, mon coeur?”
I grinned at him. “How much fun Nigel and Grace are going to have with your mother tonight.” Simone was getting a night out of the apartment as well. Our friends had graciously offered her a delicious dinner, lively entertainment and a much-needed break from caring for her pregnant daughter-in-law. Tomorrow should find us all in much better spirits.
We exited the elevator and walked (or wheeled) a short distance when Louis stopped in front of a door with a sign that read, “Babymoon Suite.” It was handmade and had Kate’s fingerprints all over it. My amazing husband had thought of everything.
Louis opened the door to our room with a flourish and wheeled me across the threshold. “Your suite, Madame.”
My jaw dropped. The space was HUGE. And opulent. And filled to the brim with my favorite flowers. (There were irises, orchids and roses as far as the eye could see.) And to top it all off, it had the most AMAZING view.
“Bluey…” I breathed. “What have you done?”
He knelt down and rested his chin on my shoulder as I took in the gorgeous city lights. “I figured if you were going to get a change of scenery, you were going to get the best scenery possible.”
I sighed contentedly. I really needed this. Not only time out of the apartment, but time alone with my husband. I leaned my head against his. “I’ve missed you.”
He came in front of me and held my face in his hands. “As I have missed you.” He kissed me tenderly on the lips and I melted into him. It didn’t take long for me to get extremely hot and bothered, but a simple thought stopped me. Well, two thoughts. Not only would it have taken more than one extremely durable harness to make sex a remote possibility, but also this activity was strictly forbidden given my current state of health.
My choice to ignore this fact for a moment forced Louis to break away first. Panting, he said, “Mon coeur, I want you so badly, but…”
I kissed his nose. “We can’t. That kind of excitement isn’t healthy for Baby Luke.”
He grinned. “Baby Luc?” He put a very strong “ooh” spin into his pronunciation of the name.
I shook my head. “Baby LUKE. L-U-K-E.”
He frowned.
I rolled my eyes. “His last name is going to be Durand.” I put on my very best French accent, but the soft “R” tripped me up every time. I always sounded like I was gagging. Louis’ lips twitched in response.
I softened my voice. “Can’t his first name be American? He will be living in this country, after all.”
Louis splayed his hands out in front of him. “Exactly! So why can he not have a French name?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I wanted to name him Matthew, so I think you should be pretty excited that you’re getting the name of YOUR choosing, even if I have slightly altered the pronunciation.”
He wheeled me over to the couch and helped me sit on the luxurious piece of furniture. “Let us finish this discussion once your feet are up.” Louis w
as a stickler when it came to Dr. Bauer’s instructions.
Once I was properly situated with a multitude of fluffy pillows and my feet were propped on an ottoman, I returned to making my point. “I wouldn’t have chosen the name Luke, but I know how much you love it. But YOU must accept the fact that he will be growing up in a country filled with people who will call him Luke, not Luc.” I tried my best to invoke the proper “ooh” sound, but I had a feeling I had failed miserably once again. Case in point for changing the name to Luke. I HAD to be able to pronounce my son’s name properly. There was no room for negotiation on this point.
Louis raised his eyebrows. “Considering our experience yesterday, I would think you might find yourself willing to concede to my name choice.”
I glared at him. “I told you it was an accident! If you could experience the debilitating effects of pregnant brain, you would have forgiven me by now.”
He started to laugh uncontrollably as I watched with disdain. Let me catch you up. Yesterday, Louis and I attended an infant CPR class. Yes, it was a very responsible decision on our part and I was feeling pretty good about it until we got to the section on the Heimlich maneuver. I don’t know if my blood sugar had dropped or my insomnia had finally caught up with me, but suddenly my brain felt fuzzy. So when the instructor told us to practice the motion of the Heimlich on our partners, but not actually perform it, I may have forgotten the last part. A critical piece of information, I know, but it was an honest mistake!
Louis had very nearly lost his lunch and I blushed a very deep shade of red. My husband, of course, bore my blunder with aplomb while I spent the remainder of the session hiding behind him. This was definitely in the top ten most embarrassing moments for me (most of which you’ve been privy to) and therefore, I believed I had already served my time.
With his laughing fit under control, Louis stared at me with purpose. I could almost hear him saying, “You know you are going to give in, so just say it.”