“So far you’ve gained thirty pounds. That’s definitely on the higher side, but I’m not worried. It’s just that I always thought of you as a tiny person and now you’re not.”
Enough!
“The only downside to your gaining this much weight is that there is a greater chance you will get stretch marks,” he continued.
Could this appointment get any worse? I still have three months to go.
I called the fiancé to tell him what the doctor had said to me.
“Well, he said everything looked okay, right?”
“Yes. But I still have three more months to go and I’ve already gained more weight than some women gain during their entire pregnancies.”
“Wait. There are only three more months left?”
“Yes. I’m going into my third trimester.”
“God, we really have to get our shit together. We have so much to do. We still have to get a night nurse and a nanny, baby furniture and a stroller and a car seat, and all the other supplies we don’t even know about.”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off. He was starting to stress me out. “People told me that I would enjoy the second trimester more than the first. I haven’t. People told me that I would get my energy back this trimester. I haven’t. People told me that I would get horny this trimester and that hasn’t happened either, as you are well aware. Who are these women who get horny and enjoy the second trimester?”
“Well, we did have an amazing vacation. So let’s try to enjoy the final three months. After all, these are our last months of freedom.”
Thanks for reminding me. In three months I will have a baby and will be living in a new city with the fiancé for the first time ever. And we still need a freaking baby name. And I have to decide whether I want a C-section or not, whether I want to breastfeed or not, how much maternity leave I want to take, if I want to take any at all. I have to end my “relationship” with Cute Single Man. I have to make sure Sexy Young Intern doesn’t get my job. It’s as though I’ve accomplished nothing in the past three months. It’s as though the only things that have made any progress are my stomach and butt, my “relationship” with Cute Single Man, and Sexy Young Intern’s career.
“Do you remember anything about these last three months?” I asked the fiancé. “They seem like such a blur to me.”
“All I remember is you asking, ‘Is my ass fat?’ ‘Is my ass fat?’ ‘Is my ass fat?’”
I didn’t want to break it to the fiancé that I had heard the second trimester was the most uneventful of all the trimesters. If these past three months were supposed to be the “easy” months, we’re in big, big trouble.
THE THIRD (AND FINAL!) TRIMESTER
a.k.a. The Even Fatter Months
JULY 27
6:15 a.m.
The itsy-bitsy spider went up the . . . went up the . . . went up the something-something. I’m not sure how or why it happened this morning, but I awoke with a jolt, breathless, with this stupid nursery rhyme on my brain. Or, rather, I woke up desperate to remember the words to this stupid nursery rhyme. I can’t recall what the itsy-bitsy spider did, and it’s driving me nuts. I can’t fall back to sleep now. Not before I figure out what the damn spider did. It’s like having a well-known actor’s face pop into your head and not being able to remember his name, or like trying to remember the name of your Grade 3 teacher when you’re twenty-seven, or like trying to figure out what happened to that great sweater that you haven’t seen for months and that isn’t in your closet. It’s driving me crazy. The itsy-bitsyspider went up the . . . went up the . . . went up the something-something. What the heck did the itsy-bitsy spider go up? Or did the itsy-bitsy spider go down? Gaa! Will I need to know, in three months, what happened to the itsy-bitsy spider? How can I possibly be a good mother if I can’t remember the itsy-bitsy spider song? How is my baby supposed to thrive when she has a mother who can’t remember the words to “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider”? Never mind the fact that I have an awful, awful voice.
6:18 a.m.
This little piggy went to the market. This little piggy went to . . . Where did the second little piggy go? Did he go to the zoo? Did he go to the superstore? Did he go to the spa? And where did the third and fourth little piggies go? I know the last little piggy went “ ‘Waa waa waa’ all the way home.” But what the heck did the other pigs do? I’m not going to freak. Maybe my kid won’t need to know what happened to the other piggies. How important can it be to know where the second, third, and fourth piggies went? It’s not exactly information that can get my kid into Harvard, is it? But how can I have forgotten what happened to the piggies? I’m going to be a bad, bad mother.
6:19 a.m.
Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are . . . dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah . . . Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are. I’m going to totally suck at this mother thing—I can’t even remember the words to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”! I do, however, know all the words to Madonna’s early songs—“Get into the Groove” and “Like a Virgin,” for example—and I can also hum theme songs to many old television shows, like Beverly Hills 90210, but that does not a good mother make. Argh.
6:21 a.m.
Who would know the words to these nursery rhymes? Is it too early to call Ronnie?
6:22 a.m.
“Hi. It’s me. I know you’re still sleeping, but can you call me immediately? Something bad has happened. I need to talk to you ASAP.”
6:24 a.m.
“Did you just call me?” the fiancé asks groggily. “I thought I heard my phone ring.”
“Yes. I just left you a message. Didn’t you get it?”
“No. But who else would be calling me at this hour? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t remember what happened to the second and third little pigs, and I can’t remember the middle verses to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’
Do you know if the itsy-bitsy spider went up or down, and if so, what the hell did it go up or down?”
“Beck, what the heck are you going on about now?”
“Nursery rhymes! I can’t remember any of them. Can you?”
“Beck! It’s 6:30 in the morning your time. Couldn’t this have waited until I at least had a coffee or a shower? Or forever?” I had forgotten about the time difference. It’s 4:30 in the morning for the fiancé.
“I’m going to be an awful mother. Awful.”
“No you’re not. I’m sure we can buy a CD with nursery rhymes on it. I can’t believe you’re worried about this. Furthermore, I can’t believe you’re worried about this at this hour. Furthermore, I can’t believe you’re even awake to worry about anything at all at this hour.”
“I hadn’t thought about getting nursery rhymes on a CD. But that’s true. I’m sure someone has put nursery rhymes on a CD. Or maybe we can download them from the Internet. Maybe I won’t be an awful mother after all.”
“If there’s one thing I’m not worried about it’s you being a good mother. I’m positive you’re going to be a great mother.”
“Really?” The fiancé has never shared that with me before. How can he have such confidence in my so-far nonexistent mothering skills? I kill plants! I don’t own a frying pan! Change diapers? Feed a baby? Soothe a baby? I don’t know how to do any of it.
“Really. You’re going to be great. I know you’re going to be great. Now can I please go back to bed? Please ? ”
“Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just freaking a little.”
“I’ll call you later, okay? Love you.”
6:45 a.m.
“What now?” the fiancé answers, this time not so much groggily as angrily.
“I just remembered something. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow,” I sing to him. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
“I’m going back to bed,” the fiancé says, hanging up on me.
Phew. Now I can slee
p too. I may not know what the itsy-bitsy spider did, but at least I know that Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow. My memory hasn’t completely let me down.
JULY 28
Noon
I have just come back from the corner store. I have bought a pack of cigarettes, which I will not, under any circumstances, open. I had planned on buying a carton of ice cream. But on the way to the store, while I was waiting at a red light to cross the street, a woman standing beside me on the corner asked how far along I was.
“Six months,” I answered. She was looking at me with such an eerie, uncomfortable expression on her face that I had to ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. It’s just that I had such a painful delivery that whenever I see a pregnant woman I get the urge to cross my legs,” she responded.
“Really? How old is your baby?”
“Oh, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s twelve! I’m sure you’ll have no problem, but I was in labor for twenty-four hours,” she added, shivering at the memory.
I must have had a horrified look on my face. Twelve years since she gave birth and she still gets the urge to cross her legs upon seeing a pregnant woman? Twenty-four-hour labor? It must have been really awful. Her urge to cross her legs upon seeing pregnant me made pregnant me want to smoke with a vengeance.
I will not open the pack of cigarettes. Well, maybe I’ll take two drags from one cigarette. And then I’ll throw the pack down the toilet for sure.
12:20 p.m.
Heaven. I took four drags and threw the rest of the cigarette in the toilet. Is it possible my baby can crave a smoke? I hid the rest of the pack under the cushion in my couch, just in case I run into that woman again. I have no willpower. Obviously. So, hopefully, out of sight, out of mind.
JULY 29
The fiancé and I have still not decided—rather, I have still not decided—whether to go the C-section or the vaginal route. We still have time. Like any decision, whether it be where to go for vacation or what movie to rent, the more time you have to think about something, the more difficult the decision gets. Especially when information keeps being thrown at you.
One of the fiancé’s friends told him that she had a masseuse come into the delivery room with her. Apparently, you can pay anyone to do anything for you these days. This masseuse massaged her back all through labor, and, supposedly, this woman had a great labor that lasted only four hours, which still seems like an excruciatingly long time to me but which in labor-land is supposedly an extremely short period of time. Still, getting a four-hour massage does sound amazing.
Ronnie told me that many of the mothers in her book club had doulas with them during their labor. A doula is kind of like a personal assistant, except instead of answering your phone and replying to your mail at the office, a doula will talk to the doctor for you, fetch you ice chips, and basically make the experience as pleasurable—and as easy—as possible. If it’s possible that labor can be pleasurable or easy. I’m still not convinced.
“If we go the vaginal route, we should think about hiring a doula,” I tell the fiancé.
“Okay, I’ve heard of Doula. I’ll set that up for you if you want. Maybe I’ll call and find out more. Do you have a number?”
“I’ll ask around. It will take the pressure off you, too. Because the doula can rub my back and yell at the doctor to get me drugs when I’m in pain. She’ll know exactly what to do. You kind of hurt me when you give me a massage anyway.”
“I do not hurt you. I give great massages. But, okay, get her number.”
“First I have to find one.”
“Find who?” the fiancé asks.
“The doula.”
“Don’t you know her number? Can’t you get it from Ronnie?”
“Ronnie will be able to find me a doula’s number, I’m sure,” I tell the fiancé.
“What? If you already know about Doula, then it should be easy to get her number.”
“What?”
“Beck, why do you keep ‘what’-ing me? Get me Doula’s number and I’ll call her for you.”
“I will. I need to find one first though.”
“Find one what first?” the fiancé asks. Are we playing “Who’s on first”? What is going on?
“A doula!” I say again, exasperated.
“What do you mean? Don’t you already know her?”
“Who?”
“Doula!”
“What? Oh my God,” I say, cracking up. “Doula is not a person! Doula is what her job is called. You thought there was one woman out there named Doula who was a doula?”
“You mean doula is a job title and there’s not a woman named Doula who helps during labor?” the fiancé asks, stunned.
“Exactly!”
“God, I’m an idiot,” the fiancé says, embarrassed. “I really did think there was a woman named Doula.”
“Yes, yes you are. Thanks for the laugh.”
I haven’t laughed so hard in what seems like years.
AUGUST 1
I just received an invitation for a baby shower in honor of Vivian and her husband, thrown by one of Vivian’s old college friends, Stella. The gathering is set to take place at four o’clock next Sunday at Stella’s house, located in a chic but suburban part of the city. In other words, a part of the city perfect for the young families who can afford to live there.
“Boy oh Boy!” reads the top of an invitation— everyone knows Vivian is having a boy—decorated with baby-bottle and rattle illustrations. Cute, I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing.
I’ve never been to a baby shower before. Ronnie never had baby showers. She had parties for her babies after she gave birth. I made it to only one. For one gathering I was too hungover to leave my house. The gathering for her second child was a breakfast thing and I slept through it. And I can’t remember the last time I was invited to a party that started at four o’clock on a Sunday. Can anyone have fun at such a thing?
But it was for Vivian and her husband, which sounded more promising than baby showers where only women are invited. A women-only gathering is a waste of lipstick. I mean, what’s so fun about spending the afternoon with a bunch of women oohing and ahhing over things for a baby, drinking tea and no alcohol? Not that I can drink anyway, even when there is a bar. I don’t think I can even pretend to ooh and ahh at gifts. I don’t think I have ever oohed and ahhed at anything, except maybe a photo of Brad Pitt topless. But at least there will be men there. And food. Perhaps even chocolate cake? If I’m going to a baby shower at four o’clock on a Sunday, there had better be chocolate cake. In any case, I will not be oohing and ahhing over anything. Not even for Vivian.
AUGUST 3
I met Sara for lunch today. We mostly talked about being pregnant.
“Are your ribs killing you?” Sara asked me, diving into her plate of fries.
“No, what do you mean?” I asked, diving into my plate of fries. Sara’s portion looked larger than mine. Not fair!
“I swear I think my baby is legs up, pushing up against my ribcage. Or maybe it’s the baby’s ass. I’m not sure what it is, but something is pushing up against my ribs and it is incredibly painful. I’ve been jumping up and down for three days now trying to get it to move,” she said.
“No, I don’t have that pain. But I do get these weird cramps in my lower left side which last a couple days, kind of like period cramps.”
“Yeah, I have those too.”
“Those are a bitch.”
“But those are nothing like this damn pain in my ribs,” she moaned.
“You know I’ve had french fries every day now for six months?” I told her.
“Come on. Really?” she asked, rubbing her ribcage.
“Really. I’m not lying. I’ve had french fries every day for six months.”
“Well, at least you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Yeah, you’d think so, right? But I’m not. French fries are an obsession now. It’s scary, really.”
&n
bsp; Sara wasn’t listening. She was too busy rubbing her ribs, with a pained expression on her face.
Later I call the fiancé. “Sara was telling me over lunch today that she has this bad pain in her ribs because of her baby. Maybe that’s the one bad thing about pregnancy that I escaped.”
“Well, that’s good. Aren’t you happy about that?”
“Yes, that’s good.”
“So what did you have to eat for lunch?”
“A big salad.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Fries?” he asks. Damn. The fiancé knows me too well.
AUGUST 4
“My ribs are killing me. They are killing me! I think I have what Sara has!” I cry to the fiancé.
“I’m going to kill Sara for telling you about her rib problems. You always manage to catch what everyone else has. She should know that about you,” the fiancé says.
“Yeah. Me too,” I moan.
God, my ribs are really killing me. Why does my baby want to hurt me so badly? What have I ever done to her?
AUGUST 5
10:00 p.m.
It was a beautiful evening. Cute Single Man and I went for a walk. I feel awkward about it now. Not because I’m technically really doing anything wrong—am I?—but because strangers look at him as if he’s the father when we’re out together. I can tell. They look at my stomach first, then they look at me, then at him. And then they smile—at us. “We’re not together,” I want to tell them. “There is no us.”
It is weird that I go out walking not with the father of my child but with another man. I know this. My relationship with Cute Single Man, if you can call it that, is not normal. Yet Cute Single Man is the only one who makes me forget about being pregnant, at least when people aren’t smiling at us like we’re happy parents-to-be. He makes me feel normal. Plus, he’s here, unlike the fiancé, who is far, far away. A long-distance relationship used to seem like a good, novel idea, didn’t it?
AUGUST 6
Had another appointment with Dr. G. this morning. While waiting to be called in, I realized that the waiting room of an obstetrician’s office is much like a high school cafeteria—all of us pregnant chicks checking each other out. We give each other the once-over and we don’t even try to hide it. We need to know what type of maternity clothes the others are wearing, to see who looks best, who is the more stylish pregnant woman. Does she look pregnant from behind? Does she look more or less worn down than I do? Has she gained more or less weight? Is her partner cute?
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