“The what party? When was that?” Was there a good party I missed?
“Your engagement party in January! That’s what we’ve all started to call it. The Conception Party,” she tells me.
“Who’s calling it that?”
“Everybody is calling it that. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?”
Oh. My. God.
What if I run into Cute Single Man? Maybe I want to run into Cute Single Man?
“You’ll have fun. I promise. Pregnant women do have fun, you know.”
“Shannon?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t call my engagement party the Conception Party again.”
11:00 p.m.
Going to the party was a huge mistake. I should never have left my apartment.
I looked as good as I could look, being eight months pregnant. I wore a low-cut black dress that showed off my pregnant cleavage, and knee-high red boots, which I shoved my pregnant feet into. I wanted to look good in case Cute Single Man was there. After any kind of breakup—even this strange one—it’s always important to try to look your best when running into the ex. It’s kind of like payback, in the see-what-you’re-missing kind of way. Every woman knows that.
I first met Marci, Shannon, and a couple of others at a bar before heading over to the party. I sat watching them drink martinis while I nursed a cranberry and soda. Then we headed over to the party. Our names were checked off on the guest list and we headed into the mess of a few hundred people. I didn’t see Cute Single Man anywhere.
“I really have to find a washroom,” I told my friends. My bladder felt like it was going to explode. It had, after all, been fifteen minutes since I had last peed. “It’s so packed in here. How am I going to find you guys?” I asked, sure that one of them would offer to come with me.
“We’ll be right here. Don’t worry. You’ll find us, or we’ll find you.”
Working my way through the crowd was next to impossible. People were jammed together like sardines. I wanted to scream out, “PREGNANT LADY COMING THROUGH! PREGNANT LADY COMING THROUGH!” Of course, I didn’t. I didn’t want anyone to pay attention to me, I felt so out of place with my big belly. It took twenty minutes to find the washroom. When I got there, the line went out the doors. I was too embarrassed to push my way through saying, “I’m pregnant. I have to pee now or I’m going to have an accident.” No one in this stylish, mostly tipsy crowd would understand what it’s like to be pregnant. Plus they were all well on their way to getting drunk, so they probably had to pee as badly as I did. In addition to wheelchair-accessible washrooms, there should be special facilities for pregnant ladies.
I decided to leave immediately. There was no way I was going back through the crowd to find my friends, especially after running into a few acquaintances on the way to the washroom who told me that I looked “sexy . . . for a pregnant woman.” I flagged down a taxi, and just as I thought I had surely drowned my baby in pee, I made it through my apartment door.
I called the fiancé in tears.
“Calm down. I’ll be there tomorrow and we’ll do something fun.”
“Am I overreacting? Am I? Am I? Am I?” I now have to check with someone else to see if I’m overreacting. I know enough now to know to not always trust how I’m feeling. Pregnant hormones are a bitch.
“They probably just didn’t know how badly you had to go,” the fiancé said calmly.
“Well, I don’t care if I’m overreacting. I’m never coming out of my apartment again.”
I didn’t even get to see Cute Single Man.
12:30 a.m.
Is that my phone? Who could be calling me at this hour?
“Hey, it’s me.” It’s Cute Single Man. It’s Cute Single Man!
“Oh . . . hey!” I’m suddenly awake.
“Did I see you tonight? I thought I saw you at a party, but it was too crowded to get to you.”
“Yeah, I did go to a party. How are you?”
“Good. You looked good,” he says.
“I felt like shit. I left ten minutes after getting there.”
“Well, you looked good. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. I’m moving in a few days.”
“Really? That soon?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I just wanted to say hi. Good luck with everything, okay? And keep in touch, will you? I want to know how everything goes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I feel like I’ve been there from the beginning and I want to know how it ends.”
“Okay, I will.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
“Promise again.”
“I promise.”
Tomorrow I start my life with the fiancé. No sense in being mean to Cute Single Man now.
SEPTEMBER 13
The fiancé has arrived. I’m so relieved he’s here. When he’s with me, everything seems better. Everything is better when he’s around. The clock is ticking away, however. If we don’t get shopping, our baby will be sleeping in the bathtub or on the floor or in the hallway, or worse—in our bedroom on our bed. The fiancé and I figured it would be easiest to get everything here and then get it shipped to his place. We’re all about minimum effort. I, however, have to come out of my apartment.
“If the Pottery Barn was good enough for Vivian’s baby room, it will be good enough for us,” I tell the fiancé. “Do you know that Vivian has binders with sticky notes, and has cross-referenced all her research about cribs and change tables? She’s already done the research for us.”
“Let’s make this quick and painless,” I tell the fiancé, as he opened the heavy doors at the Pottery Barn for me.
“Yes, quick and painless.”
“Let’s not spend more than one hour in here. We need a deadline so we don’t dawdle. Quick and painless.”
“I’m with you.”
“What’s your watch at?” I ask him. “I have 1:30.”
“Me too.”
“So, we’re out of here by 2:30, right?”
“Right. Quick and painless.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Well, first, I suppose, we find out where the baby stuff is.”
“Hey, do you like this coffee table?”
“Beck . . .”
“Right. I have to keep focused. Oh, there’s a sign that says ‘Baby’ upstairs. Let’s go. Fuck, please tell me there’s an elevator. Screw it. I’ll take the stairs. I can consider it my cardio for the last four months.”
It’s amazing how difficult climbing stairs has become. I hate to admit it, but I am huffing and puffing after climbing, I think, six stairs. (Is it really only six stairs?)
On the top landing, I take in the scene.
“Okay, now what?” I ask the fiancé.
“We buy stuff.”
“Right. Ready, set, go. Wait . . . How do we know what we need exactly?”
“I guess we should have thought about that before we came. I see some cribs over there.”
“I see something even better.”
“Beck. We need a crib. Keep focused.”
“No, what I mean is that I see a saleslady over there. We clearly need help.”
“Good idea.”
I chase down one of the salesladies. Bingo! She’s pregnant. What could be more perfect than a pregnant saleslady in the Baby section of the Pottery Barn?
“Hi. Um, we’re having a baby,” I tell her, rubbing my stomach. “In, like, a month. We need a baby room. Can you help us?”
“Sure. Why don’t we walk over to the crib section. We have a few different styles.” I feel as though we are walking into the pages of a catalogue. This is going to be easy.
“Hey, look at this one,” I tell the fiancé. “It’s deep burgundy, the same color as the rest of your condo. It’s perfect.”
“Yep. I like it. We’ll take it.”
Fifty-four minutes to go.
“We’ll
take this, too,” I tell the saleslady. “This is a change table, right? We need this, correct?”
“Correct,” she responds.
“Do you know what else we need?” I ask.
“You’ll need sheets, and blankets, and maybe a few of these wicker baskets to keep things organized. Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
Fifty minutes and counting.
“We’re having a girl.”
“Well, we have sheets in blue and pink and yellow.”
“Pink is good,” I say, taking control. “We’ll even take the mobile hanging over the crib. And we’ll take some of those baskets you were talking about. And maybe this stuffed animal,” I continue, picking up a lamb, which when you wind up its tail plays, I think, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
The saleslady starts packing everything up for us. The fiancé, at this point, is sitting in a chair talking to a friend on his cellphone.
“What other crap do we need?” I ask the saleslady.
“Crap?”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
Forty-two minutes and counting.
She rings up all our purchases, including a breastfeeding pillow that wraps around your stomach and that the baby can lie on (in case I decide to breastfeed), a huge stuffed bear, and some wicker baskets for storage. She writes down the fiancé’s address, and the fiancé hands over his credit card. The cost? $3,200.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I say to the fiancé as we walk out onto the street. “But who knew a baby room could be so expensive.”
“That’s what happens when you don’t comparative shop,” he answers.
The last thing you want to do when you’re eight months pregnant is to spend your day comparative shopping. Who has the energy? Besides, the fiancé and I are too pleased with ourselves to worry about money right now. We just purchased an entire baby room in exactly twenty-eight minutes.
SEPTEMBER 14
Vivian had her baby! A boy, weighing 8 pounds, 3 ounces. I want to call her, but I know that you should always give a new mother a couple of days to recuperate. Ronnie told me that. I can’t wait to talk to Vivian. I want to know everything. I send flowers to the hospital.
SEPTEMBER 15
I spend the day cleaning my apartment while the fiancé visits friends. I am going to be moving to his city in three days, and I have this overwhelming need to get my apartment in tip-top shape before leaving. I want my apartment to sparkle when I come back with the baby for visits. I must clean. I must clean. I must clean.
I clean under my washroom sink. I throw out three garbage bags of old clothes. I even empty my freezer (how long has that tub of ice cream been in there?) and my refrigerator (how did that leftover soup get in there?). This is a feeling I’ve never experienced before. I’m the type of gal that leaves used butter knives on the counter. I’m the type of gal that always leaves the cap off the toothpaste. I’m the type of gal that has no idea how to mop a floor or how to get fingerprints off walls. Is this the nesting instinct that I hear hits women right before their babies arrive?
The phone rings while I’m on the floor in my closet organizing my shoes. I don’t make it to the phone. (Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!) I have to roll on my side, grab the lower rack in my closet, and pull myself up. It isn’t pretty. I’m glad no one is around to see it.
SEPTEMBER 16
Remind me to never, ever give advice to anyone who tells me she is pregnant. Absolutely everyone in the world has advice to give you when you’re pregnant. I realized that today after going for what should have been a relaxing hair appointment.
You want your haircut experience to be relaxing, especially after paying way too much money to get half an inch chopped off. But even my gay head-to-toe-Prada-wearing male hairstylist who loves-loves-loves plastic surgery couldn’t help but throw in his two cents (which, in the high-priced-hairstylist world, is more like throwing in his $150).
“You are going to breastfeed, aren’t you?” he asks, combing out my dripping wet hair.
Did my gay, Prada-wearing hairdresser really just ask me about breastfeeding? What next?
“Hmmm,” I answer, nonchalantly.
The fiancé and I are leaning toward not breastfeeding. I know, we should be hanged.
“You absolutely must breastfeed, m’dear,” he says.
“Um, you don’t even have breasts. How do you know so much about breastfeeding?” I ask him.
“I have lots of clients who have had babies. They all say it is just a fabulous experience and so much better for the baby. Breastfeeding is fab-u-lous!”
“I was thinking about getting bangs,” I tell him, trying to get him off the subject.
“I think bangs would be fabulous. Would make you a yummy mummy indeedy,” he says.
“But maybe I should wait until after I have the baby. You’re not supposed to make any rash decisions when you’re pregnant, right?”
I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I got a new hairstyle that made me look even uglier than I already feel. Plus, my face is now rounder than it’s ever been. I now have what they call, if they’re being nice, cherub cheeks. In fact, the last time I visited my grandfather, he actually pinched them, something he hasn’t done since I was, oh, six.
“Okay, let’s wait on the bangs then. Book an appointment after you give birth. You can even breastfeed while I cut! Won’t that be fab-u-lous?”
“Oh yuck!” I respond.
“Don’t be surprised,” my hairdresser says, snip-ping away, “if some—or a lot—of your hair falls out after you give birth. It happens to a ton of women.”
Gaa! I’m going to be bald, at age thirty!
SEPTEMBER 17
I go to visit Vivian and her baby boy, David. It’s unbelievable. Not so much the baby, but Vivian. Vivian, who gave birth five days ago, looks like she’s lost almost all the weight she gained during pregnancy. She’s like a freak of nature. I hate her.
“Are you wearing new jeans?”
“No, these are my old jeans,” Vivian answers.
As soon as I walk into her kitchen Vivian says, “I hate to do this to you, but the nurses at the hospital were adamant that everyone who comes to visit David has to wash their hands before touching him.”
She directs me to the sink, where a new bottle of antibacterial soap waits to be used, apparently, by all visitors. I can handle being told to wash my hands, but Vivian had better not check under my fingernails.
“So where’s the little midget?” I ask.
“He’s right there,” she says, pointing to a corner of the kitchen where baby David is sleeping soundly in his car seat.
“Oh my God. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“I know. He’s super quiet. He’s a really great baby. All he does is sleep.”
Vivian picks up David, and we move to her couch in the living room.
“Do you want to hold him?” she asks.
Suddenly I feel faint. I have never held a newborn before. “Um, maybe in a bit. Maybe I’ll just watch him for a while first. Wow. It’s really strange, isn’t it? Watching him is like watching a reality TV show. But this is even better. It’s really reality. Do you just sit here and stare at him all day?”
“Pretty much that’s exactly what I do,” Vivian answers. “Who do you think he looks like?”
“I’m not sure. He looks like a baby,” I answer, not sure what the right answer is.
David is an adorable baby, which is good, because I understand that not all newborns are, especially when they have to come out the birth canal, which isn’t big. Many babies have pimples, bruises, and bashed-in heads for the first week of their lives—though even I know you could never describe a baby as anything other than cute to a new mother.
“Um, maybe I’ll try holding him now,” I say, silently praying that David won’t start to cry upon being put in my arms. That would make me feel really bad.
Vivian plops David into my arms. I know to hold up his head, at least. Da
vid just fits in the nook of my arm. I can feel the nervous sweat forming under my arms. Please don’t cry, Baby David. Please don’t cry.
“Hey, this isn’t so bad. It’s not bad at all,” I say. “I was worried that I’d break him or something.”
“I know. Babies are really more durable than you think.”
Vivian’s doorbell rings. She gets up to answer it.
“You’re not leaving me alone with him, are you?”
“I’ll only be gone a second,” she says.
“But what if he starts crying?”
“I’m only going to be gone a second!”
It’s one of her friends, Helen, whom I have met, briefly, a number of times before.
“Hey, I understand you’re moving?” Helen says to me. I have just handed Baby David back to Vivian. I have had enough. Will I get tired of holding my own baby after ten minutes?
“Yep. I’m still keeping a place here, so I’m not moving entirely. It will keep our relationship strong, you know, to not always be together,” I tell Helen.
“Yeah, that’s the way to go. You never should spend that much time with your partner. You have to have him miss you a little.”
I don’t want to think about moving in with the fiancé right now. Not while five-day-old Baby David is in the same room, with no idea about how complicated his life will be when he meets a woman.
“Thanks for letting me hold him,” I call out as I walk out Vivian’s front door. “You know, that was the first time I’ve ever held a baby.”
“What? It was?” she says, shocked.
“Yeah. I guess maybe I should have told you that before I held him.”
No worries. I didn’t break her baby. Thank God, I didn’t break her baby.
SEPTEMBER 18
I cry on the plane with the fiancé sitting next to me. There is nothing worse than not being able to control your tears in public. Thank God I have a window seat and can hide my face.
Before the plane took off, while we were waiting on the runway, it hit me. My life, as I have known it, is now over. At least for the foreseeable future, I’m leaving my friends, my family, my job. I will be living with the fiancé. I will be a mother. I am now, officially, forced to be a grown-up. I miss Cute Single Man.
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