Knocked Up
Page 21
The fiancé tries to calm me down by offering me a package of peanut M&M’s. He knows I’m not entirely ready for all this change. The candy helps. I stop crying on the outside. Inside I am a mess.
My mother calls to see if I have arrived.
“So the airplane seatbelt fit over your stomach?” she asks. I might be big, but I am not four hundred pounds, for God’s sake.
SEPTEMBER 19
9:30 a.m.
Maybe living here won’t be that bad. The fiancé has strawberry jam in his fridge. I discovered it when I woke up.
Lena told me the other day that one of her friends ate a loaf of bread every morning during the last two months of her pregnancy. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone—not even a professional wrestler—to eat an entire loaf of bread. How many slices of bread are in a loaf? Thirty? That is, I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to eat an entire loaf of bread until I ate an entire package of English muffins this morning. It was all because of the strawberry jam.
The fiancé does not live within walking distance of a McDonald’s, and he made it clear the minute we got off the plane that I would not be allowed to eat Big Macs in his company.
“Not on my watch,” he answered when I asked if we could stop at the Golden Arches on the way to his place.
“But there’s one right near here!” I protested.
“Not on my watch,” he repeated.
I was annoyed, but I had already cried on the plane. A fight over a high-calorie sandwich wasn’t worth it. It was clear, however, that I would need a new craving. So this morning I toasted an English muffin, buttered it thick, and topped it off with the strawberry jam I found. I ate it in twelve seconds. I needed another one. So I toasted another English muffin, buttered it, and spread on the strawberry jam. I did this five times before I stopped. Not because I was full, but because I had finished the package.
6:30 p.m.
The fiancé came home from work. He found me in bed, where I was lying watching bad television.
“Why do you look so sheepish?” he asked, coming over to kiss me.
“I don’t know. This is the way I look.”
“What have you done? I can tell you’ve done something. You have that look on your face.”
“No, I’m just watching reruns of Who’s the Boss, I swear! What are you doing?” I asked, mortified, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt.
“I’m coming into bed with you.”
“Okay, but—” And before I could stop him, he jumped into bed. CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
“What the fuck? What was that?” the fiancé yelled, whipping back the covers. “Oh my God, Beck,” he said, starting to laugh. “I really can’t believe you were hiding those under the covers.”
The fiancé had landed on the super-size bag of Cheesies I had tried to hide under the covers when I heard him come in the door.
10:00 p.m.
My belly now moves on its own. Each night, as soon as I settle into bed, I watch my stomach. It moves on its own.
“What part of the body do you think this is?” I ask the fiancé, placing his hand on what I think is the baby’s elbow sticking out.
“I have no idea. Maybe it’s the leg?”
“I thought the baby was positioned the other way.”
“No, it’s positioned this way.”
“Really?”
After all these months, I have no idea how my baby is positioned. Some women can tell exactly what part of their baby’s body is sticking out. I cannot.
“Hand me that magazine over there,” I tell the fiancé. I take the latest issue of Us Weekly, which was lying on the floor, and rip out a photo of Tom Cruise.
“Now watch this,” I tell the fiancé, placing the page on my stomach. Tom Cruise’s face moves up and down on top of my stomach. “Isn’t that a neat little trick?”
“How weird.”
“I know. And feel how hard my stomach is up here,” I say, again taking the fiancé’s hand and placing it this time right under my ribcage, where my stomach is as hard as a rock. “Why do you think it’s so hard?” Each night, my stomach becomes super hard.
“I think that’s her ass,” the fiancé says.
“Yeah. Not even born yet and the baby already has a great butt.”
SEPTEMBER 20
1:30 a.m.
I’m lying half on my stomach, with a pillow in between my legs. Note to self: Ask Dr. Bono at my next checkup if it’s possible that I’m squishing my baby’s brain by sleeping this way.
SEPTEMBER 21
7:00 a.m.
“Pancakes! Pancakes! Get out of bed, sleepy head. Me want pancakes! Pancakes!”
“Jesus, Beck. What time is it?”
“Pancake time!”
“Dear God.”
“Let’s go to Phil’s. Please?” Phil’s is a truck-stop diner.
“Can I shower first?”
“No time for showers. I need pancakes now! Pancakes! Pancakes!”
“All right. All right. Give me a second.”
4:00 p.m.
One of the games I love playing with the fiancé is the “What if ?” game. The fiancé hates this game, which I can understand—What if I gained 250 pounds? Would you still love me? What if you won 3 million dollars? How much would you give me? What if I died in a car accident? Would you be sad?—but he’s being super patient because I’m super pregnant.
“What if my water breaks in your car and I ruin your leather seats? Would you be mad?”
“No, of course not.”
“What if my water breaks on your couch and ruins it and you have to buy another one? Would you be mad?”
“No.”
“What if my water breaks and you are out playing golf and I can’t get in touch with you and you miss the labor?”
“That would never happen.”
“But what if it does?”
“I promise to always carry my cellphone with me, even on the golf course. Whenever your number comes up on call display, I’ll answer it.”
“What if labor comes on really fast and you have to deliver the baby yourself because we don’t have time to make it to the hospital and we’re stuck in traffic?”
“That better not happen.”
“But what if it does?”
“What if we stop playing this stupid ‘What if?’ game?”
“Fine.”
SEPTEMBER 22
2:00 a.m.
“I’m worried,” I say to the fiancé.
“I’m tired.”
“Really, I’m really, really worried.”
“I’m really, really tired. What are you worried about now? About being a mother?”
“No. I mean, yes. But I’m not worried about that right now. I’m worried about going into labor early. I have no idea what to do if that happens. Do you?”
“No,” the fiancé answers. “I guess we head to the hospital.”
“I know that. But where do you go when you get to the hospital? Do you go to emergency, or are you supposed to go to a specific floor, like the maternity floor, or are you supposed to call your doctor as soon as you get your first contraction, like in the movies, and say, ‘The baby is coming. Meet me at the hospital.’ Or what?”
“I’m not sure. But you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. We’ll ask the doctor.”
“And we don’t even know what we’re supposed to bring to the hospital. Do we have to bring something for the baby to wear right after she’s born? Do we have to bring baby bottles if we’re not breastfeeding? Do we have to bring diapers, and is someone going to teach us how to put on a diaper?”
“Beck, we’ll ask the doctor tomorrow. Let’s just try to get some sleep.”
“Okay, but don’t yell at me if I go into labor tonight and ruin your fancy sheets when my water breaks.”
“Okay,” he mumbles.
“Hey, what if that happened? Would you be mad?”
“What if you let me get some sleep?”
SEPTEMB
ER 23
8:00 a.m.
In Dr. Bono’s examining room, the nurse greets me with the nine words no woman wants to hear at eight in the morning. “You have to get a Pap smear done today,” she tells me.
“I do?” I say, turning to look at the fiancé. “Okay, you’re going to have to leave the room for this.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I definitely must leave the room.” The fiancé looks disgusted, but then again, so do I. No woman should be forced to have a sudden Pap smear. I need warning for something like that.
“Why do I need a Pap smear today?” I ask the nurse.
“It’s to make sure you don’t have any viruses that can be harmful to the baby when it’s born,” she explains. “But wait . . . You were thinking about having a C-section, right, last time you were here? If you have a C-section, you won’t have to do this test.”
I am so not in the mood to have a Pap smear. I would have to undress, get into a gown, and spread my legs for strangers and pretend that getting one done isn’t so bad. There is nothing worse than a doctor trying to involve you in small talk while you are getting a Pap smear done. I am supremely tired and borderline grumpy already.
“Yes, yes I am. I am having a C-section,” I say, turning to look at the fiancé.
“Great. Then we can forget about this test. The doctor will be in in one sec to see you,” the nurse says, leaving the room.
“So, I guess you’ve decided to have a C-section then?” the fiancé asks.
“Looks that way. Do you think that’s the right way to go?”
“It’s totally up to you.”
“But if you were a woman and you had to have a baby come out of you, would you do it?”
“Without a doubt, I’d get the C-section. But I can’t believe you’ve decided to do the C-section because you’re too lazy to get out of your clothes. That’s the reason, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s cold in here,” I moan to the fiancé. “But that’s not the real reason. I think you’re right. In this day and age, I’d be crazy not to get one done. It really is so much easier. And I can’t handle this waiting anymore. I want to know when I’m going to have my baby, and I want to know now.”
Dr. Bono enters the room. “Hidee-ho! I understand you’ve finally made a decision? I’m a little surprised. Last time I saw you, you seemed to still be thinking about going the vaginal route.”
“Well, I am female, after all. It’s my prerogative to change my mind,” I joke. “But now that my mind is finally made up, what day would you do the C-section?”
“Let’s see,” Dr. Bono says, looking at my chart and then looking at a calendar posted on the wall. “You’re due around October 20th. I usually perform them on Wednesdays, so how is October 15th for you?”
“Um, I’ll have to check my Palm Pilot,” I joke again. “No, I’m kidding. I think I’m free. And what time would you do it?”
“How’s 9 a.m.?”
“So, my baby will be born October 15th at 9 a.m.? Sounds good to me. Now this is a crazy thought, but what if I happen to go into early labor? What happens then?”
“You go to the hospital and tell them you had a scheduled C-section booked, and they should still be able to accommodate you.”
“Perfect.”
“And how long will she have to be in the hospital?” the fiancé asks.
“For C-sections, we like patients to stay three days.”
“Three days? Do they have showers in the room?” I ask Dr. Bono.
“Of course they have showers.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know? And how long exactly will the scar be? And you’ll do it low, right? So I can still wear a bikini?”
“The scar will be right over your pubic hairs. And it will be about six inches long. So I’ll see you next week then?”
We now have weekly visits to Dr. Bono.
And that’s that. I suddenly know my baby’s birthday. On the way out, Dr. Bono’s secretary hands us a sheet of paper that lists all the things we need to bring to the hospital. One of the items is maxi pads. Why do I need maxi pads if it’s coming out of my stomach? I thought no bleeding Down There was one of the advantages of not going the vaginal route. But I’m not going to question it. I guess I’ll buy some maxi pads. I haven’t bought maxi pads in years.
“Hey, what are you thinking about? You kind of blanked out there for a minute,” the fiancé says, waving his hand in front of my eyes.
“Nothing. Just the baby.” I am not going to tell the fiancé that I was worrying about maxi pads. “Can you believe that we know exactly when we’re going to have a baby?” I ask him while we wait for the elevator.
“I know. It’s crazy. Does that make her a Scorpio?” What? I had no idea the fiancé even knew about signs, let alone cared about them. It’s typically such a girlie thing.
“Actually, I think it means she will be a Libra.”
“What are the traits of a Libra then?”
“I think Libras are wishy-washy. I think Scorpios are more sane, but I’m not sure. Let’s get a book on signs.”
“Maybe we should think about getting some books on parenting instead. I’m not sure it matters what sign the child is when we don’t know how to feed her.”
“Yeah, maybe. But you’re the one who brought up signs. We could get both. Maybe we should go back and ask Dr. Bono to move the C-section a couple weeks later so we can have a Scorpio child.”
“Beck, no. Definitely not.”
We make a pact to tell only our parents about the C-section.
4:00 p.m.
Lena just called. She told me she booked a two-week trip to New York. “There are a ton of good parties going on there now. And a bunch of new restaurants I want to check out. I’ve been on the Internet all day booking airline, hotel, and restaurant reservations. What did you do this afternoon?”
I didn’t tell Lena that we knew the date our child was going to come into this world. I was dying to, but held off. I couldn’t handle any wrath about getting a C-section right now, especially because since making my decision to have one, all I feel is relief. It feels like the right decision.
“I spent my afternoon shopping for maxi pads. I bought hundreds of maxi pads,” I told Lena.
“What? Why did you buy so many? Why do you even need maxi pads?”
“Because supposedly I need maxi pads after giving birth. It’s on the list my doctor gave me of things I have to bring to the hospital. I haven’t bought maxi pads in fifteen years. I have no idea what brand or type of maxi pads is good, so I bought eight different varieties. Long ones, short ones, thick ones, thin ones, daytime ones, nighttime ones, light flow ones . . .”
“Okay, okay. I get it. You know what type of maxi pad you should get?”
Crap. Does the unsolicited advice apply even to maxi pads? Will it never end?
“What kind should I get?”
“The black ones. You know the ones that everyone was writing about a year ago? The fashionable black maxi pad?”
“Lena, I don’t care what color the maxi pad is, or what kind of maxi pads are in style. If you’re wearing a maxi pad, you cannot feel sexy. I also have to buy new underwear. All my underwear are thongs.”
“Point taken. Can we talk about what clothes I should pack for New York, and how many pairs of shoes would be too many pairs of shoes to bring?”
“Why? Are you bored of maxi pad talk already? Say it ain’t so.”
SEPTEMBER 24
Knowing the birthdate of your child is like having a deadline: you know exactly when you have to be prepared for it. I’m inherently a procrastinator, which means I leave everything to the last minute. I can’t function, either, unless I leave everything until the last minute. If my editor assigns me a story due the following Monday, you can bet I’ll be staying up all Sunday night to finish it.
But a baby, I think, is different from a newspaper article. A baby can’t understand “Sorry I’m running a bit late. You’ll get it no later than noon. I p
romise!” like my editor does. A baby can’t really wait for diapers—this much I know. A baby can’t wait to be fed—this much I also know. A baby can’t be naked forever—this I know, too. And the hospital won’t let you leave until you have a car seat for the baby. I’ve made a list of things we need to buy before the baby comes home, with the help of Ronnie, who had five minutes of quiet time after she plopped her brats—I mean kids—in front of the television.
HARDWARE
Car seat
Bottles and sterilizer for bottles
Bathtub
Nail clippers
Stroller
Thermometer
Baby hairbrush
Diaper Genie
SOFTWARE
Baby towels
Blankets
Sleepers
Undershirts
Hats
Lotions, soaps, oils
Diapers
Formula
Wet wipes
STUFF FOR MY HOSPITAL STAY
Socks
Underwear
Sweatclothes/pajamas
Presents for nurses and doctors
More maxi pads?
THINGS TO DO
Clean baby room/clean closets to make space for baby stuff
Unpack the suitcases I brought with me moving here
Buy an iPod (because I want one)
SEPTEMBER 25
7:00 p.m.
The fiancé and I can’t have a conversation anymore without the words “baby” or “pregnancy.” I worry that I’m boring him with the constant baby/pregnancy talk. I’m not going to talk about being pregnant or about the baby for the next three weeks. I’m going to be my old, charming self. I can not talk about the baby, can’t I? I have other things to talk about, don’t I? We can talk about my job, or his job, or gossip about our friends, or books we have read (rather, want to read), or movies we’ve seen (rather, want to see). Our lives do not revolve solely around me being pregnant and us becoming parents.
7:12 p.m.
Our lives revolve solely around me being pregnant and us becoming parents.
“I can’t wait for this to be over,” I tell the fiancé. Damn. I wasn’t supposed to talk about being pregnant for three weeks! I lasted almost fifteen minutes.
“Why?” answers the fiancé. “So you can be hot again?”