Knocked Up

by Rebecca Eckler

  What? What? What?

  “I knew it! I knew it! I knew you no longer thought I was hot! By asking if I can’t wait to be hot again, what you’re really saying is that I’m not hot right now!”

  “You know what I mean. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yes, you used to think I was hot and now you don’t. I know exactly how you meant it,” I say, starting to bawl.

  Wait . . . Why isn’t the fiancé trying to comfort me? I’m crying! Why is he just staring at me? Shouldn’t he be working his way over to me and giving me a hug?

  “Aren’t you g-g-going to t-t-try and ch-chcheer m-m-me up?” I sob. “I’m c-c-crying here!”

  “I think you might just need a good cry.”

  Clearly the fiancé can’t wait for this to be over as much as I can’t wait for this to be over. I suppose I have cried a lot—is almost every day a lot?— throughout these past few months. He’s not even attempting to cheer me up anymore.

  “F-f-fine. I’m g-g-going to take a sh-sh-shower.”

  “That’s a good idea. That will make you feel better, I’m sure.”

  8:00 p.m.

  “AHHHHHH!!!!!”

  “What now? What now?” the fiancé cries out, racing into the washroom, where I have just got out of the shower.

  “This towel doesn’t wrap around me anymore! Does it wrap around you, or did your cleaning lady shrink it by accident?”

  “Um, it still wraps around me,” the fiancé says, hesitantly.

  “AHHHHHH!!!!”

  “Don’t worry. I have some extra-large ones in the closet. Give me a sec and I’ll bring one to you. Please don’t cry anymore.”

  The fucking towel doesn’t fit around me anymore. I am that big. AHHHHHH!!!!

  SEPTEMBER 26

  It hit me today that the woman I once was is now gone. I remember a time when I would not even blow-dry my hair in front of the fiancé, let alone be seen putting on deodorant while he was in the same room. I remember a time when I used to think those things were too personal to do in front of a man. There was a time too when I’m sure the fiancé didn’t know I ever got my period, didn’t know that I was capable of having gas or of eating as much as a family of six eats for dinner or of looking like I’ve given up on life. And now I’ve made the fiancé take me to a department store so I can buy some underwear to go with my new supply of maxi pads.

  “Please tell me you’re going to throw those out after you get out of the hospital,” the fiancé says, taking in my armful of big, ugly cotton underwear. I chose the cheapest underwear in three different sizes—how am I to know what will fit my body after the baby comes out?—knowing they will be tossed out as soon as humanly possible.

  “Don’t worry. In my mind, they are already in the garbage. Do you think we can stop in at the drugstore on the way home?”

  “Why? What do you need?”

  “Some maxi pads.” Welcome to the world where I’m now also comfortable talking about feminine hygiene products with the fiancé.

  “Haven’t you bought like twelve packs already?” God, can a woman not buy maxi pads without being questioned?

  “Yes, but then Ronnie told me about this other kind. She says that this brand is the only way to go,” I tell him.

  “Okay, but this is your last trip to buy maxi pads. And don’t even think about asking me to take you underwear shopping again. You now own more ugly underwear than most women do in a lifetime.”

  It gets worse. I’m even discussing things with the fiancé that I wouldn’t be comfortable talking about with my closest girlfriends.

  “I have to tell you something,” I tell him, when we get home. “I need to tell someone and I would tell Ronnie but I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. It’s really bothering me.”

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just that something weird is happening to my, um, my vagina.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s all puffy. I have a puffy vagina.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “I think so. I think it’s because all the blood is going down there or something.”

  “It’s your body getting ready to give birth.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” The fiancé starts laughing.

  “And, um, I can barely wipe myself anymore after going to the washroom. I can’t bend over with my big belly!”

  “You are too funny,” the fiancé says, still laughing.

  I’m glad he thinks so. I’m just hoping the old me comes back when this is all over. I wouldn’t even want to date the woman I’ve become, let alone marry her.

  SEPTEMBER 27

  3:30 a.m.

  The fiancé will not wake up.

  “Hey, I just had a nightmare,” I say, speaking into his face.

  “What? Hmmm.”

  “Hey! I just had a nightmare!”

  “What was it about?” the fiancé mumbles.

  “Oh, never mind. I don’t really remember anyway.”

  I do remember. It was one of the strangest dreams I have ever had. It was like I was on an acid trip. He wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. I dreamed that the baby was trying to get out of my body. But this baby had twelve legs, like an alien, and was trying to kick through my stomach. What if this means my baby is deformed? I should never have smoked so many cigarettes.

  9:00 a.m.

  I hate when people tell me about their dreams. When people start out a conversation with “I had the strangest dream last night,” you know you’re going to hear all about it. But the dream of giving birth to an alien child really freaked me out. I had to tell someone.

  “Don’t worry,” Ronnie says, after I tell her about my nightmare. “I remember that at one of those parenting classes I took they said crazy dreams during pregnancy were really normal. And dreams about alien babies were common.”

  “Really. They specifically told you that having dreams about alien babies was normal?”

  “Yes, I swear. It happens to a lot of women.”

  Well, at least I know I’m normal. I just pray my baby is.

  SEPTEMBER 28

  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?”

  “Can I shower first?”

  “No time for showers. I need pancakes now! Pancakes! Pancakes!”

  “All right. All right. Is this going to happen every Sunday? How many more Sundays until you give birth?”

  “Whatever. Let’s go!”

  SEPTEMBER 29

  The fiancé is obsessed with strollers. For a man, I realize, buying a stroller is like buying a car. Wheels are wheels are wheels. He forced me to sit in front of the computer today while he showed me eight different types of strollers on the Internet. When did strollers get so fancy? They all have cup holders. Some have cellphone holders. The fiancé was talking about the traction some stroller wheels have. “I’ve been researching strollers for weeks,” he tells me. He has? Where did he find the time? “There are the Peg Peregos, which a ton of people use. But they are heavy and cumbersome. There are also the Maclaren ones, which look good and are a little lighter. But I think you’ll really love the Bugaboo Frog. It’s the one Ethan Hawke uses,” he continues.

  “Ooooh. That’s cool,” I tell him, perking up.

  “Yeah, I’d thought you’d like that. I’m going to do some more research.” The fiancé, it seems, is spending more time researching strollers than he did researching his car. At least he’s into strollers. Can being into fatherhood be far behind? Maybe he’s actually getting excited about all this?

  SEPTEMBER 30

  Busy day today. It began with a visit to Dr. Bono’s office for my checkup.

  “I’m a tad worried about getting a C-section now. I’ve been watching A Baby Story and Maternity Wa
rd and I’ve seen several C-sections and each one looked bloody and violent,” I told him. I’ve been spending my afternoons lying in bed, which is what happens when you have gained almost half your original weight and don’t want to leave your bed, except for the twice-an-hour visits to the kitchen for Rice Krispie squares.

  “Well, that’s a mistake,” Dr. Bono huffed.

  “What?”

  “You do realize they play up those operations for television.”

  “They do?”

  “Of course they do. You’ll be fine. It is a major operation, but you will be fine. Stop watching those shows.”

  “Okay.”

  I think Dr. Bono is starting to get me.

  I also met the nanny for the first time. She is excited to work for us. She is thirty-five and very pretty.

  “Make sure your nanny isn’t too good-looking,” Ronnie had warned.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve heard too many horror stories about husbands hooking up with their nannies.”

  “Come on. Really?”

  “Really. I heard of one man who actually got the nanny pregnant.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “I’m not. And make sure she doesn’t steal from you. I have so many friends who have gone through so many nannies. Some weren’t nice enough to their children, some stole clothes right from their closets, and one of my friends noticed that the change in her change drawer was dwindling day after day.”

  “Ronnie! The nanny hasn’t even started yet. Maybe I should wait until she does before accusing her of being a thief,” I told her.

  “Just pay attention.”

  I’m worried that I won’t be able to deal with having a stranger with me in the fiancé’s condo all day long. He gets to get out and go to the office. I don’t have an office to go to. I will technically be taking maternity leave, for at least four months, but have worked out an arrangement with my bosses. I can still write for the paper whenever I want, and I will get a paid day off for each story upon my return. But I’ve always worked out of the house. What if the nanny disturbs me while I’m working? Am I allowed to hang out with the nanny and the baby whenever I want to? How do I boss around a nanny? I have only ever had bosses. I’ve never been one. I don’t know how to boss around people who are older than me—except the fiancé, and even that doesn’t always work.

  “What time would you like me to start every day?” the nanny asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered her. “What time do you usually start?”

  “Well, it’s up to you. You’re my employer,” she responded. Okay, this is going to take some getting used to. And what if my baby ends up liking the nanny more than me? And did I mention how skinny the nanny is? She must be a size 0. I hate her.

  OCTOBER 1

  11:30 p.m.

  “Beck? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Where else would I be?”

  “It looks like you’ve built yourself a fortress. For a minute, I thought you had left the bed.”

  “Nope, I’m right here beside you.”

  “I can’t see you.”

  “I can’t see you either. But this is the only way I can get comfortable.”

  I am lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. I’ve positioned six pillows under my head and along my sides, and between my legs. No matter how many pillows I have around me, no matter what position I put them in, I cannot get comfortable. I can no longer lie flat on my back. I can’t breathe when I lie flat on my back.

  “Do you need that?” I ask the fiancé.

  “What?”

  “That pillow under your head.”

  “How many pillows do you already have there?”

  “Six.”

  “Well, yes, I need this one pillow,” the fiancé tells me.

  “We need more pillows. We’re going to have to buy more pillows,” I grumble.

  “But you have six pillows. How many do you need?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t get comfortable. My lower back is killing me. My upper back is killing me. My legs are killing me. My ribs are killing me. My breasts are killing me. Every part of my body is killing me. I’m not going to last! I’m not going to last!”

  “You’re doing great. You have less than a month to go. Really, I’m so proud of you. I love you.”

  “Do you love me enough to give me your pillow?”

  “I need this pillow. Do you want me to bring you one from the couch?”

  “Okay. Thanks. That would be great. And on your way back, can you grab me one of those heartburn pills?”

  OCTOBER 2

  I tried talking to Ronnie today. It’s been a while.

  “Ronnie! It’s me,” I said into the phone. It’s rare for Ronnie to pick up immediately. It felt nice to hear her voice. That was until I really heard her voice.

  “Hey! How are you, Mama! Wait one minute?” she asked.

  In the background, her children were screaming as if they had just been in a haunted house.

  “I’M GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!” Ronnie yelled out. “AND IF YOU AREN’T QUIET THEN YOU’RE ALL GOING TO YOUR ROOMS. ONE! TWO! THREE! Okay, I’m back. So how are you—Oh, can you hold on a second? I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH THAT! Okay, I’m back. So what’s—Oh God, hold on one more time. IF YOU KIDS CAN’T BEHAVE THEN YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE ALLOWED IN THE TOY ROOM. I’M ON THE PHONE LONG DISTANCE! Okay, can you believe how loud it is in here? I swear I’m going to lose it. OKAY! THAT’S IT. I’M COMING DOWN THERE RIGHT NOW!”

  “Ronnie, why don’t you call me later?”

  “Aren’t you excited about becoming a mother? This is what happens to babies when they turn into children. You have this to look forward to. I’M GOING TO BE THERE IN THREE SECONDS!”

  God, I have such a headache.

  OCTOBER 4

  “What are those on your feet?” the fiancé asks.

  “Slippers.”

  “They’re, uh, they’re, uh, very nice.”

  “Can I get away with going out in public in these?” The fiancé and I are headed out to dinner. We don’t go fancy anymore. We go casual. “We’re just going for Vietnamese food, right? I don’t have to look good. And my feet are really swollen. None of my shoes fit!”

  “Sure. You can wear whatever.”

  “I’m just worried that people are going to think you broke me out of a mental hospital. It’s not every day you see a woman out to dinner wearing red velvet slippers. I have to put something on my feet.”

  “Beck, you’re pregnant. You can wear anything you want. No one will care. And you look kind of cute in slippers.”

  “No, I look like I escaped from a mental institution,” I say, tearing up.

  “No one will care. They’ll understand.”

  It’s true. When you’re this pregnant, you can get away with wearing anything. And it’s appropriate that I’m wearing slippers. Pregnancy does make you crazy. I feel like I’m going crazy.

  OCTOBER 5

  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. Not again. Seriously, how many more Sundays before you have the baby?”

  Didn’t cry today. Maybe my pregnant hormones have gone into remission?

  OCTOBER 6

  Did not cry again today. I deserve a medal.

  OCTOBER 7

  6:30 p.m.

  The fiancé is reading the paper. I’m half watching television.

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  “It’s October 7th.”

  “How many more days left?”

  “Eight more days.”

  “I’m not going to last.”

  “You’re going to last.”

  “I’m not going to last.”

  “You will last.”

  6:32 p.m.

  “What day is it now?” I moan.

  “Beck, it’s bee
n two minutes since you asked. It’s still October 7th.”

  “Oh. Minutes now seem like days. I’m not going to last.”

  “You will last,” he answers, flipping the page, not looking up.

  6:33 p.m.

  “Is it still the same day?”

  “Yes! Can I please read my paper?”

  6:36 p.m.

  “Is it—”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” the fiancé huffs, picking up the paper and heading into the kitchen.

  I cry. So much for my non-crying roll.

  Midnight

  One more week left, and I’ve had an epiphany. The question isn’t so much why people get pregnant. I understand why women have the urge to have children. Like I’ve said, the biological clock ticking away is not a myth. You wake up suddenly one day and there’s a need to have a baby. The question is, why would anyone want to get pregnant again?

  OCTOBER 8

  This morning is my last examination before Dr. Bono performs the C-section on me next week. It’s all happening so quickly, yet so slowly. It’s like looking forward to a really good date. The week seems so long leading up to the date, but once it arrives it seems as though there was not enough time to prepare.

  “So, um, you’re not going out partying the night before my C-section next week, right?” I ask Dr. Bono while the fiancé looks at me with horror. “I mean, you’re not going to go drinking at a pub or anything like that. I want you to be well rested before my operation.”

  “Well, obstetricians are notorious for being insomniacs,” Dr. Bono answers. Not the right answer, Dr. Bono. Not the right answer.

  “Oh.”

  “But, no, I’m not going to go drinking the night before,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry.”

  Should I remind him that there are a few people who will really, really miss me if I die on his operating table? I’d better not.

  I now weigh 139 pounds. This baby had better weigh at least 20 pounds.

  “Don’t worry,” says the nurse on our way out. “He does beautiful stitching. You’ll barely notice the scar.”

  Phew. At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. I still want to get into bikinis one day. If that will ever be possible.

  OCTOBER 9

  Though I wanted to continue working right up until I give birth—I had planned to start my maternity leave the day I give birth—I realize that this is impossible.