Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  “There’s not going to be a baby.”

  “Right. Speaking of that, what are you going to tell people when there is no baby after your maternity leave?”

  “That it didn’t get along with my dog and I put it up for adoption.”

  “Seriously?” Danny asked.

  “I am serious. People give their dogs away all the time when a new baby comes, I’ll do the opposite.”

  “That’s perfect. Name the kid after me in the meantime?”

  “No way, I’ll name it after me, regardless of its gender.”

  “You can’t name your dog and your first born Jenna. It’s too self-centered, even for you.”

  “The dog is Jenna II, the baby will be Jenna III. Both names are totally different than Jenna.”

  “I see your point.”

  As we reached the private airport at the end of the island, we saw some other cycling friends of ours in the distance. Davis Island is a very popular place to ride on rest days or in the off-season. It’s thirteen miles long if you ride along its outer edge, and in addition to a private airport, it has its own hospital, Little League, Olympic-size pool, tennis courts, restaurants, yacht club and dog park. Since social hour was about to commence, I told Danny not to say anything to the other cyclists, or anyone for that matter, about the fake pregnancy and he agreed.

  We spent the rest of the ride doing interval training. Danny said I should take a rest day, but there were a lot of people on the Island and I couldn’t help myself and had to ride hard. I felt bad ignoring Danny because he’s a very knowledgeable coach and wants to help. I’d actually hire him for coaching, in addition to massage, if I thought for a second I would listen to him instead of doing my own thing. Ironically, it’s commonly assumed that Danny coaches me since we both ride together so much. Neither of us has corrected this misconception because it has resulted in Danny raking in a lot of clientele, particularly women, who think that Danny is responsible for my meteoric improvement in cycling.

  When I got home after the ride, Jenna II went ape-shit as usual; howling, jumping around and licking my face. He keeps this up until he gets distracted, usually by the need to lick his ass. During his ass-licking, he forgets about his excitement and returns to normal temperament until I leave the house again. He does this every time I walk in the door. If I go out and get the newspaper and walk back in the house, he acts like I’ve been gone for months. This is the sort of attention on which I thrive and I think more people should feel this way about me.

  Jenna II generally goes by his nicknames, Santino or Sonny, which he acquired within six months of my owning him. First, because Jenna II is a male dog and I felt bad about his overly feminine name. Second, the double Jennas was confusing to my friends and acquaintances, who, until the name change, believed that I had an annoying habit of referring to myself in the third person whenever I wanted to eat, take a walk or go to the bathroom. Finally, Jenna II got his nickname because, while he’s a sweetheart, he has a bit of a short temper around animals such as cats, birds, squirrels and other vermin. He does not chase other animals in a playful sense. The hair on his back stands straight up, he bares his teeth and goes for the kill. I have no doubt that Sonny ensures natural selection is accelerated in my backyard. Sonny is biracial. When people ask what kind of dog he is, I reply “Brown.” It’s easier than explaining that he has the howl of a beagle, size of a Lab, tongue of a chow, hair of a terrier, temperament of a pitbull and intelligence of a shoe.

  I had a hard time sleeping. My nerves finally got to me and I spent the night alternating between feeling giddy at the prospect of becoming a pro cyclist and anxious with the dread of winding up in jail for fraud.

  At 5:00 a.m., I finally gave up on sleep. I arrived in the office at six-thirty a.m., so my first order of business was to send an email to David so that he could see, by the time stamp on my email, my extreme dedication to the firm. David walks past my office every morning at exactly eight-fifteen am. As a result, I make it a point to get in by eight-ten am so that I am at my desk “working” when he walks by my office. On days when I’m in my office on or before seven a.m., I’m always sure to send David an unnecessary email. My hope is that he assumes I get to my desk around seven a.m. each and every day that I’m in my office before him, as my early arrival is how I justify my four-thirty p.m. departure to ride my bike.

  After an hour of procrastination, I started working on the assignments that I had billed for the day before. At 10:30 a.m., David came by to check on me. “How are you doing?”

  “Good,” I said.

  “What’s that?” David asked, pointing to the jar on my desk labeled “tip jar.”

  “A tip jar,” I said, making a point to read right from the jar.

  “Why do you have it?” he asked.

  “It’s mostly a joke,” I said, “but some people feel obligated to tip every time they see a jar, so it’s a joke with an opportunity for profit.”

  “That’s very unprofessional,” David said.

  “I agree, but clients rarely come to our office, let alone this floor, and never my office, so it’s pretty low-risk,” I said.

  David threw it in my garbage can. Some people can’t take a joke. I took it out and waited for his head to get beet red with anger before I said, “Relax, I’m just recycling it.” I set it down next to my purse, smiled charmingly and said, “What can I do for you David?”

  “Nothing, I’m just checking on how you’re doing with your pregnancy.”

  “So far so good,” I said.

  “You know,” David said conspiratorially, “I find the female naked pregnant body to be one of the most erotic sights. My wife and I had an obscene amount of sex during her two pregnancies.”

  Goddammit, I was going to vomit. Did thinking about baseball help you avoid vomiting? I stood up and made it three steps before projectile vomiting.

  David said, “Are you okay? My wife was really lucky when she was pregnant, she never got sick.”

  The mere thought of his wife being “lucky” during a time she was having an “obscene amount of sex” with David Greene nearly set me off again. I excused myself by pushing David out of the way and hauling ass to the bathroom.

  For a brief second, I was actually happy about the vomiting, as it validated my story, which I was paranoid someone would see through. I was in first grade the last time I threw up due to non-alcohol related causes. Granted, David’s story was nauseating, but my stomach had held up under worse conditions. My body had impeccable timing.

  Chapter Three

  Pregnancy transformed me from a half-assed lawyer to a one-eighth-assed lawyer. Within three days of my announcement, I was way behind on my work and not showing any signs of motivation. Since I work for insurance companies, I’ve always remained guilt-free in my slackery. However, in my new condition I felt comfortable lowering the bar a few more notches. Instead of only performing the minimal amount of work to avoid being fired, I now performed the minimal amount of work to avoid being pregnant and fired. As I understood it, it was pretty risky to fire a pregnant woman. I decided to do a little more pregnancy research to determine when I should start rubbing my stomach at all hours of the day and eating ice cream with chunks of pickles.

  Week Four:

  Mom: You are probably beginning to feel tired, urinate more frequently, experience mood swings, and possibly have tender or swollen breasts.

  I actually have three out of four of those symptoms everyday anyway. It’s nice to finally have a reason to be tired, bitchy and in the bathroom every fifteen minutes.

  Baby: The chorionic villi are fully formed by the end of this week. In one study, 100% of the transvaginal ultrasounds showed a gestational sac. The yolk sac that helps feed your baby until the placenta is fully functional is appearing as well.

  Chorionic Villi? Transvaginal? Yolk sac? This all sounds icky.

  Week Six:

  Mom: Your breasts may tingle, feel heavy, the areola may become darker. Avoid changi
ng cat litter for there is a risk of toxoplasmosis.

  Yet another reason to be a dog person.

  Baby: Upper and lower limb buds will appear this week. And the primordia of the liver, pancreas, lungs, and stomach are evident.

  Limb buds actually sound adorable.

  Week Eight:

  Mom: You have probably scheduled your first office visit right now.

  Sounds like someone is about to get a vacation day.

  Baby: This week the baby’s gonads will become either testes or ovaries.

  Tough call. I guess I’m ambivalent as long as there’s some guarantee that I don’t have to take the girl to ballet or cheerleading practice.

  Week Ten:

  Mom: You are still tired, and nauseated. Your abdomen may begin to pooch out, but it will be more from bowel distension than the uterus.

  Tired, nauseated and getting fat, from bowel distension no less. I can’t believe people procreate.

  Baby: The baby weighs in at 4 grams, or 4 paper clips. Tiny toes have formed. External genitalia are beginning to differentiate. External ears are completely formed, as well as the upper lip. The biggest accomplishment this week is the disappearance of the tail!

  That’s a shame. The tail sounds even cuter than limb buds.

  Amid my pregnancy research, David walked into my office. I quickly minimized the pregnancy screen. Under the pregnancy screen was a Cyclingnews article; minimize. Under Cyclingnews was my bank statement; minimize. Personal email; minimize. Motion to Compel; I’ll leave that one up.

  “Hi David.”

  “We have a problem.”

  Oh shit, he knows. How the hell could he have figured it out? “Yes.”

  “You’re not documenting your files thoroughly. I know you’re doing the work, but you need to make notes in the file. Right now, if you were to die, no one would be able to pick up where you left off.”

  What a jackass. Couldn’t he have just said, “maternity leave”? Does he really need to kill me in this hypothetical? “Sure David, I’ll document the file.”

  “You understand right? I mean if a bus hits you while you’re on your bike tonight, it would be very hard for us to manage your case load.”

  “Got it,” I said, starting to worry that David had a hit out on me.

  “Also,” David said, “I presume you drafted the complaint in the Akers case.”

  David has a tendency to intentionally presume incorrectly. We have a system at the office whereby every employee can see the status of any case in all of the Johnson Smith offices. David checks the status of all of my cases on the computer; then, instead of telling me to complete an assignment, or better yet, just waiting until I have a chance to do it, given my “load” of fifty files, he says, “I presume you’ve done X.”

  I lied and replied, “Yes, I drafted the complaint.” This response put David in an uncomfortable position because in order to accuse me of lying, he must admit that he was acting like a jackass and asked a question to which he knew the answer. On the other hand, if he says nothing, then I “get away” with lying. It would never occur to David that I’m just fucking with him.

  Not surprisingly, David did not like being backed into a corner. “Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” I said nonchalantly. “I’ll throw it in your inbox as soon as I finish up this motion to compel.”

  David stared at me, clearly trying to come up with a creative way to pursue the point. During his pause, I faced my computer screen and pasted a contemplative expression on my face, a look I imagined I would wear if I ever put my mind to my job. David, who could not come up with a sane way to pursue the matter, gave up and left. As soon as he was out of view, I hurriedly began drafting the complaint, which I would backdate and put in his inbox within the hour. Then, I’d bill two hours for it; on yesterday’s billing of course. It would kill David not to call me out on the lie.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, I met up with Paul, the guy from the Dubliner who could quote Tommy Boy. We met up to ride around the Island. Paul’s bike was an eight-speed steel Peugeot that was at least ten years old. I had been concerned that he would show up wearing an imitation Tour de France Yellow Jersey riding on a hybrid bike with goofy clip-on aerobars, so I was relieved when he showed up looking like a more seasoned cyclist than I. Paul was very comfortable on the bike and had no problem holding a conversation over the two-hour easy ride. In fact, he kept the pace a little higher than I would have on an easy off-season spin.

  The goal during the off-season is to put in a shitload of base miles every day. Base miles are easy miles, usually at a high cadence and low intensity; a conversational pace using mostly easy gearing. Most professional cyclists ride a minimum of four hours and up to eight hours each day of the off-season. I do this on the weekends, but during the week, because of my awesome job, I can only ride two hours per day given the restricted daylight during this time of year. In addition to these two-hour rides, I run and lift weights during the off-season, but only with my legs. In cycling, the upper body is strictly for breathing and there is no need to bulk up.

  During the ride, Paul and I talked about cycling, work and family. He was not particularly funny in that he didn’t make me laugh, but he seemed to have a decent sense of humor nonetheless. Paul rode with me back to my house, then rode his bike home to his apartment. I thought about inviting him in and ending my increasingly lengthy sexual drought. I had a bike light I could have loaned Paul so that he could ride home in the dark. However, I aborted those plans when Paul leaned in for a kiss, then veered to my cheek. I guess the rumor about wholesome Minnesota boys was true.

  The next day, Paul called me and invited me to go out Friday night for dinner at eight. I planned to do a double-century ride in Gainesville the next morning, so I preferred to slam beers at happy hour, then go to bed at nine, but I figured I had to eat anyway, so I accepted.

  Over dinner, I told Paul about my weekend plans. A “century” is a 100 mile ride. A double-century is back-to-back centuries, usually on a Saturday and Sunday. While it was not uncommon for me to ride 100 miles each Saturday and Sunday during the off-season, it was uncommon for me to pay to do it with a bunch of inexperienced cyclists who had trained all year for the event. However, I always enjoyed riding in Gainesville, and was overdue to visit my old roommate Jackie, who was still in school finishing her nineteen-year Ph.D. program. I told Paul he was welcome to come along and ride with me, and he accepted immediately. While I wasn’t crazy about Paul, I felt good about the possibility that he might grow on me. After all, he was a tall, handsome, well-employed guy who didn’t balk at my desire to drive two hundred and fifty miles in order to bike two hundred miles.

  After dinner, Paul dropped me off and kissed me on the lips and left. It was open mouth, but no tongue. What the fuck was this guy’s deal? It worked out though, since I had to pack and get up early the next day.

  The next day was perfect. The weather for the Saturday Gainesville ride was seventy degrees and sunny with only a slight wind. The campus at the University of Florida was beautiful and pristinely maintained. As always, the brick buildings and manicured landscaping appeared to be autoclaved daily. The funding for this upkeep flowed from alumni who paid $100,000 a year to the school for fifty-yard-line football tickets and great game day parking. The state of Florida often matched these generous donations, provided that the University showed that it was needed for a project. Consequently, it was not uncommon for the school to spend millions of dollars tearing down an old brick building and constructing an old-looking brick building in its place.

  In stark contrast to the campus, the outskirts of Gainesville are mostly undeveloped with the exception of the thousands of acres of horse farms and citrus groves. The gated mansions on these properties are blocks away from the trailers and shacks of the people who work the properties. The smooth black asphalt beside the mansions changes abruptly in front of the trailers and shacks to white dusty roads comprised of crushed shells and sugar s
and. As a seasoned Gainesville cyclist, I barely noticed the jarring transformation in the road surface. It was only when I rode with someone new, such as Paul, that it occurred to me how obnoxious it is that the county didn’t just pave the entire road.

  In between these residences are lakes and parks owned by either the state or the University. My favorite park is Devils Millhopper, a 120- foot limestone sinkhole that has transformed into a mini-rainforest. Devils Millhopper remains cool during the hot and humid Florida summer and wet during Florida’s spring droughts. Since Paul and I were not in any particular hurry, we took a detour and rode down into the sinkhole. We also stopped at a “sag” station every twenty miles and filled up on Oreos, Fig Newtons and water. It crossed my mind a few times during the day that every bike ride of mine could be this relaxing if I didn’t have a psychotic desire to turn every delightful task into a cutthroat competition, or even better, if I channeled my competitive nature in another direction. My life would be much easier if I were competitive at my office and relaxed on the bike.

  After the ride, we had just enough time to shower before meeting my old roommate Jackie and her boyfriend for dinner. This was the third time I’d stayed with Jackie for a cycling-related event and I always took her out for dinner. Jackie didn’t expect it, but she was still a student without a real job, so I felt obligated to treat her. Besides, if I didn’t stay with Jackie, I would have to pay for a hotel, so I usually wound up ahead of the game. However, this time, we were a party of four at a nice restaurant instead of just Jackie and me at a bar. There seemed to be no tactful way for me to pick up Jackie’s check and leave her boyfriend and Paul to pay, so, I resigned myself to spending two hundred plus on dinner instead of half of a one-hundred-dollar hotel.

  Fortunately, by the time the check arrived I was filled with sangria, which tended to make me overly generous. I reached out to grab the bill, but Paul took it and put his card down without looking at it. I grabbed my wallet and made the courtesy offer to split the check with him, secretly hoping he’d decline. He obliged. Paul’s picking up the check not only saved me money, but was a pretty good sign that he was trying to get laid.