Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  “Hi, Jenna. This is Andy, I work with your mom. Give me a call when you get a chance.” He left his number.

  This would never work out because his area code indicated that he lived too far away to be datable.

  Still, I called him back. Not because I’m a dutiful daughter, but because I didn’t want to hear about it again next Sunday night, and the Sunday after that. We made plans to meet on Thursday for dinner. There was no small talk and I was convinced Andy had no personality based on my thirty second phone conversation. On the plus side, I scheduled dinner for 8:30 p.m. so that I didn’t have to cut my bike ride short.

  Andy rang the doorbell promptly at 8:30. I had just emerged from the shower. I looked through the peephole. Not an attractive man. He wasn’t exactly ugly, but he was a mouth breather and a little on the heavy side. Not fat, but not fit or athletic either. I was sure he’d find a wonderful lady some day, just not me.

  I called to him to come in and sit on the couch, because I wasn’t ready yet. He obeyed and I started getting ready. Sonny was howling and humping him while I tried to pick out something ugly to wear so that he would be equally uninterested in me. I had already decided not to blow dry my hair, but that was out of laziness. I needed something ugly to wear to match my unkempt hair. As I stared at my closet, a bunch of maternity wear stared back at me. Perfect!

  I walked out. Andy was shocked by his first sight of me but trying to act natural. “Hi, Jenna. Ready?”

  Gotta love a guy who ignores the elephant in the room. “Sure, I’m starving. Eating for two you know.”

  No response. Clearly he wasn’t going to officially acknowledge my unexpected pregnancy.

  We went to a local tapas bar with great sangria. I sat down and ordered a pitcher. Andy stared at me disapprovingly, but refrained from mentioning the pregnancy.

  “So,” I said, “how’s elementary school these days? It’s been a while for me.”

  “I like it. The kids are sweet and I get to teach music and help advise them when they’re troubled.”

  “What sort of problems do they have?”

  “Peeing their pants, bullies, dealing with divorce, some of them still breast-feed coming into kindergarten.”

  “That’s funny. I’ll totally do that with this kid,” I said.

  “Really?” he asked nervously. Andy had not lost the deer-in-headlights look since spotting my belly.

  “No,” I responded. I was afraid the conversation would switch to pregnancy details, so I moved the topic back to his interests. “So,” I said, “what kind of music do you teach?”

  “A few things. I teach violin and chorus, and I play the piano while they sing.”

  “Do you know ‘Chopsticks’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too, but only the du dununu du dununu part. I don’t know the dunt dunt dunt, dununununu part.”

  “I know them both, but there are no words so I don’t play that for them.”

  “Oh yeah. Do you teach marching too?”

  “No, that’s high school band,” Andy explained.

  And we were out of conversation. We sat there awkwardly until Andy said. “What do you want to order? We can share a few tapas dishes.”

  “Okay.”

  We both looked at the menu and it was the least awkward moment of the night.

  While we read the menu, Sarah Smith walked over to our table. Thank God I’d worn the Empathy Belly. When I saw Sarah at the office, we exchanged pleasantries. Outside of work, Sarah and I were evidently best friends. She screeched, “Hi Jenna! What are you doing here, sexy? Is this yo baby daddy?”

  “No, this is Andy,” I replied calmly.

  Sarah hovered over Andy and stuck her huge boobs in his face, then leaned down and kissed him on the lips, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Sorry Charlie, I do hugs and kisses, not handshakes.”

  “Um, actually, it’s Andy,” he responded, seemingly unaware of the phrase “sorry Charlie.”

  “I know,” Sarah said as she pulled up a chair to our table.

  I guessed she was staying. In an effort to avoid this, I said, “Who are you here with?”

  “My friends Sarah and Sarah. We’ve been friends for thirty years. All three of us are named Sarah. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Yes, it’s such a rare name,” I offered helpfully.

  Sarah turned to Andy and said, “This one’s a smartass huh,” as she grabbed his thigh.

  He shot straight up. “Uh. Yeah or no, I don’t know, I mean, I just met her.”

  Sarah moved her other hand to his thigh and said, “You mean, you guys aren’t together?”

  “No,” we said in unison.

  “We just met,” I added.

  The waitress came by and we ordered. Sarah ordered something extra for the table. I was fine with a third wheel, but did it have to be Sarah? I wished I could trade her for one of the other Sarahs. Then again, as friends of Sarah Smith, I was sure they had their own problems.

  After the waitress left, Sarah took over the conversation, presumably trying to win Andy over with her charm. She started telling a story about the death of her goldfish, Fatty. Apparently Fatty was fat and was her favorite goldfish. It was really heartbreaking, but I managed to hold it together.

  Sarah leaned into Andy to be comforted. Andy looked like he was in hell, which was not far off the mark. A pregnant lady and a sixty-year-old is not an ideal ménage à trois.

  The first dish came. Sarah made a production of eating the olives as suggestively as possible, sucking her fingers unnecessarily after every bite. The full court press was on. As Sarah described her tattoos, the ones she had and the ones she planned to get, the rest of the food arrived. This wasn’t so bad. I was out of the house in an English-speaking part of town enjoying good food and low-brow entertainment.

  My mind started wandering as I ate. I have a friend who has this idea for a sandwich shop where, instead of letting the customer order, the owner makes you a sandwich based on what he thinks you’ll like as a result of your appearance. Genius plan. I started to think of what I would make for Andy and Sarah. I would give Sarah a tuna melt. For Andy…

  “Earth to Jenna, do you want that last piece of eggplant?”

  “Meatball sub.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. No, you can eat it.” I thought I just said meatball sub out loud. Whatever.

  The waitress came back over and asked us if we wanted dessert. “Whatcha got?” Sarah asked, as Andy and I said, “No just the check,” in unison. The waitress rattled off desserts and Sarah settled on flan. “You guys will help right?”

  “No, I hate flan. I’ll help with anything else though,” I said.

  “But I’m craaaaaaving flan.” Sarah whined.

  After a little persuasion, Andy agreed to help. By virtue of her incessant nagging, Sarah could have convinced Andy to eat a plate of shit.

  The flan and the bill came together. Andy offered to pick it up. Normally, I’ll make a courtesy offer then allow the guy to pick up the check. However, Andy had had a rough night and rumor had it that teachers earn shit pay. So, I insisted on paying one-third of the check, hoping to incite Sarah to add her card to the table as well.

  The subtle hint didn’t work. I tried a more direct route. “Sarah, can you pay one third too?”

  “That doesn’t seem fair, I ate with my friends.”

  “I’m not suggesting you don’t pay one third over there as well,” I replied.

  Sarah gave me a death glare and put her card on the table. “I’ll pay for the flan.” She said this as though she was doing us a favor even though she’d ordered it and ate the entire dish.

  “You had four drinks too.”

  Sarah agreed to pay for what she herself ordered. It was obvious by the way she offered that she hoped Andy would tell her not to worry about it. He did not oblige.

  Mercifully, the night ended. Andy dropped me off and I was quite confident he would not be calling for a follow-up date. I walked int
o my house, took off my belly and crashed.

  Over the rest of the weekend I started to feel bad about tricking Andy. I thought about calling to apologize, but I really wasn’t into him and thought he was probably better off not knowing that I pretended to be pregnant to avoid dating him. By the time work rolled around on Monday, I had forgotten about the entire night. That is, until Sarah came in my office and shut the door.

  “Jenna, I hope you don’t mind, but Andy and I are together.”

  “What? When?”

  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Well, I followed you guys home to your house, which is very cute. I really love the old South Tampa bungalows. Anyway, when he walked you to your door, I got on the hood of his car.”

  In my mind, I was comparing a hot twenty-year-old woman on a Ferrari, with Sarah on Andy’s gray Honda Civic. Not as likely to wind up on a calendar. “So?” I said.

  “You know…”

  “You had sex on the hood of his car outside of my house?”

  “Not exactly. We were in the backseat.”

  “You’re kidding right?” I started to praise God that I opened Sonny’s doggy door and let him out back instead of walking him out front. First, I would have been busted without my pregnant belly, but more devastating, I would have witnessed teenage car sex between Sarah and Andy.

  “No,” Sarah said. “It was very spontaneous and romantic. There was this vibe throughout dinner and I just knew we were meant for each other. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “Not in the least,” I responded before I realized it was a rhetorical question.

  “You’re not mad are you?” she asked.

  “No, just stunned. I didn’t pick up on the vibe. Are you guys seeing each other again?”

  “We met halfway between our houses last night.”

  “Did you go on a date?”

  “No, more hot car sex.”

  Eww. Why did I ask? “You didn’t grab dinner or a drink or something first?”

  “Nope. Anyway, I meant to ask you for his number.”

  “Why didn’t you get it from him?” I asked, in disbelief.

  Sarah said, “He wouldn’t give it to me. He said he’d call me.”

  “This sounds weird. Is he married?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because he met up with you for car sex at a neutral location and won’t give you his number.”

  “That’s only because of his job.”

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “He didn’t say exactly, but he implied that he’s in the CIA or Secret Service or something. Why don’t you just give me his number?”

  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll give you his top secret work number.”

  I looked up the number for the elementary school he worked at and gave Sarah the number. This would be interesting. Regardless of whether he was married or just had a car fetish, I was glad to be rid of him and thanked God that I hadn’t called him to apologize. What a creep.

  * * *

  During May, I looked up weeks thirty-five through forty-two to see what sort of acting was in my future. Even though there was nothing else I could do besides wear my Empathy Belly, I figured that I should at least be aware of what women were talking about when they commiserate with me about pregnancy.

  Evidently weeks thirty-five through forty-two are hard to predict because women begin giving birth anywhere in this time frame. I planned to take my vacation from July 1 to September 30 and unlike every other pregnant woman, I wouldn’t have a kid to fuck up my schedule. Nothing much happens during the last two months except Mom gets fatter, more uncomfortable, sleeps less and pees more. This monotonous state of discomfort remains unchanged until the precursor to the real fun begins. Obviously, the “real fun” is the excruciating labor. The precursors are as follows:

  Bloody Show: A mucousy, pink, red, or brown tinged discharge from the vagina. This usually indicates that the cervix is opening. It may or may not signal labor.

  I love that they call this a show instead of bloody discharge.

  Loss of Mucous Plug: The plug of mucous that fills the cervix to protect against disease and infection. This may start leaking out as the cervix slowly starts opening before labor, or may come out in one big chunk. It can be pink or tinged with blood.

  That sounds like a big loogie.

  Loose Stools: Loose stools are nature’s way of preparing your body for labor. It helps clean your system out and make room for your baby in the vagina. (Remember the vagina and rectum are only a thin piece of skin apart.)

  Maybe nature should have put a bigger buffer zone in that region.

  I was astounded that people actually believed that I was going through with this insane pregnancy thing. More unbelievable, women used to do this even though there was a good chance it would kill them. Human babies aren’t even that cute, especially compared to babies of other species, like puppies and elephants.

  Since pre-labor involved a bloody show, losing a mucous plug and loose stools, I was hesitant to research the actual labor. As I started to shut down the page I noticed a link to an article at the bottom of the page. It said, “Orgasms During Childbirth.” That’s one I hadn’t heard before. I had heard childbirth described as excruciatingly painful, and I’d heard of women losing the will to live midway through childbirth, but orgasmic? I clicked on the article.

  Some women experience orgasm during childbirth. There are similarities between the process of orgasm and childbirth; both involve involuntary contractions of some of the same muscles. Orgasm releases endorphins, which can mediate the pain of labor, as well as the hormone oxytocin, which is known to play an important role in labor as well as mother-child attachment. Some people have speculated that sexual repression, in particular, the repression of women’s sexuality, may be holding more women back, both from having an orgasmic experience with childbirth, and from accepting and sharing the experience when they do have it.

  Interesting. I clicked on some testimonials, amazed that my work computer didn’t block them as tasteless content. According to several women, birth, like sex, seems to hurt the first time, then it’s enjoyable. My mom should like Jason and me more than John. John was twenty-three hours of excruciating pain, while it was possible that Jason and I were happy-ending childbirths. Not to be an asshole, but I prefer to think of my mom as being in excruciating pain rather than orgasmic while giving birth to me. I wonder if you can have multiple intense orgasms for twins or triplets.

  The bottom of one of the articles had a link about cesarean sections. I clicked on it. The scar was horizontal through the pubes, which surprised me. I always assumed they just cut the mom right down the center. The cut looked pretty bad, so I would not be having a fake C-section. I began reading the article about cesareans and how they cut through your abdominal muscles when the acronym FLMA stuck out at me. The article said that the Family Medical Leave Act provides women an additional two weeks maternity leave if they undergo a C-section. Hmm, I think my baby just moved into the breach position. A C-section and three and a half months vacation it is.

  After reading the pregnancy articles, I had trouble focusing on my work. It was 2:00 p.m. and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to accomplish anything else at work. I decided to go to a “doctor’s appointment,” so that I could get a nap in before my bike ride.

  When I came home from work there was a basset hound in my house. I saw it run outside the doggy door as I came in the front door. Fortunately, basset hounds don’t run very fast so I caught her very easily. Her tag said “Molly” and had a phone number. I called the number.

  “Hi, is this Molly’s parents? I have your dog.”

  “Oh sorry, where are you?” a woman inquired.

  “On San Raphael.”

  “Do you have the brown dog that howls all day?” the woman asked.

  “You mean the really cute one?” I asked rhetorically. “That’s me.”

  “Our
dogs play together all the time. I’m the house behind you, you can just send her over through the gate.”

  “Okay.”

  I sent Molly home then went back in to see Sonny.

  “Busted, Sonny. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. It’s like I hardly know you.” I kept talking to him in a conversational tone and said, “She’s a little big, but very cute.” Then, I held my hand up for him to give me a high five even though I never taught him that trick.

  Sonny responded by rolling over for a tummy rub.

  I obliged and rubbed his belly as I continued to talk to him. “Do you and Molly play with Julie’s dildo?”

  Chapter Eight

  Work was awkward today because it was the day of my baby shower. I had been to Johnson Smith baby showers before, so I knew what to expect. Namely, that my office would provide a luncheon for me of sandwiches, chips, salad and cake. After lunch, I would open my gifts, a shitload of onesies and a group gift. The group gift would be paid for in increments of twenty dollars by coworkers who were my friends, and increments of five dollars by coworkers who were not my friends but were interested in attending a free lunch with cake. The group gift would be either a stroller, car seat or crib; none of which were on my wish list. I felt bad about accepting these gifts. Then again, I’d spent at least $600 on their baby showers, so it all balanced out. Plus, you can never have too many infant-sized onesies.

  I didn’t register for baby gifts at any stores, hoping instead to receive cash. No such luck. The room was full of gifts in gender neutral yellow and green pastel wrapping paper because my baby’s gender was unknown. I should have registered at the bike shop for a baby trailer and kid’s cycling gear. At least I could have exchanged that stuff for something I actually wanted.

  During the shower, David did his normal schmoozing. That’s what David does. He never socializes to enjoy the company of others; it’s always to develop business, even amongst his own employees. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to David that he is a social liability and should never exit the realm of law. Agoraphobia would actually be a great complement to David’s personality. I made a mental note to check David’s billing later today to see whether David billed my shower to “business development.”