Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  “Oh, there you are, dear!” Martha walks up to me just as I emerge from the bathroom.

  “Mrs. Carrington, I am so excited you made it.” I smile widely and stretch my arms out to hug her. Instead of meeting my embrace, her face is down at my stomach, blowing kisses and making ridiculous baby talk to my ever-growing bump.

  “Stop that. Just call me Mom — and I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve gotten so much bigger since I saw you in Colorado. I can’t believe how much you’ve popped! Are you being good for your momma? Are you?” She’s still talking to my belly, never once having the courtesy to make eye contact with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love that she’s over the moon about the arrival of this bundle of joy, but a simple hello would certainly be nice.

  I’ve never had large boobs, but I imagine that this is the frustration of men having their eyes glued to a woman’s rack when they’re trying to have a conversation. Hey! Look at me! The fetus you’re trying to have a conversation with spent the day searching for its thumb. I’m up here! And I can actually converse with you!

  I sigh. “Yes, the baby is being good. The doctor tells me it’s the size of a squash now.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely. Do you hear that? You’re a squash right now!” And again her face is mere inches from my vagina. Perhaps I should offer her the opportunity to climb right up in there to keep it company?

  The baby starts to dance at the sound of her voice, and for the first time, I wish it were actually gas. If she knows this kid will move on her command, she’s going to walk around with her face permanently attached to my crotch for the next few months.

  “Mrs. Carrington … I mean … Mom …” She looks me in the eye for the first time since her arrival and smiles sweetly as if the word ‘mom’ alone was the greatest gift I could give her after this child. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  I look into the room and wave to catch my mother’s attention. She smiles and quickly comes over. “Mom, this is Jeff’s Mom, Martha Carrington.” Mom holds her hand out and surveys Mrs. Carrington curiously. “And Martha, this is my mom, Lisa.”

  She grabs my mom’s hand and pulls her into an overwhelming bear hug. It’s hard not to laugh at the panic overtaking her face.

  “Oh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you! Henley has told me all about you and your husband.”

  Um, no I haven’t.

  “Oh? I haven’t heard a thing about you other than the fact you’re from Colorado.” The words sound like glass on her tongue. My mom pulls back and smooths her palms down over her dress.

  “Well, that’s no worry. Us grandmas will have plenty of time to bond once my sweet little papoose arrives.”

  Why the hell is everyone laying claim to this kid? He … She … It belongs to me! Well, me and Jeff. Unless it’s being naughty. Then it’s definitely Jeff’s kid and not mine.

  “And I’m so glad Henley wasn’t injured a few weeks ago.”

  My mom’s brows perk up, and her eyes dart toward me, silently delivering the great maternal inquisition in one single glare.

  Fuck.

  “Yes … we were all … relieved,” she says slowly as her eyes narrow, not giving away the fact that this is brand new information to her.

  “Fortunately the bed didn’t cause any damage to the floor. That really would have been a nightmare to repair. And we were able to get a carpenter to come out and fix the bed.” Jeff’s mom pats my arm lovingly before continuing to chat with my mom about all the things I don’t want her to know. When Mrs. Carrington finally heads over to the mimosa bar, my mother turns to me with a wicked scowl.

  “What is this bed nonsense she speaks of?”

  “Nothing, Mom.” I sigh, but she stabs me with the you have three seconds to start talking or else glare that I feared as a teenager. “We just learned that his childhood bunk beds can’t sustain the weight of two grown adults, especially when one of them is pregnant.”

  My mom’s eyes go wide, and she gasps in repugnance. “Henley Louise! Well, I never.” Her hand is on her chest.

  “Mom, it’s fine. We’re fine. Nobody got hurt, and we’ve lived to tell the tale.”

  “No! That’s not it at all. I cannot believe you shared a bunk bed with that man.”

  Oh my God! Seriously? A bunk bed isn’t even a real bed. It’s a bed for kids. A bed for broke college students. She’s being absolutely ridiculous right now. Per usual.

  “Mom the guest room is a craft room. A bunk bed was the only option. It’s not like you can fit two people on one of those tiny twin mattresses, especially when one of them is with child,” I lie.

  I watch as she chews on my words for a few moments. “Well, fine, if you say so. I suppose Martha seems nice enough.” Her tone is unconvincing. She already feels threatened by Jeff’s mom and the entire situation. They’ve known each other for exactly one hundred and twenty seconds, and she’s going to make things difficult for the next however many years.

  My mom purses her lips and folds her arms across her chest. “Though she should have taken better care of you. I still can’t believe you’re going to give me a grandchild before a son-in-law.”

  Really? Of all the moments to say something about this pregnancy and pending marriage, this is the one she chooses?

  “Are you implying you want us to have a shotgun wedding?”

  She gasps in horror. “I am implying no such thing. I was simply stating the obvious.”

  I sigh and put my glass down on the counter. Just as I’m about to chide her, Tara walks in. Thank the maker! Tara has come to rescue me!

  “Hey Henley, Mrs. Carson. Are you two having a good time?”

  I smile at Tara appreciatively. “You’ve really outdone yourself, T. This is more than I ever imagined.” I reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful, Tara,” my mom agrees before giving my best friend a hug and leaving the room. Hopefully to stage an intervention before Jeanne polishes off the mimosa bar.

  Tara looks back to me cautiously. “Is everything okay? You seemed annoyed when I came in.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Just the same old passive aggressive bullshit of having a baby out of wedlock.”

  “She’ll come around, I promise. Once she lays eyes on that perfect little baby of yours, she’ll forget all about her daughter being a loose little harlot.” She nudges my shoulder. Inappropriate? Yes. But God, I love this chick. “Look on the bright side, you can always fashion a homemade Mother’s Day card for her out of the psychiatric bills you’re bound to incur, courtesy of her, of course.”

  “Did you see that on Pinterest, too?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” She pops a piece of cheese in her mouth from the spread of food on the counter. “How’s everything going with Jeff? Have you talked to him yet?” she asks as she chews.

  I cringe because while things haven’t exactly gotten light years better, they haven’t at least gotten worse. He’s still a little distracted, but not as rough around the edges as a few nights ago. He hasn’t shown up drunk since that night, so I take that as a checkmark in the winning column. And the pair of us? Well, we’re going through the motions, but the motions are at least a little less tense and not as forced.

  “Eh, kinda,” I admit casually.

  “Kinda?” Her voice oozes with skepticism.

  I shrug. Tara is a no nonsense, take the bull by the horns kind of chick. If she were in my shoes, she would have known exactly what happened before he ever came through the door. Me, on the other hand, I’m a go with the flow, fly by the seat of my pants-er.

  “Yeah, kinda. I tried talking to him the other night. He brought me flowers in what I thought was an attempt to apologize, but I didn’t get very far with him. He says he’s overwhelmed with life. Which—I know—doesn’t exactly answer why he was that messed up and drunkenly apologized to me before passing out. Things seem like they’re a little bit better with each passing day, so I’m hopeful we’ll get back to normal in
due time. But until then, I’m just trying to give him the space he needs to figure out whatever it is that’s eating him from the inside out.”

  “Henley,” Tara scolds. “You need to get him to open up. You can’t let this consume your relationship. I already know it’s consuming most of your thoughts.”

  I whip a sharp look at her. “Please stop. I already have two mothers here today. Don’t you dare turn into a third.”

  She cocks her hip out to the side and chews her lip, studying my face. “Okay. I’ll drop it … for now. But only because you said please, and because angry pregnant women terrify me. Besides, it’s time for presents.”

  Tara tugs my hand and drags me into the family room where most of the guests are sitting, except for Jeanne who is busy wrestling the cork off another bottle of champagne. My mom saddles up in between me and Tara. I love my mom, but her bizarre behavior today is exhausting, and I can’t quite figure out what she’s trying to overcompensate for. Regardless, it’s really getting old.

  “Tara, did you ever consider making this a joint shower?”

  “Joint shower? We don’t have any other friends expecting, Mrs. Carson.”

  “No, not a joint baby shower, silly. We could have celebrated both the baby and the wedding.”

  The comment strikes me as odd considering she’s the kind of woman who has a party for every occasion. Dad recovers from a hernia? Invite our entire church over for a potluck dinner. School canceled due to snow? Impromptu pajama party for all the kids on the street. It’s a random Tuesday? Break out the good wine and invite the neighbors over. She doesn’t need a reason to have a soiree. And when she finally does have a reason, she wants to consolidate efforts?

  What the hell is that about?

  Before I’m even able to respond back to my mother, Tara is grabbing me by the elbow and pulling me toward the chair in the center of the room. I instantly feel the eyes of two dozen women gazing upon me. It makes me want to pee.

  “I just want to thank you all again for coming today to celebrate Henley and her impending bundle of doom—I mean joy. Her impending bundle of joy.” Tara throws a wink my direction, and everyone snickers politely, including Jeanne who is finally stumbling to a chair, not even bothering with the orange juice portion of the mimosas anymore. “Now, Henley, being a first-time mom we thought it would be fun to give you some of our favorite parenting pointers. So I asked everyone to write down a parenting tip when they arrived. As you open each gift, we’ll read the tip aloud.”

  “Sounds good.” I smile and wonder just what kind of advice is in store for me.

  Tara claps her hands twice and nods for me to take my seat. “Okay, let’s get this started.” She hands me a notecard attached to a beautiful box wrapped up in silver. It’s the only box not decked out in shades of baby blue and ballerina pink. I instantly recognize the handwriting on the outside of the envelope.

  It’s my mother’s.

  I survey the card, take a deep breath and read the tip aloud. “Never let your newly added title of mother prevent you from careful grooming and dressing. Being a new mom is no excuse to look less than your best for your husband.”

  My eyes scan over the words again, and I let the words sink in. Husband. Something I don’t have, and won’t have before this child comes.

  The silence is uncomfortable, and Tara and I both look to my mom. She’s clueless and living with a nineteen fifties submissive mentality.

  “What? I know that they’re not married. But even so, Jeff will have needs. Expectations. But most importantly, just because she has a baby doesn’t mean she can just let herself go,” my mom exclaims defensively.

  Okay, then. I remind myself to breathe. I have no idea even how to respond to this.

  Tara claps her hands together and breaks the awkward silence with a little too much enthusiasm. “Let’s see what’s inside the box, shall we?”

  I tear through the silver paper to find a Cuisinart box. “A … food processor?” I force a smile and look to my mom. “Thank you so much.” She knows that this is a baby shower and not a wedding shower, right?

  “Well, I just thought that every woman needs a good, reliable food processor.”

  Are you kidding me? This woman is more excited about the wedding that hasn’t even been planned than the birth of her own grandchild. And every mom-to-be needs practical baby things like diapers and nipple cream and tiny clothes covered in puppy dogs and rubber duckies. A food processor doesn’t even crack the top one hundred list of things a new mom and dad need to take care of a newborn.

  “Henley, dear, this is so you can make all of your own baby food.”

  “People actually do that?” I say, turning the box over in my hands and looking at the packaging. There are more parts and pieces in here than I know what to do with. “That seems like a lot of work.”

  All eyes are glued to mine, no doubt judging me for my last comment.

  “All the best moms do!” she says matter of factly.

  I shift uncomfortably, hating the attention of the Judgey McJudgersons around me.

  “What I think your mom means to say is that all the moms want to make sure their children are fed, regardless of the methods. As long as you’re not giving it Mountain Dew in a bottle, I think you’re doing pretty well,” Tara says trying to cut the palpable tension in the room.

  I set the gift off to the side and look to Tara, who hands me a card, sans gift. It’s a generic Halloween card with a momma pumpkin and baby pumpkin on the cover, presumably because this kiddo is due on Halloween. A slip of paper falls down into my lap. When I open it, there’s an image of the ridiculously expensive and beautifully meticulous glider from my mid-store meltdown. And scribbled underneath the photo, there’s a delivery date.

  “Oh, Tara! I can’t believe you did this.”

  “With how hard being a mom is, you deserve a frickin’ throne. And I’m still looking for a matching Mommy’s Sippy Cup for you, too.”

  I beam at her.

  Tara’s advice? Enjoy every moment, even the stressful and bad ones. One day you’ll look back and wish you could slow down time.

  Tara turns to me with an endearing expression on her face. “I know I frequently joke about wanting the triplets to be grown up and out of the house, but I miss the days when they were tiny and wanted to spend all their time cuddling with me. Don’t get me wrong, having hellions is fun. But there’s something special about having someone so tiny and precious depending on you for everything.”

  Mrs. Carrington was more than generous with her gift. Not only did she give us the super tricked out car seat with the highest ratings imaginable, but she also gave us a gift certificate for a newborn photo session with a local photographer. She even managed to clean up some of Jeff’s newborn outfits from when he was a baby. At the bottom of her card, she included a note saying that even though they live in Colorado, they want to be able to come down frequently to babysit. The sentiment warms my heart, and I wish my mother were as open and thoughtful as this woman.

  Her parenting advice? Wine.

  Even though I’m not a mom yet, I can’t disagree with her at all, though anyone who came here on my mother’s accord is beside themselves as whispers of ‘How could a mother drink!’ circulate the room. Including Jeanne, that sauced-up hypocrite.

  I open gift after gift, unveiling everything from safety gadgets for cabinet doors to pee pee teepees (whatever those are) to a breast pump, to a toddler urinal (seriously?), to something called Baby Bangs — a tiny wig made of real hair, complete with blunt cut curtain bangs to ensure your bald bundle of joy is the envy of the nursery.

  All in all, a little less than half of this stuff came from my registry. I keep reminding myself that it’s the thought that counts and nothing was more thoughtful than the ridiculous advice that came with each and every gift.

  If it’s acceptable for airlines to have parents put on their oxygen masks before helping their kids put on theirs, it’s totally fine to let your kid c
ry while you shave your legs and make a sandwich.

  Never allow your children to play outside by themselves because if you have nosey neighbors, you may get a house call from Child Protective Services.

  There’s a reason that the word repaid is the reverse of diaper. Payback’s a bitch. But don’t worry, it’ll all come back around with this kid in a few decades.

  When your baby starts teething and accidentally bites you, bite him back so he learns his lesson.

  Take the time to mourn your “old life.” Because things will never be the same again.

  After the last pieces of pink tissue paper and blue ribbon fall to the floor, I’m speechless. Not just at the generosity of all these women, but at the fact that I now feel completely and totally unfit to be a mom based on all of the anti-advice other mindless bits of wisdom imparted upon me. Everything is so horrifically overwhelming. And like I’ve been struck by a lightning bolt, I realize that it’s only a few short months before all of these items will be put to good use.

  My eyes well up, and before I know it, unexpected tears spill over, and I’m one hot mess of runny mascara and snot. I try to say, “Thank you so much, I’m sorry for crying,” but the only words that come out are, “Spank chew doe muck, yam car pee for buyin,” as my shoulders quake uncontrollably. I haven’t cried this hard since I saw that insurance commercial where the girl had her couch stolen from her bachelorette pad. Don’t judge me— it was a really sweet couch.

  My mother rushes to my side and offers me a handkerchief from her purse. I dab the edges of my eyes, trying to maintain some sense of femininity. But it’s no use. Big, fat, ugly tears stream down my face in droves, and when I finally look up, I can see judgments being passed around like free condoms at a women’s clinic, so I voice exactly what they’re all probably thinking.