Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  Gross. I shake my head at the mental image and shift in my seat. “I’m sure my OB won’t give a damn either way.” I shrug, trying to brush off the subject.

  “Oh, come on. It’s common courtesy. You should get a Brazilian blowout before it’s too late. Lord knows you can’t see anything south of the equator even if you wanted to trim and keep things tidy.”

  I divert my eyes to the other side of the room trying to remember the last time I even attempted to take care of things. Jeff hasn't complained, and frankly, ignorance is bliss. Besides, I’ve never been one to tolerate the pain of waxing. The one time I had it done back in college, I jumped so I high I grabbed the ceiling tiles as an earsplitting Michael Jackson “Ow!” escaped my lips.

  “Based on the disgust drawn all over your face, this is news to you. I’m going to call and make an appointment for tomorrow. We’ll grab lunch, run some errands, and get you some new hardwood floors.”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to do that, Tara. Really.” I know my effort is futile. Once she sets her mind on something, we're all just along the ride.

  “Nonsense. And don’t even think about the pain. It’ll pale in comparison to childbirth. Think of it as your pre-birth warm up.”

  Oh, God. I completely forgot about the white hot searing pain that comes with hair follicles being yanked from one of the most sensitive spots on the body. It took me months to block the memory of the one and only time I got waxed. There is no way in hell she’s taking me to get waxed again tomorrow. Besides, I’d probably end up peeing all over the table.

  “Anyway,” I emphasize, trying to change the subject. Everyone is so keen on talking about my vagina these days, I’ve nearly become immune to it, but I’m still trying to lose the visual she just created for me. “I’ve been so preoccupied with getting everything together for the baby, I don’t think I told you Jeff got a job offer. Two job offers, actually.”

  “Really? That’s so awesome. I knew he’d land back on his feet quickly.”

  “Well, his newfound fame from that little viral video stunt you pulled came in handy.”

  I watch as her jaw drops and the corners of her lips curl up in a subtle, wicked smile. “Shut up. No way.”

  “Yeah,” I say, still in disbelief. “Apparently the gal who came across his resume in Human Resources recognized the name from TV and thought he was hilarious. She put him at the top of the candidate pool once she saw his work credentials, and the team loved Jeff during the interview process.”

  “What's not to love about Jeff?”

  I can think of a few things. Like his inability to put dirty underwear in the basket instead of on the floor next to the hamper, or how he leaves soda cans upside down in the sink rather than toss them out, but I bite my tongue because Lord knows I’m not perfect either. But still, I love him because of his flaws, and in spite of them.

  “Absolutely nothing. He’s perfect. He's my lobster.” I beam, referencing one of my favorite lines from Friends.

  “The One with the Prom Video,” Tara exclaims triumphantly. “Season two, episode fourteen.”

  I cock an eyebrow, unsure if I should be impressed or intimidated.

  “Oh, come on. You didn't know that?”

  I shake my head.

  She puts her fist on her side and cocks her hip with attitude. “On second thought, if we want to have any chance of winning trivia night, I should probably draft you up the season by season CliffNotes for Friends.”

  CLEAN UP IN AISLE TWO

  “When you invited me out for lunch, this was not what I had in mind.”

  I carefully climb down from the front seat of Tara’s SUV and place my hands on my hips, trying to stretch out my back. I look up at the towering warehouse above me, and my eyes narrow in on the oversized Costco sign.

  “Oh, quit complaining. We’re killing two birds with one stone. Your cute pregnant ass couldn’t make up its mind about what it wanted to eat, and I needed to get some shopping done for the monster squad. Costco has food samples in nearly every aisle. It’s a win for both of us. Then, when we're done, we'll head over to the Beehive Salon to wax that Bieber of yours.”

  I smile at her monster squad comment and ignore the rest. She knows just how much I hate calling the female lady bits a beaver, so she's grown akin to calling it a Bieber. Fitting since both are hairy little pussies.

  Tara’s triplet boys are in their ferocious fours and tear everything apart. Literally everything. Last week I walked in and found the inside fluff of her couch cushions scattered across the floor like a giant cloud because of a game of ‘Hot and Cold’ gone wrong. The small dinosaur figurine was hidden underneath the couch and not inside the back pillow like Jack had assumed. Tara has had many babysitters quit on her after one night because they can’t keep up with the F5 tornado that is Jack, Miles, and Wes. Mini monsters, they most certainly are, and it makes me excited about having a monster squad of my own with Jeff.

  Just not three.

  And not all at once.

  Tara and I eat our way through Costco, stopping at nearly every single sample station for a taste. It’s surprisingly more fun than it sounds and they have a killer selection. The fried macaroni and cheese balls in the frozen food section have been my favorite, hands down—though I would never admit that to her.

  My nose curls up when I sample some spinach artichoke dip that was secretly laced with habanero peppers. No doubt this kiddo will make me pay for that later.

  “Quit making that face, Henley. This isn’t that bad.”

  “What do you have against sit-down dining? When you sold me on a girl’s day out, parading around the aisles searching for bulk toilet paper and a bag of one hundred forty-four count nuggets isn’t at all what I had in mind.”

  “Oh, come on, where else can you taste chicken fingers, cheese spread, fruit snacks, and a Swedish meatball all in the same meal?”

  I love how she keeps reiterating this whole extravaganza like it’s fine dining. “Um, I dunno, any middle school cafeteria in the Kansas City metropolitan area?”

  “Touche.”

  This is what I get for having a free lunch on her. I really should know better by now. This is hardly lunch, and there is certainly nothing free about this experience. Judging by the contents of my cart, I probably have two hundred dollars worth of impulse food purchases here, most of which is in the form of fifteen different kinds of cookies. I really shouldn’t be shopping on a mostly empty stomach.

  We make our way through a few more aisles in silence, pausing to toss in random basics like a gallon of mayonnaise and a jar of taco seasoning the size of my head. Whatever she plans on making with the contents of her cart, I definitely want to steer clear from.

  “So how are things going with you and Cameron? I can only imagine how little time you two actually get to spend together with the boys running around all over the place.”

  “Oh, you know. It’s the same old, same old. We’ve mastered the art of the five-minute quickie in the laundry room while the kids fight over their toys. It’s super romantic.” Tara grins. I know she’s happy and wouldn’t change a thing, but I can’t even imagine the chaos that is her life now.

  “But I don’t want to talk about me today. Tell me what’s going on with you and Jeff. I’m really happy you found each other, and that things are working out better than you imagined. He’s a really good guy, Hen. I mean … shit. Imagine what your life would be like if you married that muscle-clad, limp dick, Tommy? Or Charlie? Or what’s his name? That tall drink of water with the thick-rimmed glasses? Ever wonder what happened to those guys?” She grabs a sample taste of a buffalo chicken egg roll as we walk.

  “Not really. But I’m pretty certain Tommy turned out gay, and I’m sure that’s somehow my fault. Charlie was too busy getting high to get a real job and has probably entered some hippie compound where he’s busy fashioning organic bongs out of cow shit. And that tall, four-eyed drink of water? His name was Leo. And he was a Grade A cheese dick.”


  Tara whips her head toward me so fast I’m pretty sure it’s going to snap off her neck. “Oh my gosh, Henley. Could you imagine having a dick literally made of cheese? Holy shit! That would be amazing. I might actually enjoy giving blow jobs for once. Hey — if Jeff had a dick made of cheese, you probably wouldn’t be harboring a bat up there in your bat cave.” She grabs a bag of string cheese and tosses it into the cart making a phallic and inappropriate gesture. Her expression suddenly turns serious, and she tilts her head like she’s about to say something thought-provoking.

  “You know, whoever came up with the phrase ‘it is far better to give than it is to receive’ clearly wasn’t talking about blow jobs.”

  Good point. Though I’ve never really minded them much. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

  Tara shrugs and goes back to her previous thought. “I forgot his name was Leo. He headed out west for med school after breaking your heart, right?”

  “First of all, he didn’t break my heart. He was just my greatest disappointment in spite of his supreme douchebaggery.” I give her a pointed look, trying to push his memory from my mind. After he took my virginity, he grew accustomed to calling me Fire Crotch, like it was a shock that my carpet matched my drapes, and I became so self-conscious that I didn’t sleep with another man until Jeff. Dating Leo was not one of my finer moments.

  “But yeah, I think he ended up at UCLA. Orthopedic surgeon or podiatrist or something.”

  “Huh,” Tara grunts as she hoists a bag of Swedish meatballs roughly the size of Montana into the cart. “You know, that idiot simply couldn’t see how incredible you were. Anyone that blind to your awesomeness probably gets off with braille porn pictures.”

  “Is that even a thing?” I double over in laughter at the sheer stupidity of her last comment. I could totally see Leo finding amusement (and orgasms) in something like that.

  “I don’t know, but it should be.”

  I freeze mid-step, gripping the handlebar of my shopping cart until my knuckles turn white. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Tara whips around then piles on an oversized bag of mixed greens on top of her ever-growing pile of bulk food.

  “I … I think I just peed myself.”

  Tara fights a smile and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Don’t stress about it. All pregnant women pee their pants when they laugh. You get a child. You get some incontinence. Hardly a fair trade if you ask me.”

  “Stop it. I’m being serious.” I wave her off, needing just a moment of space as I try to discreetly assess the damage. “Okay, I think I’m okay.”

  After a few more steps, what I thought was a little trickle of pee turns into a massive gush that is usually reserved for Hollywood rom-com flicks and overdramatic junior high sex-ed videos to scare you into abstinence.

  “Henley, that’s not pee. I think your water just broke.”

  I stand stunned and speechless in the middle of the produce aisle. “Oh … my … God …” My voice is scarily calm, but my insides are running rampant. “What do I do?”

  “Um, what do you think we do? You’re about to have a baby! We go to the hospital.” Tara abandons her cart and grabs my elbow, trying to pull me away from the scene of the crime, but I don’t budge.

  “We can’t just leave … this …” I say, gesturing to the bodily fluids I’m leaving as a parting gift at my friendly, neighborhood Costco store.

  “Um, sure we can.”

  “No, that’s gross. That’s my … my … my stuff.” My eyes dart around the area frantically looking for something, anything, to clean up this mess.

  Tara looks at me incredulously. “You’re overreacting, Henley. You’re about to have a baby, and you’re freaking out over a puddle in a bulk grocery store?”

  “But that’s my puddle. Some poor high school kid barely making minimum wage is going to get stuck slopping up my amniotic fluid with a moldy, worn out mop. I can’t just leave it here.”

  “Yes, you can. And you will.”

  I look around again, hoping for a manager; for someone to flag down and profusely apologize. When I hear the splatter of fluid against the tile, my attention diverts back to the scene of the crime only to find Tara pouring an entire container of chicken broth on the floor, mixing it together like an amniotic soup.

  “There. It’s not as bad. It looks like the carton just exploded. Which is way better than, oh say, your vagina exploding.”

  “My God, does this ever stop?”

  Tara grabs me by the elbow and tries to pull me toward the door. But as she does, her feet slip out from underneath her in all her cartoon-esque glory, and she lands ass first right into the mess.

  She doesn’t even falter.

  “Clean up, aisle two!” my best friend booms, and my face flashes crimson. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

  “Okay, on that note, we can leave this mess behind.”

  DINNER AND A SHOW

  It would be in everyone’s best interest if every woman in labor were given a warning label to stick to her forehead upon arriving at the hospital for her significant other, or hell … even strangers, to read.

  Warning: Highly prone to spontaneous fits of delirium, irrational logic, and violent, unpredictable mood swings. This individual has been sober, swollen and hungry for the past nine months, so proceed with caution and handle with care. Anything said during the course of labor and delivery should not be taken seriously. Side effects may last up to eighteen years. Please consult your physician should castration occur. And never forget, this is all your fault.

  “Jesus Christ on a cracker! Can you get me into a room already?” I growl at the cute, blonde woman working reception as another contraction cripples my body. I thought the two-hour pre-registration seminar we did a few weeks ago was supposed to eliminate me waiting in reception.

  “Simmer down and let the poor woman do her job, Henley.”

  Blondie behind the desk shoots daggers my direction.

  Oh, shit. It’s happening again.

  I grind my teeth and shut my eyes so tightly that little stars begin to appear behind my eyelids. A primitive growl escapes my mouth, and I don’t even recognize myself at this moment. My hands reach out for something … anything … to grab onto, and in the process, my left-hand assaults Tara’s boob, and my right-hand spills over a cup of pens effectively messing up Hospital Reception Barbie’s organization.

  “BIRTHQUAKE!” Tara proclaims at the top of her lungs, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I attempt to hone in on my breathing.

  In with serenity.

  Out with baby bullshit.

  Because really contractions are complete and total bullshit. But focus is one thing I’ve always lacked, and before I know it, I’m unleashing a scream that is akin to the sound of the devil himself trying to claw out of my body. Probably because he is. Only the spawn of Satan could bring this much physical pain. I haven’t even met this child, and while I absolutely love him or her to bits, this kid is kind of being a little asshole. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s been grounded since the second trimester.

  When the moment finally passes, beads of sweat are streaking down my temples, and I’m gasping for air. Everyone in the waiting room is suspended, frozen in time, watching me with their mouth agape.

  I slap my hand down on the counter and my palm stings. I didn’t mean to do it, but I appreciate the theatrics of the thunderous sound. The edges of my mouth curl up maniacally and, in the sweetest voice I can muster, I say, “Now will you get me a room, or should I head out and find myself a freakin’ manger to birth this impending bundle of joy?”

  The woman pushes herself up from the desk and in one swift, glorious hair flip, whisks her tiny frame to the printer behind her, gathers my paperwork, and calls for a nurse. I’m not sure who’s more anxious for me to become someone else’s problem—me or her.

  My money’s on me.

  Within moments, a nurse magically appears in the doorway with a wheelchair, ready to ushe
r me away into motherhood. Or at least the last long, painful stretch of life before becoming a mom.

  “When will Jeff be here?” My tone is whiny, my body aches, and I am so over all this. If he doesn’t make it here soon, he’s going to miss the birth.

  “He should’ve been here by now.” Tara pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket and turns away to dial his number.

  On some levels, I feel bad for Tara. She may be my best friend, but she doesn’t deserve the Jekyll and Hyde whiplash I’ve involuntarily been dishing out. I already told her to go home to her family, but apparently, the dramas of my being in labor are the lesser of two evils when compared to triplet boys. If motherhood is anything like childbirth, I can’t blame her.

  When she returns, she gives me a half smile. “Not too much longer. He stopped somewhere on his way here. Probably for flowers or something.”

  That kind of gesture sounds like something he’d do—come running into the hospital room with his arms overflowing with flowers and balloon bouquets and pink and blue stuffed bears. But this is hardly the time to run errands, even if they come from the best intentions.

  “So for now, you can call me Jeff, pretend that I’m the reason you’re stuck in this mess, and boss my dick around. Now, what can I get you?”

  Even if I can’t muster a laugh, I appreciate her attempt at humor and keeping my mind off of the obvious. “Food. I’d give anything for a cheeseburger right now.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you’re not allowed to eat anything.” Tara tenderly brushes a loose strand from my eyes.

  One of the nurses strolls in with a cup of water and sets it on the side table. “Your, uh, partner is right. You can have some ice chips if you’d like.”

  Tara’s face lights up at the mere mention of ‘partner’, and she leans over and kisses my cheek. “See, honey? She says I’m right. Now when are you going to learn this little fact of life?”

  Just as I’m about to inform her that Tara is actually not my lesbian life partner, another birthquake comes rolling through. It’s hard to not focus on anything but the searing, white hot pain slingshotting out from my vagina from my head all the way down to my pinky toes.