2.
Read new US Weekly.
3.
Blog about suggestions for items to include while packing hospital bag.
4.
Check e-mail.
5.
Name child.
6.
Nap (although I’ve done this so often, Jake’s referred to the ninth month as the “dormant period”).
7.
Call Jake and whine how I’m still pregnant.
8.
Screen Marianne’s and Natalie’s calls.
9.
Pack hospital bag.
10.
Hysterically cry when Jake questions items included in hospital bag.
11.
Try to forget article I read about woman who had a fourteen-pound baby.
12.
Stop reading news stories about widows. I had a soul-crushing panic attack last night about what I’d do if Jake died and I became a single mother. Again, I thought back to the turtle story and realized I’d have to get remarried immediately, to provide the child with a parent who probably won’t accidentally kill it. I also forbade Jake from driving after dark or when there’s rain, snow, or fog.
13.
Go into labor.
Friday, January 4
No baby yet. I think Jake is starting to give up hope that he’s ever coming out.
I woke up late last night to pee again, and saw the light on in the nursery as I walked to the bathroom. My bladder forced me to go to the bathroom first before I went inside. Then I pushed open the door to the nursery and found Jake, standing next to the crib, staring at it.
“What are you doing in here?” I said, and shielded my eyes from the light.
“Just picturing him in here,” he said softly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “When’s he going to come? I’m sick of waiting.”
“I know. Me too. Believe me. Soon, hopefully.” I leaned against his chest. “Let’s go to bed.”
“In a minute,” he said. He released me and sat down in the fluffy chenille armchair we put in the corner of the room. He held out his hand for me. I reached over and snuggled beside him in the armchair, wedging my belly between us. Skeletor immediately woke up and started pushing against Jake.
“You’re smashing him,” I said.
“That’s OK. Just for a minute,” he said.
I closed my eyes and Skeletor settled down.
The three of us fell asleep until morning.
Saturday, January 5
I’ve had my share of embarrassing public moments. When I was waiting in line in high school to get my senior portrait taken, I suddenly and unexpectedly got my period, ruining my favorite pair of pants. In college, when I wore a new dress just a wee bit too small to Jake’s fraternity formal, my boob popped out like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day in the middle of a story. When I went on my very first post-college interview, I got out of my car and slipped on some podlike leaf creation and slid halfway underneath my car, exposing my white granny panties and ruining my brand-new suit. Oh, and the president of the company witnessed it since his office faced the parking lot.
Shit, I’m even good at inadvertently embarrassing other people in public, starting with when I was five and my mom took me to Neiman Marcus and I knocked over a mannequin. Smashed body parts littered the shoe section and we were asked to leave. Reese will never forget when we were college freshmen and went to Kappa, the hot guy fraternity. She whispered to me to act like we belonged right before I tripped and tumbled down an enormous staircase while wearing a black skirt and knee-high boots. Apparently at one point during the fall, my feet were behind me and I was surfing headfirst down the stairs. We didn’t get invited back. Reese was not happy.
I thought all these years of public humiliation would be just a precursor to a great climax involving my water breaking all over the five-thousand-dollar couches at Pottery Barn and giving birth on the Amherst dining table surrounded by Voluminous Vases.
But no.
I gleefully and expectantly dragged my ass from place to place today, positive I was going to feel a pop and a burst and look down and see fluid pouring from my nether regions. And I would’ve welcomed the humiliation, thank you very much. I traipsed through the grocery store, Target, Nordstrom, and Bed Bath & Beyond.
Nothing.
Finally, in a last-ditch effort, I went to Taco Bell and loitered around like a drug-dealing teenager. Still nothing.
All I managed to accomplish today was seeing the doctor. I tried to limit my food intake before the appointment, to avoid the scale getting pushed farther and farther to the right, into the “Fat Ass” numbers, but it didn’t work. I gained three pounds this week for a grand total of forty-five pounds. To add insult to injury, Dr. Clarke told me I haven’t progressed at all so she fully expects to see me next week.
I am now drowning my sorrows in a Burrito Supreme.
Oh, and to everyone at The Daily Tribune: I hate you.
That is all.
Sunday, January 6
My due date.
Well.
Huh.
Excerpts of some e-mails I’ve gotten:
If you haven’t had that baby yet, you should really try drinking castor oil.
—MCK89
Are you scared about labor? Like, the pain and stuff?
—Emily4.0
Please, please can I be in the delivery room when you give birth?
—Wifey1025
How much wait u gained? 50 pounds?
—jen2485
I had my son at forty-two weeks.
—CincyJane
What’s the point of even having a due date if it’s not right? Why don’t they just call it: “I have no idea so I’m going to close my eyes and whatever date my finger lands on is when your child may or may not vacate your body.”
Am I bitter about this whole no-progress shit? Fuck no. I hope I’m pregnant another month. Scratch that, another nine months.
It didn’t help that this morning I woke up, looked down, and saw my stomach had exploded with stretch marks. Deep, angry red lines now radiate from my belly button. Those, coupled with the fabulous new spider veins on my legs, are making me feel just great about myself. This kid better come soon, or else my body is going to look like I survived a knife fight. Forget wearing a bikini ever again, I’ll be lucky if I can wear shorts. I’ll be like my grandmother, who wears double-knit pants to the beach.
My phone’s also been ringing nonstop. Julie rambled on and on about how she thinks it’s over with Hot Dr. Ben since she found out last night he thinks Tara Reid is hot and ew. I’m suspicious if it also has anything to do with the fact one of his friends asked her what her parents do for a living and looked disgusted when she told him her dad’s a truck driver. Reese told me Matt bought her a two-carat anniversary ring but she’s not sure if he did it just out of guilt. Marianne called to again ask me when she can stay with us after the baby’s born. (How about never? Are you free then?) My mom called to “reassure” me since Sam was ten days overdue and then Sam got on the phone and asked me if I was freaked out about labor because “You know, it’s supposed to be the worst pain you will ever feel.” Thanks, very helpful.
I think I’m going to give birth by myself in a field to escape all of these freaks.
Never one to wait patiently, I’ve started Googling ways to make labor start, none of which are possible because (a) spicy food will make me hurl and unless this baby’s coming out of my mouth, no thanks; (b) there’s no way I want to have sex right now. I don’t know what whale sex looks like, but I’m sure it would be pretty close; and (c) walking around is painful and makes me gasp for breath. Besides, a Judge Judy marathon is on.
But if smelling excessive amounts of cat urine is a catalyst for labor, it should be any day now since Butterscotch is all, “I love peeing in that other room. Thanks for always forgetting to close the door.”
Monday, January 7
While lying around, feeling very
sorry for myself today, I got the phone call I’d been waiting for. Kyle Tiesdale called to let me know the status of my Daily Tribune submissions.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I was in Mexico over the holidays.”
“Oh, no big deal. So what’s the situation?”
“Well, I talked to my editor.”
“OK . . .” I was dying, dying.
“She loved your pieces.”
“She did?” I jumped up and started pacing around the room. Well, I moved as quickly as my fat pregnant self would allow.
“Yes, she did. We’d like to bring you on as a guest columnist.”
“Shut up!” Not my most professional moment, but true to character.
“Now, it would just be an occasional piece, not a full-time job or anything. The pieces would be centered around the challenges of being a new mom.”
“New mom?” I stopped.
“Yes, the fears, worries, anxieties, joy, etc.”
“I don’t know anything about being a mom.”
Kyle started laughing. “That’s the point. We all feel that way.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Positive. We love your voice.”
“OK, when would my first article appear?”
“We’ll figure all of that out after you finally have that baby. Are you taking three months’ maternity leave?”
“Yes, but I can work on the articles before I go back to work.”
“We can figure all of that out soon. Let’s talk in another two weeks or so, OK?”
“OK, Kyle. Thanks so much for this opportunity.”
“Absolutely.”
I hung up the phone and sank down on the couch. I enjoyed the quiet moment and rested my hand on Butterscotch. I listened to him purring and the crackle of excitement in the air before I picked up the phone again and started dialing everyone I’d ever met.
OK. So I’m going to be a journalist, with a real-live newspaper column. A journalist who talks about mom and baby things. I’m going to be just like Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City, except my writing will be a lot less about sex and more about diapers and crap.
Tuesday, January 8
I felt horrible today. I lay around all day like a big fat sloth, periodically getting up to pee or shove another cookie into my mouth. As an added bonus, I had painful false labor contractions, a fun precursor. In my opinion, false labor contractions are completely unnecessary. I already know labor is going to be a bitch, okay? I don’t need a reminder.
I finally whined to Jake enough on the phone and he came home after lunch.
All day long, the contractions continued sporadically. Every time I’d have one, Jake would sit straight up and stare at me, to which I would wave my hand dismissively because please. I so will know when I’m in labor.
It wasn’t until we started watching old episodes of Real World that I realized the contractions were twenty minutes apart. I kept my mouth shut because I was positive they would stop and I could watch Access Hollywood uninterrupted. But no, right as a juicy segment on Brangelina came on, another one of those fuckers came. I looked at Jake and said, “Maybe. But don’t get your hopes up. They’ll probably stop now that I’ve said it.”
He nodded and casually got up, carefully placing his Sports Illustrated on the coffee table, and slowly walked toward the bedroom. As soon as he was out of sight, I heard him rushing around and banging his drawers open and shut. I rolled my eyes, still positive I was going to be right there on the couch in two hours, watching Law & Order: SVU.
Once they hit ten minutes apart, I wordlessly began walking around the apartment, cleaning up the never-ending puddles of cat pee, vacuuming, and painting my nails.
Then, they were seven minutes apart.
I took a shower, blow-dried and flat-ironed my hair. Then I trimmed my cuticles.
“This can’t be it. We don’t even have a name yet,” I said to Jake. “I don’t think the baby cares,” he said as he grabbed my hand while I winced in pain.
“No. He does. I know it,” I said as I exhaled. “How the hell am I supposed to breathe? You know, like that Lamaze crap? What am I supposed to do? Why didn’t we take birthing classes like your mom said?”
Labor officially made me a madwoman. One who agreed with my mother-in-law.
“I asked but you said you didn’t think you needed—” He stopped when he saw a look of fiery anger flash across my eyes. “Never mind. Um, um . . . just breathe slowly.”
We sat on the floor in front of the television, silent. I intermittently scrunched my face and tried to breathe as Jake clutched my hand.
“OW!” I yelled.
“What? Is the baby coming? Oh, shit! Is it coming out right now?” Jake jumped up and eyed my pants.
“Yes, it’s coming out right now. Catch it. No, you dork. You were squeezing my hand so hard my engagement ring dug into my knuckle.”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, and sat back down.
Five minutes apart.
Jake and I looked at each other and shrugged, smiling goofy, crooked smiles. We called Dr. Clarke, who gave us the go-ahead to go to the hospital, which immediately caused me to go into raving freak-out mode.
“Where’s my hospital bag? Where’s my purse? Where’s the checkbook? Where are my shoes? Where’s my makeup? I need to update the Internet! They’ll be worried!”
It was like one of those dreams where my house is burning down and I only have a few minutes to save a few things.
When Jake finally wrestled a six-pack of bottled water out of my hands, promising the hospital had modern amenities such as running water, and swore he would update the Internet from his laptop at the hospital, I gave up and got into the car.
We called my parents and arrived at the hospital, where we were given a room. One of the nurses, whom I dubbed Nurse Shithead because her bedside manner consisted of berating me for not taking birthing classes, came in and asked me to fill out an admitting form. I paused when I got to “weight.”
“What’s wrong?” Jake asked, sweating profusely.
“Is it OK to lie?” I wondered out loud.
“About what?” Jake said, and tried to turn the form toward himself.
“My weight.”
“No, you should tell the truth,” he said emphatically.
“Crap,” I said. I wrote the number down in very tiny, dotlike script, shielding the paper with my hand.
“Lemme see.” Jake grabbed for the paper again.
“No way.” I jerked my hand away.
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” I said, and held the paper over my head.
“What is this horseplay?” Nurse Shithead appeared at the door, sternly glaring at us.
“Uh, nothing. Just filling out the form,” I mumbled like a scolded child, and pretended to study the form some more.
“Done?” She held out her hand.
“Yep,” I said. I offered the form while glaring at Jake.
“I’m going to check you,” Nurse Shithead said, and motioned with her hand. I wasn’t sure what that meant until she sat down on the side of the bed. Jake looked away and pretended to check his e-mail on his BlackBerry.
I was four centimeters.
Another nurse walked in and started hooking me up to a bunch of beeping machines. At this point, I became terrified and just wanted to go home. I started wondering why I thought home births were for hippies and freaks when Nurse Shithead told me, “Sit up and stop screwing around.”
And then a contraction came and I felt like the wind got knocked out of me and I thought, Oh, yes, this is why I’m in a hospital—drugs.
“When can I get the epidural?” I asked miserably, hoping if I sounded pathetic enough she’d feel sorry for me.
“Not yet,” she said, and snapped off her gloves and walked out.
I looked at Jake and my eyes started to water. He kissed my hand and rubbed my shoulder. I reminded him of his promi
se to update the Internet and he pulled out his computer. He posted an entry about being at the hospital and he would update as soon as Skeletor was born. Immediately, new e-mails began pinging into my inbox, but Jake shut the laptop before I could wrestle it out of his hands.
He turned on the television and flipped on Monday Night Football. Just as I was about to yell at him this was one time when watching sports was NOT OK, my mom walked in. Seeing her instantly saturated me with relief. She hugged me and promised to get me a cup of water, no matter what Nurse Shithead said with her “No Fluids Ever” policy.
I could hear her out in the hallway talking to the nurses. They weren’t relenting.
“I’m sure it will be OK, I used to be a nurse. I know how this works,” she said in a condescending voice. They relented but said they wouldn’t be responsible for whatever happened. (Like what? If I spilled it everywhere and ruined my fashionable hospital gown decorated with honeybees? If I used the water as a weapon and threw it at Nurse Shithead?)
The anesthesiologist came in shortly after and gave me the epidural. Originally, I was somewhat freaked out at the idea of a needle going into my spine, but at that point I was all, “Put it wherever you want it. In my eye? OK, sounds reasonable. Just make this pain stop!”
After the epidural, Jake and I fell asleep for a while and my mom went down to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Well, at least I slept. I think Jake stayed awake and watched football for a while.
The second shift of nurses started and we traded Nurse Shithead for Ms. No Habla Inglés, who spoke zero English and just nodded her head to everything.
“How many centimeters am I now?”
Nod.
“Is it time to push?”
A Bump in the Road Page 28