by Kat T. Masen
“Society has moved on from moo-moos, and I’m sure there’s some pregnant celebrity out there showing off their hip pregnancy line of clothes. Have a look online and buy yourself some stuff, okay?”
Standing up and grabbing my keys plus phone off the nightstand, I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “You’re gorgeous. You’ve got that pregnancy glow.”
Clearly frustrated, she exhales loudly making her frustration known so all of the building can hear her. If it isn’t that, it’s this annoying song she has on repeat. I can’t get the damn lyrics out of my head, and all I want before work is a Pina Colada.
“That’s vomit glow. Why am I even gaining weight when I can’t hold anything down? Argh, whatever… listen, just go to work.”
I hate leaving her for the fourth night in a row, but my roster this week has been switched due to a colleague contracting the stomach flu. And to be honest, Zoey’s self-pity moods are tiresome.
Here’s the thing, Zoey nee’ Richards is and always has been this incredibly beautiful creature with an insanely quirky persona which makes me fall in love with her even more despite my distaste for ‘80s nostalgia.
Through the course of our relationship, she has blossomed into this mature woman. Aside from recently trimming her hair into a shorter bob style and coloring it an ash brown—claiming it makes her skin look smoother and takes years off her face—her body has peaked. Morning runs and time spent with me at the gym working on her core muscles does amazing things for her physique and especially her confidence.
But take all that away, and I love her for who she is no matter how she appears physically.
I try not to overwhelm her with my praises, but the truth is, I’m damn proud of her. She started her own business, went back to studying to build on her knowledge and skill set, and most importantly, she doesn’t have to work with any sleazes who will attempt to get their dirty hands on her.
But, every beautiful rose has its thorns, and Zoey’s thorns are coming out in full force.
It’s been a month since our ultrasound, and given that it seems like sufficient time to process the news of having twins, I pray every day that Zoey will get into the swing of motherhood and embrace the pregnancy.
Wrong.
She’s nothing like the other pregnant women I’ve been around, always moaning about the things she can no longer do and quote, ‘my vagina isn’t built to be Disneyland. Everyone’s queuing up to go on the ride of their life.’
I mean, who can believe we’ll have twins? Given both my parents have passed, I’m not sure of my heritage or if there were twins in the family, but Zoey’s mom, Lucille, has confirmed that her aunty is a twin, and there lies the connection.
Finding out we are pregnant is this huge shock. All right, look, I admit we lost track of cycles, and I refuse to wear a condom. The woman is so damn delicious that I want every part of her—bareback.
But finding out I’ll soon be a dad gives me this sense of hope. I miss my dad terribly, and in many ways, the Lord has blessed us with not only one but two miracle babies.
In ways, and not admitting it has affected me, I purposely keep myself busy at the hospital. Being a surgeon means long hours most days, but every few days, I just stay back and catch up on paperwork.
Leaving Zoey to spend the night working on a design she has to pitch this week, I have a good thirty minutes to spare before prepping for an aortic valve replacement.
Our break room is just right of the main desk, it’s small and can only fit four of us comfortably. Doctors, nurses, and other staff generally hang out here for a quick break before prepping.
“Drew, sweetheart, you’ve got to let her process this longer.” Dorothy, our oldest and most senior nurse, dips her cookie into her tea before taking a nibble. “Lord knows I was a hormonal mess with my first pregnancy. My husband would hide away in his shed and tinker with his cars to avoid me.”
“But you went on to have six more kids,” I point out.
“Because you forget everything. You forget the morning sickness, the aching back, the horrendous births and remember that soft bundle of joy in your arms falling asleep so peacefully.”
“Zoey said this is it for kids. She wants me to get the snip.”
Dorothy laughs, relaxing her shoulders moments later. “That’s what all pregnant women say. Trust me, it’ll pass. Just let her be. Whatever she needs, give it to her.”
I don’t want to admit that it’s half the battle. I want to help her, but she will never let me. Apparently, I’m treating her like an invalid. And the worst part is, she looks so sexy with that pregnancy glow on her skin. Her tits have become fuller, and her stomach has popped out but nothing too noticeable. I want to make love to her for countless hours, but she complains about being tired, being sick, and calling me a selfish asshole.
“You make it sound simple.”
Dorothy pushes her chair back, tidying the small round table, and stopping momentarily to pat my shoulder. “Happy wife, happy life,” she humors me. “Words to live by.”
The twenty-fourth hour has officially clicked over.
The surgery took longer than expected with a few complications which extended the time needed. By the end of it, the patient’s doing well, and my shift is well over so I head home.
Removing the keys from my gym bag and inserting them into the door, the stupid lock plays stubborn and refuses to open. The door swings wide open, my body falling forward and almost crashing into Zoey.
“Yay, you’re home,” she exclaims, a smile gracing her refreshed face.
Pulling the key out of the lock, I close the door behind me as Zoey retrieves my gym bag and places it on the floor before heading into the living room. She knows I prefer a clean and organized home which means the gym bag goes in the hall closet, not on the floor.
“Come, come.” Zoey motions for me to move quicker, and with my feet feeling like dead weight from the hours of standing on them, I can’t move any faster.
“Ta-da!”
The room is spotless. Books which are normally scattered on the coffee table are placed on top of each other with a small wicker basket beside them and something floral sitting inside.
The cushions are positioned perfectly, Zoey’s favorite Friends Central Perk pillow in front. Upon examining the television unit, the shelves and surfaces are dust-free. There’s even a candle burning on the side table expelling an apple-cinnamon scent.
“You cleaned,” I mouth, stunned.
“I didn’t just clean. I cleaned, cleaned,” she sings, proudly. “Did you know that over one hundred thousand dust mites can live in a single square yard of carpet?”
“Um, yes… but, babe… this is very unlike you to clean.”
She nods in agreement motioning for me to sit when all I want to do is shower. I decide to sit, listen, and remember Dorothy’s wise words.
Zoey sits beside me resting on her knees while hugging a cushion. “So last night, I was forming a pity party and watching Baby Boom. Have you ever seen that movie?”
Great—another old movie. I shake my head continuing to listen while praying I don’t fall asleep during her story. I have done this countless times. The woman can talk forever about the most mundane things like why was Rose so selfish in the Titanic movie. The piece of wood could have fit both of them. That conversation I actually fell asleep through which caused a big argument regarding my lack of communication.
“Right, so Diane Keaton is this thriving career woman and inherits this toddler, and her life just becomes a big shamble. You know, she struggles to balance her career and the kid. Anyway, she then moves to the country and becomes successful producing this apple baby food. So, I got to thinking—”
“You’re going to quit your job as an architect and sell baby food?” I interrupt.
“No,” she puffs, obviously annoyed at my confusion. “I need to branch out.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“See, being an architect means long and quiet hours
concentrating on drawings, blueprints, you know, all that,” she informs me. “But realistically, I can’t do that with twins, so I think I’ll have to cut those hours down but still invest my spare time into something that will grow my business.”
I let out a long-winded yawn. “So, what is it?”
She scratches the top of her head. “That part I don’t know yet. I just came up with the plan. I haven’t figured out the smaller details.”
“Then why the cleaning spree?” I ask, confused.
“I’m not sure. I just thought if I cleaned up, the idea would come to me, but it didn’t.”
“Um… and the dust mites?”
“An ad on Insta after I Googled ‘which way should you hold the duster.’
I place my hand on her knee, squeezing it gently. The exhaustion hits me in waves, and this candle does nothing but make it worse. I’m torn between wanting to sleep and eat.
“Drew, I’m sorry I’ve been this bitch. I promise to get my shit together.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” I ease her concerns, keeping my voice low. “You’re pregnant.”
“I know. Still…”
We both sit in silence. Our thoughts we keep to ourselves follow the same path. Soon, our world will change for the better but not without chaos. Everything we do, everything we feel will be dictated by the two humans consuming us.
These rare, precious moments of just the two of us are moments to cherish. I love my wife, and a part of me, somewhat selfish, doesn’t want to share her with anyone.
Through the blinds the sun begins to rise, the sweet rays bouncing off our off-white walls. It’s officially Sunday, my favorite day of the week. Zoey doesn’t need to go into the office, and I don’t have a shift for another twelve hours. Pushing my exhaustion aside, I remember a moment from the past deciding to share my thoughts with her.
“There was this one time when Jess was over, and you guys got into a fight. I was angry, livid, and told myself I’d marry you and knock you up just so he didn’t.”
Zoey grins, resting her hand on my shoulder. “You said that?”
“Well, to myself. I hated him. And God… I had feelings for you back then but never acted—”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I nod.
“I look back a lot, usually when I’m engrossed in reading some angsty romance novel and waiting for these two characters to actually hook up. Anyway, I keep reminiscing about us, you know, pre-hook-up days. And I think about all the sexual tension between us. Like, you were always throwing your sexual innuendos around, but I was like ‘whatever, you’re just doing that to annoy me.’”
I chuckle, remembering how much I did annoy her. “I was doing that to annoy you. But, I’d be lying if I said I never thought about us.”
“And look at us now…”
“Look at us now.”
“Drew,” Zoey whispers, running her hands along my chest, stirring the desire which I keep holding back since she isn’t interested in anything that involves my dick near her. “I just need you.”
She doesn’t need to say any words.
My wife needs me here, now, and forever.
This is her way of telling me to get my damn clothes off super-fast and make crazy love to her.
Happy wife equals happy life, right?
Zoey
The first trimester is the longest three months of my life.
According to this book I’m currently reading, to understand the development of a baby, you best compare it to a piece of fruit. At sixteen weeks, I’m carrying an avocado—times two.
Sure, an avocado is smaller than a watermelon, but there’s no chance in hell I can push one, let alone two, out of my vagina.
Thankfully, the cycle of nausea has eased. One minute, I love the smell of fresh pineapple, the next, I projectile vomit giving Linda Blair a run for her money. Like I said, the longest three months of my life.
Aside from telling Mom and Dad, we decide to keep the pregnancy quiet until it becomes difficult because of my weight gain. Ironic, since I can’t hold a thing down.
Dad is being typical Dad—proud and rambling on about his grandkids’ future fishing trips to the lake near where I grew up. If they’re anything like the fishing trips he took me on back in the ‘90s, I say payback is sweet. If they’re wreaking havoc in my uterus for the next five months, they can endure Dad and his stories about his two-mile walk to school every day and how he got beaten up by some kid who stole his ball and jacks.
Mom is no better. Going from speaking on the phone once a month, she calls me daily, coincidentally at eight at night when I take my prenatal vitamins. My God, the woman can talk on and on about articles she reads, food I should or should not eat, and telling me the same story over and over again about how she carried me, and I turned her off to having more children. Great story to hear when you’re a hormonal mess.
I crave solitude. Since I work for myself and have a small office downtown, I can escape daily and throw myself into working for new clients. I have taken on a huge project just outside of town, building a ranch property for a high-profile celebrity.
Keeping myself busy with work takes my mind off the pregnancy and all the weird things my body is now doing. Take, for instance, heartburn. I’ve never had it in my life. And don’t get me started on the untimely gases that choose to leave my body without warning. It’s times like this that I’m grateful for an office on the ground floor because elevators are a death trap for others riding with me.
Drew tells me to slow it down, that I have plenty of time to wrap things up. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. The guy is a workaholic. The only reason I don’t get all five-stage clinger on his ass is because he’s saving lives. I’m selfish but not that selfish.
After dedicating much of my adulthood to my career, giving it up once the babies come doesn’t seem like such an easy thing to do. I wrack my brain trying to think of ways to expand so I can work from home more, but nothing I come up with works.
So back to square one of my failed plan.
Drew and I barely have time for each other these days. Conflicting schedules and crazy hours are his life due to the hospital being short-staffed. I knew this would be our life once we married. It’s never going to slow down. We do, however, make an effort to take small road trips when we can, a few day trips to the mountains, and once a month we schedule one day at home to binge-watch movies, but that’s all pre-babies.
I can’t ask for a better husband, but Drew is overbearing at the best of times. You’d think I’d have seen it coming since we’d been roomies since forever, but he takes it to a whole other level. Mom and him combined are annoying the living daylights out of me, to the point that I walk out of the room leaving them to pick out which breast pump is the best on the market. I feel like a human experiment. Breast pump? The thought of whacking out the girls in public terrifies me. Occasionally, I have witnessed mothers breastfeeding with that blanket covering them. They look like they have it all under control. Knowing my luck, the blanket will fall right off, and my nipples will be swaying around spraying everyone with milk like a loose fire-hydrant hose.
The only thing I can do is block out the noise of other people’s opinions and seek joy in the very few things that still make me happy such as tonight’s tickets to The Best of the ‘80s. Belinda Carlisle, Tiffany, Bananarama, and too many others to name.
I flatly refuse to bring Drew along—his aversion to anything from this era has almost cost us our marriage. However, my best friend, Mia, is the perfect date. Pregnant or not, I’ll be making an appearance and dancing the night away.
Mia arrives promptly at three wearing black tights with an oversized Whitney Houston tee and sparkling white Reeboks. Her ebony hair is teased and compliments her fluorescent pink earring hoops that fall past her jawline.
We plan to get there early by beating the peak traffic, grab a bite to eat, then take our seats and catch all the opening acts.
Inside the car, Mia connects her phone and chooses her ‘80s’ playlist to get us in the mood.
“Girl, you look amazing. Love the Footloose shirt.”
I lower my head, tugging on my shirt at the same time. There isn’t much choice in my wardrobe, and thank God this still fits me. Throw in the maternity tights I found at Target and some pink ballet flats, I have to admit I’m pretty comfortable. The crimped hair is just an added bonus courtesy of Mom’s hoarding. She found my crimper in some old box stored in the attic. I’m shocked it still works and didn’t burn the place down with some electrical hazard.
“Thanks, you look great, too. I’m so excited. What do you think they’ll open with?”
I can barely contain my excitement, bouncing in the passenger seat hoping to make it to the venue without a restroom stop.
“Oh…” Mia sighs. “Tough choice. I’m thinking Belinda, Heaven is a Place on Earth?”
“Yes. Or maybe even Summer Rain. It’s such an underrated song.”
Mia nods in agreement before cussing like a sailor at some moron who has cut us off.
My phone beeps in my lap, the notification gracing my screen, and no surprises it’s Mr. Overbearing.
Drew: Did you take a rain poncho? What if it rains and you get pneumonia?
Me: It’s indoors… take a chill pill.
Drew: Oh. What about your vitamins? Did you take them today?
Me: Yes, doctor. I also bent over, and the nice doctor stuck something in my ass. I think I’m good for today. Thank you for your concern.
Drew: You’re an annoying wife. Have fun.
With a satisfied smile, I place my phone into my small sequined purse and zip it shut.
“Let me guess, Doctor Drew disapproves that his wife is partying hard at a concert,” Mia teases.
“Mia, he’s getting on my nerves. Mom and he are shopping for breast pumps together. Does that not scream awkward? They’re both driving me insane.”