A Bump in the Road (26 page)

Or at least, we did until my parents stopped by a few hours later.

They came over to take us out to dinner and nearly made it out the front door without major incident. That is, until my dad walked into our bedroom and patted it. Hard.

“Looks pretty good!” he said, as he had heard all about the blood, sweat, and promising of Crouton to the devil it took to get it assembled.

He gave it another firm pat and Jake and I simultaneously winced right before one of the holder things on the shelf broke and the entire shelf came crashing down. Thankfully, it wasn’t the piece holding the television up, but the whole thing swayed, as though warning us to NEVER TOUCH ME AGAIN, BITCHES!!!

Point made.

I blame my father’s mistake (not only touching but firmly patting IKEA furniture) on the fact they are in their fifties and out of touch with the furniture trends of the poor.

The IKEA gods seem appeased now. Thank God, because I really do think I need some picture frames. For Crouton’s supermodel-like baby shots, of course.

I thought it would be one of
those
days. One of
those
days when I’d wake up and lie in bed, stare at the pillow next to my cheek, not wanting to twitch a muscle, not wanting to breathe because I knew once I moved, my day had begun. I thought I’d wake up slowly and allow my brain to wrap around the concept I was about to learn the baby’s gender.

But no, I didn’t wake up today with a sense of anticipation. My day began by being yanked out of a yacht in the Mediterranean where that cute guy on
The Office
was rubbing Hawaiian Tropic on my shoulders, by a deafening, panic-stricken sounding “Holy shit!” followed by a minor earthquake as Jake leaped out of bed.

I bolted straight in the air, cruelly ripped away from my European vacation.

I glanced at the clock. It was already 8:16
A.M.
How the hell did we sleep so long this morning?

I had an 8:30 doctor’s appointment before work. The
big
one. Or at least the biggest one so far. The Big One will probably be the one where a human comes out of my body. Apparently, Crouton’s parts are formed enough for us to be able to see and photograph, which sounds gross and almost pedophiliac or something.

Jake kept insisting we keep it a surprise and find out at the birth, but seeing as how I’m the one who actually has to push this thing out, my vote counts as two. Overruled. I’d like to start calling the baby something other than Crouton. Like an actual name or something.

Of course, we haven’t picked a name yet, but I wanted to narrow the field by 50 percent.

Instead of waking up, snuggling closer to Jake, and dreaming about buying teeny-tiny little baby socks, it was as if we were both shot out of a cannon and electrocuted at the same time. No time to shower. We ran around the bathroom, grabbing items out of the medicine cabinet as though we were escaping town before an impending alien invasion.

After seriously injuring a flock of geese and shaking our fists at a blind elderly woman driving a Cadillac, we made it to Dr. Clarke’s office at 8:42
A.M.
Not bad considering my meltdown over Butterscotch vomiting all over the carpet right before we left.

Ten minutes later, I was lubed up and we were staring at grainy pictures of Crouton. Jake commented how much it looked like a snuff film, which I agreed. I also concurred when he mentioned the
extreme size of Crouton’s head. Apparently this is normal, though. I was told all fetuses (feti?) resemble Skeletor from the
He-Man
cartoon on an ultrasound. I was very relieved to hear this, seeing as how I’m not sure how strangers would react to a baby closely resembling He-Man’s nemesis. I mean, I’m sure it would be cute and all but a date for the prom would probably be out.

Yet the resemblance was so uncanny, I immediately changed the baby’s name from Crouton to Skeletor.

The ultrasound technician, a lady named Catalina (like the island and the salad dressing) who was in desperate need of an upper-lip wax, smiled and looked at us. “Do you want to know the sex?”

I glanced at Jake, and silently asked him. He smiled and shook his head. I paused and looked at the screen, at Skeletor the Klingon Spawn. It felt like the moment before smoking the first cigarette after I “quit,” the moment before doing the shot I knew would probably make me puke, the moment before handing over my credit card for the outfit costing more than my rent.

So I paused. But no way was I going to leave without finding out what kind of reproductive organs were forming inside of me.

“YES!” I shouted out. I looked at Jake and he just rolled his eyes and feigned surprise. I knew everything was cool.

“Well, see the legs there? I see three of them!” Catalina said.

We both just stared at her.

“Boy!” she said.

Nothing.

“B-O-Y,” she said very slowly, her upper lip whiskers twitching.

Our cue.

“Oh my God!” I screamed as Jake began immediately mapping out Skeletor’s—I mean Mr. Skeletor’s—future in the NFL. “I win!” I joyfully pumped my fist in the air. “Ha-ha! I knew it was a boy!” I pointed at Jake. “I rule!”

He laughed but couldn’t take his eyes off the ultrasound monitor.

Yes, it’s true. I have a very small penis growing inside of me. Which is sort of strange.

1:35
P.M.

I went back to the office for a few hours until I met Jake for lunch.

“So, a boy.” I smiled at Jake as we settled into a booth at the tiny diner.

“No kidding.” He folded his hands in front of him on the table.

“What do you think?” I studied his face for a reaction.

“I’d be happy either way. I’m just glad he’s healthy and doing well.”

“You don’t have to be politically correct with me. It’s OK to say you’re excited he’s a boy.”

“I’m thrilled he’s a boy, but honestly, I would’ve been thrilled if it were a girl, too.”

“Oh, whatever. You’re so diplomatic,” I teased him, and rolled my eyes. “So, are you finally getting used to the idea that we’re going to have a baby?”

“Well, that helps.” He pointed to my stomach. “But, yeah. I think I am. I think I’m even excited. Screw that, I
am
excited. Some days, completely terrified, but mostly excited.”

“Me too. Isn’t it weird to think in a few months that will be us?” I gestured to a couple across the diner with a baby in a high chair.

“Yes. But it’s also cool, you know what I mean?” He smiled at me earnestly.

“I think I do.” I smiled back at him before I turned my attention to the menu, because
damn
did Mr. Skeletor want to eat.

10:00
P.M.

We never should’ve found out the sex. Our joy lasted a few hours, until we began to call people and tell them the news. Jake, of course, added, “He definitely was a boy, if you know what I mean,” as if he could distinguish between Mr. Skeletor’s arm, neck, or wiener.

Marianne immediately wanted to know if we were going to name the baby Phillip, after her father. Um, no.

My mom wanted to know if we’d “raise him right” and allow him to play with dolls if he wanted and dress him in pink. Yeah, good luck fighting with Jake.

Natalie wanted to know if I was aware boys have a statistically higher chance of birth defects and was I going to get any genetic tests done. Eat shit.

Sam asked if she could borrow my Jimmy Choo boots. No.

Mark said congrats and hung up to watch a recorded episode of
Lost
.

The IT guy asked if I was due next week. Fuck you very much, Joe, now please fix my Internet so I can buy more crap on eBay. And please don’t tell anyone I found a way around the company’s firewall.

Reese said she was running out to Tiffany to buy me something blue. I didn’t protest.

And Julie said, “Just make sure that when he grows up he knows where the clitoris is. And that nothing under one carat is acceptable.” Sure, right after potty training.

I’ve taken the newfound knowledge that I’m busy growing a boy and used it to justify the purchase of every single remotely useful baby item I find on the Internet. American Express
loves
me right now. They’re all like beaming and shit and like, “Hey, Clare! Long time no see. We were getting nervous there for a while when you weren’t using us. But now we understand it was a temporary lapse. We are so happy to have you back and please, keep up the good work.”

I still have no idea what we’re going to name said boy, but Jake’s two suggestions—Richard and Peter—are not exactly winners. I’m perfectly happy calling him Mr. Skeletor for right now but everyone else in the world seems adamant that we pick a name and pick one RIGHT NOW GODDAMN IT.

What I say: “Back off, assholes, or else the kid will be named Skeletor, King of the Klingons. Why don’t you all do something useful and turn up the air-conditioning?”

It’s a good thing we’re having a boy, because Jake will need another male to hang out with since Butterscotch is now officially a drag queen.

Seriously.

Whereas Jake and I were suspicious before, today his drag-queenness was actually confirmed.

It started a week ago, when we discovered Butterscotch no longer wanted to wear his very nice black collar. Jake or I would find it on the floor somewhere in the apartment and put it back on him, thinking it fell off. When we put it around his neck, he’d hiss and look pathetic for a few minutes. We figured he decided collars are out this season.

As a joke, Jake bought him a hot-pink collar decorated with beads spelling out “Princess.” We laughed about it and threw it in a drawer. Then, this morning, before I left for work, I found his black collar right next to the front door. I picked it up and walked over to Butterscotch to put it back on. He looked really pissed as he saw me walking toward him with it. I stopped, remembered the pink collar, fished it out of the drawer, and walked toward him with it. The damn cat didn’t even try to run away when I put it on. He squinted his eyes at me and purred loudly. He jumped off the couch and rubbed his face against my pants, thanking me for the beautiful present.

I shrugged and left for work, expecting to find it on the ground when I came home. But nope, he’s still wearing his hot-pink “Princess” collar. He even jumped in Jake’s lap and purred for a while this evening.

So, yes. The rumors are true. I’m thinking of buying him some fake eyelashes and falsies.