A Bump in the Road (39 page)

We thought we would never fill 1,200 square feet of space with just little old us and our little old belongings, plus one obese cat. We were thrilled we didn’t have to sleep next to the cat’s litterbox and both of us could be in the kitchen at the same time instead of cooking dinner relay-race style.

So, we moved in.

Our amazement lasted approximately six weeks.

All those closets we thought we’d never fill? Done.

Our joy at having a place for the litterbox? Short-lived. We realized we needed the second bedroom to operate as just that occasionally, as opposed to our cat’s twenty-four-hour toilet.

The kitchen we vowed to use daily to make gourmet meals because
dude
, we have a garbage disposal? Yeah, pizza is still easier.

After a short while, the walls of our new spacious place began to close in on us. But we put off moving because it was something we could do after the wedding. And then we figured we’d live here just a bit longer and then buy a place. Besides, moving meant Scary Mortgage.

So now, since we are very, very organized, we have one extra bedroom housing our junk mail, the cat’s shitbox, Jake’s clothes, and old power strips, cords, and extension cords knotted together in ropelike fashion. Plus a bunch of old boxes containing things like fifty empty CD cases, receipts from 1999, and beer bottle caps.

I started the process by grabbing a big trash bag and throwing out every piece of paper I saw. This worked fine until Jake came in and started going through the bags and taking out stuff he “needs.”

I have discovered my husband is secretly the male equivalent of the crazy cat lady who hoards her money under her mattress because
she doesn’t trust the government. We threw out bags upon bags of old credit card receipts, years-old bank statements, every single credit card offer Jake ever got in the mail, and I’m pretty sure every piece of paper he’s come into contact with since birth. Apparently, every time he got a piece of mail he didn’t want to throw out, he shoved it into the spare dresser in the guest room. He claims he didn’t want to throw any of it out due to the possibility of identity theft, to which I quickly pointed out no one is desperate enough to want to steal either of our identities. He acquiesced and agreed to pitch everything but every time I tried to throw something out he would grab it and say, “Wait! I think I need this!” Again, my comparison to the crazy cat lady: “But he’s my favorite cat! You can’t give Fluffy to the pound, Mr. Officer. He’s all I’ve got left!”

Then began the always fun-filled task of putting together furniture. Well, Jake put it together while I hovered over his shoulder, asking him each time if he could tighten the screws one more time. I’m pretty sure he wanted to stick the screwdriver in my eye, but I had visions of our crib collapsing on top of Skeletor and trapping him. Which immediately evoked visions of the scene in
Happy Gilmore
when the window air conditioner falls out of the window onto the elderly woman, so I started laughing hysterically.

I’m going to hell for comparing a life-threatening baby situation to an Adam Sandler movie.

Jake finally got all of the furniture assembled and in place while sweating profusely. It looks amazing, like a room a real-life baby would sleep in. Except for on top of the dresser, within reach of Skeletor’s little hands, is a varied assortment of what I would classify as Not Child Appropriate due to the fact each can be at least one of the following: (a) swallowed, thereby killing child; (b) used as a weapon, thereby killing parents; or (c) porn. Such as: Jake’s golf clubs, speaker wires knotted together, an old cable box, a screwdriver, and a fiftieth-anniversary issue of
Playboy
. I’m thinking all that’s missing is a makeshift meth lab and a loaded handgun.

1:00
A.M
.

We can also add cat urine to the list since Butterscotch is upset we moved his litterbox and continues to piss in the spot where it used to be: right under the crib. I think the cat urine smell will be perfect to mask the smell of cooking methamphetamine.

Mule Face got back from her honeymoon today. She strolled in pretending to be exhausted and spent most of the day making exasperated noises and claiming, “I’m
so
tired.” She passed around this big packet of souvenirs she got from Gatlinburg, including pictures of Big D sitting in a hot tub shaped like a champagne glass. Plus he has abnormally large nipples.

She even e-mailed everyone the link to a Web site with her wedding pictures. It amazes me she believes anyone cares that much. When I got married, I never assumed people wanted to see my pictures because hello? Boring. It’s like the baby picture thing. Seeing fifty pictures of little Joey on your front lawn is so not interesting. I must remember this over the next few years.

Who cares I’ve spent the last two days listening to Mule Face’s honeymoon stories? Or Skeletor loves to perform a rendition of Michael Flatley’s
Lord of the Dance
on my cervix all day long. It doesn’t matter because the world is a beautiful, amazing place filled with good-hearted and loving people.

Several of my readers chipped in and bought me a bunch of items off my registry, including our oh-so-expensive but oh-so-beautiful bedding set and a cashmere blanket. They called it my “virtual
shower.” I immediately posted a slightly blubbery entry thanking everyone, complete with pictures of Butterscotch looking disgusted when I wouldn’t allow him to lounge on Skeletor’s new blanket.

Jake remarked today that I’m in the “home stretch.” I rolled my eyes at him and declared him to be crazy. Because, obviously, I have tons more time left, right?

Uh, no.

He pulled out the calendar and counted down the number of weeks for me until I started to have a mild panic attack. I pulled out my pregnancy books, hoping to find a chapter on “Third Trimester Psychosis,” but all I read was a bunch of congratulations on the baby being viable outside the womb were it to be born now. And while that’s great news, I guess, it made things worse.

Most people say they’re terrified during the first trimester something will go wrong; they’ll miscarry and lose the baby. Of course, we had our moment in the ER when we thought we lost the baby, but the first trimester was mostly about trying to come to terms with having a child. While we were scared, the fear was nowhere near as crippling as it is now.

The real fears have started for me now that I’m in the last leg. I know if he was born now, he’d have to stay in the neonatal intensive care unit for weeks and probably would have serious disabilities to overcome. For some reason, that thought is a jillion times more frightening to me than miscarrying when I was six or eight weeks. Because he’s a real person now.

I don’t even know what I’m talking about. But I know I can’t talk to Jake about it and I certainly can’t blog about it; jen2485 would just twist my words and imply I’d rather have no baby than one with disabilities. There’s just no good way to explain to anyone what I feel
right now. But don’t worry, Mr. Skeletor, I’ll do everything, including sew my knees together, to keep you cooking in there as long as possible. I want nothing more for you than to be a big, strong boy who can run, play, and romp around with all the other kids.

We’re still nowhere near agreeing on a name. I’m still offering suggestions but Jake’s shooting every name down. Like today, when I watched
Legends of the Fall
and drooled over Brad Pitt’s gorgeous long hair and Aidan Quinn’s eyes.

I started thinking
hmmm . . . Aidan
.

As Jake left to run an errand, I said, “What about Aidan?”

He stopped and looked at me. “Were you watching
Legends of the Fall
again?”

“Um, yes. Why?”

“Because every time you watch that movie you come up with a freaky new name like Tristan.”

“You don’t like Tristan?” I called after him.

Today was a horrible day. Awful. I want to crawl under my covers. Or travel to a secret fantasy land with rivers flowing with mint chocolate-chip ice cream and the only men are the nice ones. Not the ones that ruin your best friend’s life and cause you to get into a giant fight.

The day started off fine until Reese called to thank me for sending her flowers after the shower. (Only Reese calls people to thank them for a thank-you gift. It’s like a never-ending circle of gratitude.)

“They’re just beautiful. I can’t believe you remembered peonies are my favorite.”

“Of course I remembered. They were in your wedding bouquet.”

“Good memory,” she said.

“Reese, was everything OK after the shower?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean between you and Matt. Things seemed kinda tense before he left with Grace.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It just seemed like you guys were fighting about something.”

“Clare, everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re imagining things.”

“Well, not really. I know things have been strained for you guys.”