A Bump in the Road (43 page)

Improvement? Jury’s still out.

I’m working from home today and besides fielding a few follow-up calls from the Flynn-Shepard wedding, I’ve spent the majority of the morning with Bob Barker, in awe over the actual retail price of Ricola cough drops. Jake offered to stay home with me today, but I practically shoved him out the door because Please. It only takes one of us to sit around, feet tapping, staring impatiently at my stomach.

In preparation for Never Leaving the House Again, I’ve ordered groceries online and done every shred of laundry in sight, both of which took me an hour. So, in search of other ways to pass the time, I came up with a to-do list.

1.	Watch Flip That House .
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.

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.

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.

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.”