A Bump in the Road (44 page)

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.

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 promise 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?”

Nod.

“Is global warming truly going to be our generation’s biggest legacy?”

Nod.

My mom handed me a magazine and they checked me again. Before I could even read an article, I was told it was time to push and before I knew it, Jake had one leg and my mom had the other and I was being told to push.

Not just “push” but, “PUSH, BITCH! DON’T YOU WANT TO HAVE THE BABY? PUSH!”

I wanted to tell them to go screw themselves.

I had no idea if I was pushing or not; I couldn’t feel a thing. Everybody kept saying what a good pusher I was, so I guess something was happening.

So I pushed. And then I pushed some more.

Everyone was right in my face and this time, I did tell them to go screw themselves.

Dr. Clarke came in and scrubbed up and smiled and said, “Few more and we’ll have a baby.”

Jake and I looked at each other and he pushed back my hair and kissed me on the forehead. My mom squeezed my hand and told me how proud she is of me. We saw them wheel in the infant warmer and I realized it was for
our
baby and what felt like a tennis ball formed in my throat. I also had a flash of fear sweep through my brain, like
I’m not really sure I really want to do this, um, can we just come back like next week or maybe like next year?

“Do you have any more ideas?” Jake asked me.

“What?” I said as I grabbed some ice chips.

“Ideas? About what to name the baby.”

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me this now?” I stared at him.

“Do you like Daniel?” he said thoughtfully.

“NO!” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because Daniel is a stupid name and reminds me of my first-grade boyfriend and—SHUT UP! Let me have the kid first and then we can argue, OK?”

“OK, sorry,” he said sullenly. My mom shook her head at him. “What? I think Daniel’s a good name,” he whispered to her.

Before I could yell at both of them, another contraction came. Dr. Clarke and Jake and my mom were all yelling at me to push, but I just went quiet. I went quiet and pushed, thinking about seeing Mr. Skeletor.

The next thing I heard was everyone scream and Dr. Clarke said, “Happy birthday . . . little GIRL!”

The screaming stopped and the room buzzed.

What?

“Girl!” she repeated, and held up this pink, wiggly, squirming baby who was most definitely a girl.

Jake and I looked at each other, eyes wide open and mouths slack-jawed.

Girl?

Miss Skeletor?

What?

Then we both welled up and I think he kissed me before I sent him over to see her and my mom hugged me and grabbed my hand. Both of us craned our necks to try to see her, and sputtered a little when we heard her cry.

I knew right then she would be OK.

A nurse brought her over and handed her to me. “Seven pounds, ten ounces. Congratulations, Mom!” she said.

I reached my arms out but stopped for a moment. I thought,
Mom? Who’s she calling Mom? I’m too young to be a mom
. I immediately felt panic bubble up through my body.
What am I supposed to do with her? Am I holding her right? What if I drop her or something?
Then these people would all know what an imposter I am and not the best mother ever but rather an irresponsible clueless idiot.

I looked down at my daughter. She felt so tiny, but just too big to have been inside of me minutes ago. I looked up at Jake and I saw him gazing down at his daughter, a pure, true, unconditional, instant, no-questions-asked love.