Sisterchicks Do the Hula (3 page)

“I suppose you’re right.”

“How are you feeling, Hope?”

“Great. And listen, Darren and I already talked about it, and this does not change the plans for January. You and I are still going to Hawai’i.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, very sure. If my calculations are correct, I’ll only be into my fourth month in January. No one will even know I’m
pregnant. I’ll probably just look chubby.”

“Oh, right. That’s doubtful. With your long torso, you’ve always managed to hide any extra pounds that came along. You probably won’t even be showing by then.”

I stood to the side and smoothed my knit top over my midriff, trying to evaluate my shape in the oven door’s reflection. Was it my imagination, or did I show a little already?

“Hope, listen, if you start to get morning sickness, or you’re too uncomfortable, or concerned about the baby for any reason, we’ll postpone the trip for another time.”

“When? Our fiftieth birthdays? No, this is definitely the time for us to go. After this little pumpkin shows up, I have a feeling I won’t be going anywhere for a long time.”

“Okay,” Laurie said. “But remember, I’m open to adjustments, if necessary. Let me know how it goes when you tell the boys.”

That afternoon, when our family gathered around the dining room table, Darren prayed, thanking God for all He had given us over the years. After the hearty “amens,” I lifted my head and noticed the exquisite way the autumn sunshine came pouring through the window, infusing the whole room with an amber glow. Glittering dust particles, caught up in a silent dance, swirled above the wooden floor. Every brass picture frame on the mantle sparkled. I couldn’t have asked for a more golden moment to make the glad announcement to our sons.

I glanced at Darren. He gave me a wink and a nod, and I proclaimed that I was thankful for the baby, the baby that was
growing inside me, the baby that would, Lord willing, be with us at this table next Thanksgiving.

The boys put down their forks and stared. Our sixteen-year-old blurted out, “Mom, you’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. We’re going to have a baby.”

“Why? I mean … you guys! What were you thinking?”

Darren and I looked at each other.

“Man, this is kind of embarrassing for us, you know.”

“Wait a minute,” Darren said firmly. “We’re a family here. We’re in this together. Your mother and I are very happy about the baby, and you boys should be, too.”

They didn’t look convinced so Darren leaned forward and said, “Every child is a gift from God. It’s not up to any of us to choose when we come into this world or when we go out. Your number one objective is to support your mother in this. Got it? Come on, I’m counting on you. All of you.”

Our boys managed to stand as gentlemen and line up to give me a kiss on the cheek.

Mitchell, our oldest, said, “Sorry if we didn’t seem very supportive. I think you’ll make a great mom.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

Thirteen-year-old Blake said, “Yeah, you’ve done a pretty good job with us. The new kid will probably turn out okay.”

I tried to hide my smile.

Blake’s expression turned to a scowl. “He’s not going to share my room, is he?”

“We’ll figure all that out later,” Darren said, passing a bowl
of mashed potatoes. “Come on, let’s eat.” No one had to offer food to our boys twice.

A week before Christmas, Darren went with me to the doctor for all the usual scans and tests. We found out that “the new kid” would be arriving much earlier than I originally had predicted. According to the doctor’s calculations, the baby would arrive not in June but mid-April. That startling information didn’t sink in right away because we also found out we were having a girl. And for that bit of news, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Emilee Rose had been alive in my imagination long before she showed up, tucked snugly beneath my heart. The first two times I was pregnant, I was sure I was having a girl. By the time I was pregnant with our third son, I had resigned myself to accept that Darren and I were breeding our own football team. This time around I hadn’t dared to dream for a girl, and yet here she was—my Emilee Rose. At last!

In every way, I was delighted to be “with child,” as we celebrated Christmas and read about Mary wrapping her newborn babe in swaddling cloths and laying Him in a manger. All of life seemed to be miraculous and breathtakingly beautiful.

Then, on a Saturday afternoon in January, I snapped.

In five days Laurie and I were scheduled to meet up in Honolulu. What triggered my meltdown was an ordinary UPS box that arrived on my doorstep in the snow. Inside was my maternity bathing suit.

Blithely carrying the box upstairs, I drew the curtains,
closed the bedroom door, and peeled off layers of warm clothes. Relieved that the back-ordered item had arrived in time, I wiggled my way into the new swimsuit, slowly turned toward the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and took in the sight of my blessed belly wrapped in swaddling aqua blue spandex.

First the front view. Then the side. Other side. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I got a glimpse of the backside. Then quickly returned to the front view.

I was shocked! Completely shocked!

The woman in the mirror shook her head at me.
“You’re not considering going out in public wearing that, are you?”

“Yes?” I answered with a woeful sigh. “Although, I didn’t think it would look like this on me.”

“Oh, really? And just what did you think it would look like on you?”

“Well, not like this.”

For months I had been riding high on the “blessed-art-thou-among-women” cloud. I considered it a privilege to carry this baby. I told myself I was participating in a calling that was higher than fashion and charm. Who cares about beauty? The truth was, my body was nurturing new life.

However, truth and beauty had crashed head-on in my bedroom mirror.

“I like this shade of blue,” I declared, trying to be positive.

“Yeah? Well, from where I’m standing, that shade of blue does not appear to be too fond of you, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I could return this one and order the black one instead.”

“Right, because everyone knows that black is always so much more slimming.”

“There was that black one with the little pleated skirt …”

“Okay, yeah, there you go. Because nothing says dainty like Shamu in a tutu.”

“Hey!” I turned away and covered my belly as if to protect Emilee’s ears from this brazen woman. “You don’t have to be rude about it!”

“Look who’s talking.”

I glared over my shoulder at the mannerless minx and found I couldn’t say anything. I could only stare at her. At myself. At what I had become. How did this happen?

How could it be that my two dreams had intersected this way? Innocent little Emilee Rose was my dream baby come true. A trip to Hawai’i with Laurie was a dream that had waited patiently for two decades to come true.

But someone had taken my two best dreams and poured them into a single test tube when I wasn’t looking. Now the churning, foaming result bubbled over the top and ended up larger-than-life in my bedroom mirror. There she stood, defying me to accept the truth.

I was old.

And I was not beautiful. How had those two facts escaped me in the bliss of being a middle-aged life bearer?

Fumbling my way out of the aqua swimsuit and trying to
stop the ridiculous flow of big, globby tears, I turned my back on the mirror and plunged into my roomiest maternity clothes. Leaning against the ruffled pillows that lined our bedroom window seat, I inched back the curtains and let the tears gush.

Outside, an icy January snowstorm was elbowing its way down the eastern seaboard, causing the limbs of our naked elm tree to shiver uncontrollably. Beside me was a tour book of Hawai’i. The cover showed shimmering white sand, pristine blue water, and a graceful palm tree stretching toward the ocean as if offering its hand for the waves to kiss. Beautiful people from all over the world came to bask in the sun and stroll along such exotic beaches in this island paradise.

I glanced sympathetically at the quivering elm tree out my window and tried to imagine slender tropical palms in full sunlight, swaying in the breeze, green and full of life.

“That’s right. Think about the beautiful beaches, the sunshine, and all the fun you and Laurie are going to have.”

I blew my nose and glanced at the mirror.

She was still there, delivering her sugary sass.

“Don’t think of the other tourists—those twenty-year-old toothpicks in their bikinis, sauntering down the beach with their long, cellulite-free legs and their flat stomachs. Who cares that you’ll be the only woman on the beach looking like a bright blue Easter egg on parade?”

I picked up a pillow, took aim, and …

The bedroom door swung open, forcing the mirror maven
into hiding. My hero entered with a tube of caulking in his hand. “There you are. You okay?”

I clutched the pillow to my middle and nodded.

Darren glanced out the window and then down at the tour book beside me. “I heard this storm is supposed to blow over by Monday. Should be clear sailing when you fly out on Wednesday morning.”

“That’s what I heard, too.” My voice sounded surprisingly steady.

Darren stepped into our bathroom and proceeded to caulk the shower. “Hope, can you come here and tell me if this looks straight to you?”

I didn’t need to go in there to see if his caulking line was straight. Darren’s repairs were never straight. But they always worked. That’s all that mattered to me.

“Looks good.” I tilted my head ever so slightly so that the line along the base of the shower honestly did appear straight.

He glanced up from his kneeling position. With a tender pat on my belly, he said, “And you look good to me.”

“Bahwaaaaah!” I burst into tears all over again.

“What’s wrong? What did I say?” Darren was on his feet, trying to wrap both arms around me and draw me close. “Why are you crying?”

“How can I possibly look good to you? I’m pregnant! I’m really, really pregnant!”

“Of course you are. Why are you crying?”

“Because I’m going to Hawai’i!”

“Yes, you’re going to Hawai’i. Come on now, pull yourself together.”

I kept crying.

Darren looked frantic. He stepped back and fumbled for his roguish smirk. “So, is this a hormone thing?”

“No, it’s not a hormone thing! I’m old, Darren! I’m old and pregnant, and I’m going to Hawai’i. Can you understand how that makes me feel?”

He could not.

How could I possibly expect my husband to understand all the bizarre things that happen to a woman in spirit and flesh when a friendly alien takes over her body? He still couldn’t figure out why Laurie and I wanted to fly all the way to Hawai’i just to spend a week lounging around a pool, comparing underarm flab, when we could stay home and have the same conversation over the phone for a lot less money.

I took a deep breath. “You know what? I don’t care what anyone says. These screaming purple stretch marks running up my biscuit-dough thighs are stripes of honor.”

“Exactly.”

“I earned every one of those zingers!”

“Of course you did, honey.”

“I am a Mother, with a capital
M.”

“Never doubted it for a moment.”

“And everyone knows that aqua is the perfect motherhood color, even in the tropics.”

“Especially in the tropics.”

“Thank you, Darren.”

“You’re welcome.”

What my husband had just observed was a 95 percent hormone-induced solar flare. But there was no way on this blue earth that I would reveal that scientific secret to him.

I concluded my little performance by clearing my throat and saying, “I think your caulking looks good. Very nice.”

“Thanks. And I meant what I said. You look good to me, too.”

“Thank you.” I turned with my chin raised in valor and tried to glide gracefully out of the bathroom, my beach-ball belly exiting a full half a second before the rest of me.

Reaching for the much-debated swimsuit, I rolled it up and tucked it into the corner of my suitcase. Over my shoulder I could feel the mirror maven working up a good sass-and-slash comment. Before she had a chance to deliver it, I turned to face her full on. “Let’s see now. One of us is stuck to a piece of particleboard, and one of us is going to Hawai’i. Any guesses as to which one you are?”

She didn’t say a word. She knew her place. And I was about to find mine.

T
he only advice the doctor gave me about the long plane ride was to drink plenty of water and to get up often to stretch my legs. Less than an hour into the flight, I realized the second part of his advice wasn’t necessary. Getting up often was a natural by-product of drinking lots of water. I wondered if the high altitude was somehow compressing my bladder, making it impossible to hold more than a thimbleful of fluid for even twenty minutes. Fortunately, I had an aisle seat.

In between my treks to the back of the plane, I thumbed through a variety of magazines, snoozed off and on, and halfheartedly watched a movie that my sons had rented and enjoyed the week before but I had found uninteresting. After changing planes in Denver, I repeated the routine with the same turkey sandwich served in a box, the same movie, and the same magazine selection.