33 weeks

This week has been so peaceful and relaxing. Chip and I did spend the day after Christmas in our pjs, just as planned, and it has now become one of my favorite memories. It was so nice to sit on the couch, laugh at the sitcoms, and just be together. I’m sure I’ll cherish that memory even more in a couple of months!

As I reflect on this past year, I am so amazed and grateful that my fondest wish and desire is finally coming true. In less than two months, if all goes as it‘s supposed to, Chip and I will get to meet this little one who is already such a big part of our lives.

I would say I can’t wait, but Bonnie’s husband, Tony, gave me a sobering thought during dinner with them this evening: “Just remember, Ellie, babies are a lot easier to take care of while they’re still on the inside than after they come out.”

Merry Christmas!

What a wonderful day with my family and Chip. We had a fabulous meal with my parents, aunt, uncle, and cousins at Granny G.’s house, where Chip and I opened several gifts for the baby. It was kind of funny, really, sort of a signaling of our exit from center stage to make way for a new and upcoming star. Not that either of us minded.

Then, wonder of wonders, shortly after Chip and I got back home, it began to snow. Really snow. Like it hasn’t in metro Atlanta on Christmas in over 100 years. It was so beautiful. I enjoyed looking out the window watching the big, fluffy flakes fall while the fire in the fireplace roared. Idyllic, I guess you could call it.

I am off all next week, as is Chip. We plan to sit around all day tomorrow in our jammies watching DVDs of our favorite shows and eating leftovers.

Life just doesn’t get much better than this.

Today I nearly had a panic attack. I've been so easy-going, able to walk the path of pregnancy with grace and aplomb, and then out of the blue it hit me with full force that I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY. I'm going to be a mother, and there's no turning back! I am strapped in on the roller coaster ride, the cars are climbing the hill, and there is no stopping until the ride is over. And just like being on a real roller coaster, my stomach plummeted at the thought.

Now, don't get me wrong; I want this child, have wanted this child, for as long as I can remember. It's just the full import, the magnitude of what I'm doing, hit me all at once. And it's extremely overwhelming.

What if I'm a terrible mother? What if I ruin this little life that's inside me? What if she gets sick and I don't know how to take care of her? What if I can't provide for her needs financially or emotionally? What if she cries all the time, gets her schedule mixed up and sleeps through the day, or fails to bond with me and Chip? What if she goes berserk as a teenager?

What if, what if, WHAT IF????

It's terrifying to think that I might fail in this, the most monumental role of my life.

30 weeks

Something else is growing along with my waistline... my er, amorousness. At first Chip was excited about my voracious appetite, but now he is taking great care to avoid eye contact. “You’re killing me!” he groans whenever I’m ready for another round. In a classic case of role-reversal, now he’s the one claiming a headache.

My unwieldiness isn’t helping matters. It’s the beginning of winter, and I haven’t been in the sun for a while, so I look like a beluga whale. No man in his right mind finds a beluga whale attractive. So while my libido is at an all-time high, Chip’s has taken a hiatus.

This morning was a particularly rocky one for us in the bedroom. I finally coaxed (okay, begged) Chip into having a go at things, but the awkwardness of my extra bulk kept getting in the way.

Men have a hard time multitasking as it is, so asking one to keep his fervor and excitement level up while balancing a pregnant woman is nearly impossible. Plus, today I was in a fit of giggles and it just wasn't funny to Chip AT ALL. He couldn’t see the humor in it—again, it meant asking his brain to do more than one thing at once, to switch from “I’m a serious, passionate guy who will absolutely die if I don’t have you right now” to “ha, ha, isn’t this hilarious”—and we both ended up frustrated in every sense of the word.

What a horrible time to turn into Don Juanita.

It's awesome, amusing, and amazing to get to know this little person even before she is born. She's busy, she becomes even more active after I down my juice in the afternoons, and she appears to have a distinct distaste for classic rock.

I found that out this evening soon after I climbed in the car to drive home from work. I was in the mood for something nostalgic and began pressing the preset buttons on the radio when I ran across a few notes of Van Halen's “Somebody Get Me a Doctor.”

All of the sudden I felt an enormous drawing back in my abdomen away from the front speakers and a tremendous shift of weight toward my spine. I laughed out loud and changed the station, and that crazy, wonderful sensation of an internal physical cringe coming from someone other than myself subsided in an instant.

Parents and their youngsters have been battling over taste differences in music for decades. I just had no idea it would start so early!

So she's not a Diamond Dave fan. I can live with that.

29 weeks

One of the things that always catches me off guard is how big I look. For some reason I never notice it in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth or putting on my makeup. Instead it always sneaks up on me out of the corner of my eye, like when I pass by the windows leading into the grocery store or catch my reflection as I step out of the shower or see pictures and video of myself. Afterward it’s difficult not to associate my self-image with the phrase “lumbering hippo.”

Normally there would be some solace in knowing I’m not the only pregnant woman who doesn’t realize how big she’s gotten, but not the way I found out.

Chip and I were standing around after birthing class with another couple, Sylvia and Carl, enjoying some light refreshments and talking about the night’s lesson. Kiki had talked about fundal height, the measurement the doctor takes each week to make sure the baby is growing, and said obstetricians often can estimate how much the baby will weigh by taking it into account.

Since Sylvia and I have due dates just days apart and are roughly the same size, I laughed and gestured to our bulging stomachs. “We’d better make sure we have some big baby clothes on hand!”

Sylvia frowned before displaying all the tact of a charging rhino. “But you’re bigger than me.”

I thought the drinks in the guys’ mouths were about to come out of their noses. And not just because of her social blunder. Sylvia is my size, if not bigger.

I had a retort ready, but I held it after seeing the look in Sylvia’s eyes. She looked like a cornered animal, desperate to believe she could not possibly be as great a cow as her friend Ellie.

Being a lover of truth, I typically don’t advocate letting someone live in denial, but I let this one misconception slide. I figured it wouldn’t do either one of us good to set her straight, even though her indiscretion hurt me terribly.

Oddly enough, not only do I now know another pregnant woman who doesn’t see herself as she actually is, but her verbal faux pas also confirms I’m not the only one in the birthing class suffering from preggy brains.

At least I can find comfort in that. And in the fact that I won’t have to see her again after tonight, since it was our final class.

Month Seven: December

“Hey. Cut it out.”

Raising my head from a deep sleep, I looked past the back of Chip’s head to the nightstand, barely able to make out the time through my blurred vision. Two a.m. “Are you talking to me?” I mumbled.

“Yeah. Stop thumping me.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not thumping you.”

“Yeah you are.”

“Chip, I was sound asleep.”

“Well, you’re thrashing me while you’re doing it.”

As I put my head back down on the pillow and spooned up to him again, Chip sat straight up and looked at me, jabbing a finger in my direction. “That! That right there. That’s what I’m talking about.”

I know the look on my face told him in no uncertain terms he was crazy. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Well then, who did?”

Somewhere between my grogginess wearing off and my ire rising, I felt a kick to my inner abdominal wall. I began to laugh.

Chip clearly thought I was nuts. “What’s so funny?”

I sat up, took his hand, and placed his palm firmly against the taut skin of my stomach. Sure enough, within seconds, our future soccer star gave her daddy’s hand a good, hard whack.

Chip’s face took on that same look of wonder and awe that he’d gotten the first time he felt the baby move. “That wasn’t you, after all, was it?”

“Told you.”

He hunkered down with his mouth next to my stomach. “Hey, sweetheart! This is your daddy. I know you want to play—”

The baby kicked in acknowledgment.

“Hey, that’s really good, but Daddy needs his sleep. And Mommy needs her sleep, too. So cut that out, okay?”

Violent flailing from my womb.

“Well, Chip,” I teased, “maybe she's not as obedient as we first thought.”

He rolled over, yanking a good portion of the comforter with him. “Just like her mother.”

28 weeks

What attracts a woman the most? Money? Power? Jewelry? A handsome man?

No. The most attractive thing to a woman is a baby, and a woman about to have a baby is a close second. My belly has garnered more female attention this year than George Clooney and Brad Pitt combined.

Like an insane person, I agreed to get up at six a.m. with my sister and mother to hit the After-Thanksgiving sales at the mall. No matter what store we went to, my presence incited a pregnant-woman sighting, and all the bargain-crazed women in the vicinity descended upon me like vultures to carrion. It's like my protruding stomach has a homing beacon.

Happy Thanksgiving

As I ruminate on Thanksgiving, I find one of the most pleasant surprises for me as a journalist has been that I’ve rarely encountered the unbridled hostility so often directed toward members of my profession. Perhaps it’s because I’m just an unimposing features writer and not an investigative vigilante. Or maybe I simply exude an aura of trustworthiness as the people I speak with sense my genuine interest in their stories. Whatever the reason, it’s been my experience that the journalist is not a pariah, but a priest. In interview after interview people invariably bare the deepest secrets of their souls, and not merely because I happened to ask the right question. Time and time again they bring up something totally unrelated with the segue “This isn’t for publication, but…” or “This is off the record…” or “Please don’t print this, but….” Admissions range from the sheepish confession of a woman who, unbeknownst to her husband, named her son after an ex-boyfriend, to a hospital chairman who confided that the new wing of the medical center was originally going to bear someone else’s name. Following a polite refusal from the would-be namesake, a second community philanthropist was approached under the guise that she had been the sole choice all along.

Sometimes this overwhelming need that people have to unburden their souls makes me uncomfortable. I've had people angry with me because—and again, keep in mind that I’m just a harmless little features writer—I asked a question that they didn’t want to answer, and instead of just telling me they were uncomfortable with responding, they answered but resented me for broaching the subject.

On the upside, because I hear and deal with the truth so much, I know exactly when I’m being played and can always tell when someone is trying to blow smoke up my skirt. I try to never tip my hand to let them know that I know.

Pregnancy is similar to my journalistic experience, in a way. Not only has it been a positive experience (except for the losing my mind part), but I feel a sense of belonging, a comradeship, a camaraderie with other moms, even though I haven't actually gone through the birthing and parenting process. So often I catch other women giving me a kind smile, an almost wistful expression as I waddle up to the counter at Target or stand in line at a fast food restaurant. I get the feeling that most of them are remembering their own pregnancies, and all of the sudden I realize that I'm an ambassador of sorts, that my being pregnant bestows happiness beyond just me, Chip, and our families. In an amazing, unwitting way, it also brings others a modicum of joy and nostalgia.

How serendipitous.

Third Trimester: 27 weeks

Tonight Kiki had us lie down on thin blue mats strewn across the floor before she turned off the lights and turned on new age music interspersed with whale sounds.

“Breathe,” she said, the light from the hall illuminating her hair bun and sweats as she walked between the mats like a ballet instructor. “Again!”

Struggling with a cold, I tried to oblige.

Next she told the women to sit up and lean their backs against their spouses and pretend to push. “You might even want to moan,” Kiki encouraged.

It was all the permission Chip needed. “Ooohhh,” he said in my ear.

“No!” I hissed.

But he wasn’t going to be deterred. This was payback for my spending eighty bucks on nonsense birthing classes and making him waste evenings that could have been spent more constructively in front of the television, which, he liked to point out, is free.

“Ooohhh,” he said louder. Couples on either side began to giggle.

“Ooohhh!” he ripped a third time.

Poor Kiki. She decided to dismiss us early.

Chip whistled almost all the way home. “You know, tonight was kind of fun,” he admitted.

Our second birthing class was almost our last. Chip and I were two minutes late and sneaked in under the cover of a dark room illuminated solely by a film projected on one of the walls.

“Oh good!” Chip whispered as we sat down. “We get to see a movie!” His smart-aleck buoyancy quickly turned to horror when he saw the featured presentation—a full-on shot of a woman giving birth.

I tried to concentrate on the film but found it difficult with my husband throwing his arms up in front of his face as he jerked his body in an attempt to look everywhere but at the graphic image projected IMAX-size on the wall across from us. As soon as the lights came up, he and two other expectant fathers bolted from the room with their hands over their mouths for what I believe was the very first male communal bathroom run in the history of the human race.

26 weeks

What I thought was going to be a casual lunch between me and Cal this afternoon turned out to be a surprise baby shower!

We were on our way down the hall to the break room when Beck stepped from the conference room and asked to see me for a second. When she opened the door, the entire newsroom (with the exception of one or two people out covering breaking news or attending a meeting they just couldn't reschedule) yelled “Surprise!”

Tito, camera ready, recorded much of the event. He got a funny shot of my gaping mouth as I walked through the door.

They’d really outdone themselves. There were pink and white streamers, Mylar and latex balloons, a sheet cake, and enough food to feed a third-world nation. I later learned Cal had organized the whole thing and surreptitiously sent out e-mails to everybody except me. (If the roles had been reversed and I needed to plan a surprise party for Cal, Preggy Brains would surely have sent her an invite.)

Some of the guys looked uncomfortable at first, but when they realized a baby shower is pretty much just a party minus the beer, they got over it and started making wisecracks.

“Hey, if I ever get a woman pregnant—” began Max, one of the sports writers.

Toby, his editor, clapped him on the shoulder. “Not a chance, Max. You gotta have sex before that can happen.”

Pretty much the entire newsroom, including Jesse, roared at that one.

Bolstered by the reaction, Toby continued, “And let’s face it... no woman is THAT desperate.”

Max turned an interesting shade of scarlet during the laughter. Aside from stuffing his mouth with cake, he didn’t open it again for several minutes.

But Toby didn’t get away unscathed. He was sitting next to me and was always the first one I passed any newly opened gifts to in order to give everyone at the shower a closer look at the presents. To Toby’s detriment, he was involved in deep conversation with the reporter seated on the other side of him and didn’t realize I had just opened a package of breastfeeding paraphernalia. Everyone watched as I passed him the packet.

“Here, Toby, you might want a closer look at this,” I said sweetly.

“Oh, thanks,” he said, pulling himself away from his conversation. Feigning interest, he began to inspect a packet of nursing pads and breast cream before realizing too late what he was doing.

I think Max laughed the loudest and hardest as his boss turned a deeper shade of scarlet than he had.

In addition to watching the sports guys rag on each other, the shower also paved a way for me to clean up on gifts for the baby. Chip and I got so much loot! I was blest by the generosity of my co-workers. We got the aforementioned breastfeeding materials, adorable baby outfits, baby booties, Onesies, a car seat from several reporters who had chipped in together, and perhaps one of the most touching presents of all, a plush lamb from Max.

As Toby had already alluded, Max didn’t exactly have a girlfriend and had made a special trip to the store to purchase the toy himself. I was touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

Tonight we attended our first birthing class. Much to our surprise, most of the couples were in their mid-thirties, like us. While first-time parents made up the majority of those in attendance, a few couples had older children at home and were taking the course as a refresher.

We went around the room and introduced ourselves and told the sex of the baby (if we happened to belong to the camp that believed in finding out) along with any names we had chosen. Kiki, the chirpy labor and delivery nurse teaching the class, also asked us to share what sort of aspirations we had for our little bundle once he or she arrived.

Mike, one of the younger fathers-to-be, wore a Redskins sweatshirt and proudly announced that his son was going to play in the NFL. Everyone laughed and the next couple shared, and the next.

When our turn came, my competitive husband took the floor. “We’re Chip and Ellie. We’re having a girl, we’re not telling anyone the name until after she’s born, and she’s going to own the football team Mike’s son plays for.”

I love him.

Whew! Apparently that growth on my arm doesn’t portend cancer. Dr. Simmons called it a skin tag, saying this sort of thing happens during pregnancy. He won’t cut it off until after the baby’s born, though, because these tags have a penchant for bleeding, and that would be bad for me and the baby.

Chip and I heard our daughter’s heartbeat at the medical office again, still up where it’s supposed to be at one-hundred fifty-seven. Dr. Simmons said everything looks and sounds great and is pleased that I’ve only put on three pounds since the last visit.

Month Six: November

Ha! We just got two balance transfer offers in the mail that will give us a fixed low rate for the life of the loans. I didn’t waste any time calling Main Bank to see if they would match the offers and was immediately transferred to the rates department.

“Hello, this is Terry, how may I help you?” asked a milquetoast monotone.

“Hi, Terry, this is Ellie McAllister. I have in my hands two balance transfer offers for the life of the loan at a much lower rate than the one we currently have with Main Bank. Can you match these?”

I tried to understand Terry’s reply, but the answer sounded about as clear as the teacher’s voice in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

“So that’s a no, then?” I guessed.

I didn’t have any trouble understanding the answer. “That’s correct.”

Chip had been listening to my side of the conversation and picked up on another extension. “Hi, Terry, this is Ellie’s husband, Chip. You do realize, don’t you, that we’re going to go ahead and make these balance transfers, and then your company won’t profit at all, right?”

“Sir, once you make the balance transfers, then we’ll call you back and offer you a zero percent rate for the life of the loan.”

Chip looked at me, stunned. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” Terry said.

“So why can’t you go ahead and do that now?”

“Sir, we can’t match the rate on a balance transfer offer when the items on your account are regular purchases.”

It was maddening.

“But I’m telling you we’re going to make the transfer if you don’t match the rate,” Chip said. “Wouldn’t it just be simpler to go ahead and give me the zero-percent interest now instead of spending time and money trying to buy our business back?”

Terry’s nonchalance was astounding. “Sir, I understand what you’re getting at, but that’s just not how things are done in the banking industry.”

Chip rolled his eyes. “Okay. If that’s how the game’s got to be played, then that’s what we’ll do.”

I wasted no time in making the transfers.

24 weeks

Humph. We got a letter in the mail yesterday from Main Bank thanking us for our concerns as “valued card holders.” They also wrote that their records indicated that our APR, which has not changed in two years (I went through our files and looked), was VARIABLE. Sure enough, when the statement came today, it had risen a percentage point. I called and tried to persuade them to change it to a fixed rate but they wouldn’t budge, saying they had changed the terms of our agreement several months ago and had sent us a notice to that effect. (Of course, no one reads those things.) According to the customer service rep, our only recourse is to write the company president.

We’ll see.

We got our bill today for our main credit card and they have doubled our interest rate! It’s not enough that they spanked our hand by suspending our charging privileges and reducing our credit limit, but now they’re really sticking it to us after we’ve already been disciplined. They’re being far too high-handed and I’m not going to settle for it.

I may be pregnant, and I may be struggling to think, but I will dedicate what gray matter I have left to fighting the big banking conglomerate. No one messes with a pregnant woman and lives to tell.

* * *

Phew! I called our credit card’s parent company and spoke to a very nice customer service supervisor who is pregnant with her second child and completely related to having preggy brains. She is reducing our interest rate back to what it was.

22 weeks

As my size increases, my privacy diminishes.

Complete strangers accost me on the street and demand to know the sex of the baby, the name, and worse, seem to be under the misconception that my stomach is a public talisman for them to rub at will.

Friends are even worse. They understand that babies are wonderful, yes, but they forget personal boundaries—that there’s a somewhat private matter of just how the baby got here—and hurdle that fine line like they’re pursuing a gold medal.

“Did you have any trouble getting pregnant?”

“Were you trying long?”

Then there’s the wondering if Chip and I were complete dunces for ten years and didn’t quite understand how the whole reproductive thing worked. Better yet, perhaps we had full grasp of the process and just slipped up: “Gee, you guys have been married a long time. Did you mean for this to happen?”

While we most certainly did, is that really anyone’s business? And what if we hadn’t? Someone uncouth enough to ask that question would also be likely to tell a child that he/she was unwanted.

In this day of instant access to any and all information, some people need to learn to mind their own business.

Now that I know what to look for, I feel the baby every day. She’s particularly active in the late afternoon, right before deadline, shortly after I down a cup of calcium-fortified orange juice. I can just picture her in there, those itty-bitty feet kicking for all she’s worth.

I will never forget the look of wonder on Chip’s face a few days ago when he felt the baby move for the first time. “Oh!” he gasped, his hands on either side of my abdomen. “I felt something!”

I nodded. “That’s your daughter.”

“Do it again!” he said, his mouth against my belly.

Immediately our little girl complied.

“Good parenting there, Chip.” I gave him a playful jab. “She’s minding you already.”

I felt the baby move today!

I was sitting at my desk, about half an hour from deadline, when a persistent little “bloop” in my abdomen registered in my consciousness. When I realized it was the baby, I placed my hand on the stomach in an effort to connect. I wanted to make contact, to let her know Mommy was there.

What I really wanted to do was talk to to the baby, but since I was in the middle of the newsroom and have already attracted enough attention by my odd behavior, I quickly nixed the idea.

As I sat there silently reveling in this latest pregnancy milestone, I realized I’d felt that same “bloop” (kind of like a bubble popping) over the past several weeks but had chalked it up to gas or just another one of those weird pregnancy side-effects. It never occurred to me that such a momentous occasion would be experienced as a gradual dawning instead of a specific “aha!” moment.

I’m so excited! I wonder if it’s too early for Chip to feel it too.

I would say I’ve single-handedly ruined Chip’s impeccable credit rating, but that would be inaccurate, and for a reporter, unconscionable. Rather it would be accurate to say we— me and the grapefruit-sized accomplice residing in my belly who regularly feeds on my brain cells—have ruined his credit rating.

I’m still not sure if I misplaced the bill or if it never came, but somehow I missed making the minimum payment on our main credit card last month. I discovered it as I started to pay our most recent bill and saw that the figure was twice as much as normal. Chip called the company right away and they seemed very understanding and told us to just go ahead and pay the minimum balance.

Well, today we got a couple of letters from the credit card’s parent company telling us that they have suspended our charging privileges on one of our cards and they’re reducing our available credit on the card for which I neglected to make the payment.

Chip says it’s okay but I feel sick.

Chip and I are exhausted. We just got back from choosing the items for our registry at Baby Bazaar.

I never knew there was so much stuff for babies. I mean, I’ve avoided the baby aisle at the grocery store for years because it didn’t have anything I needed on it and, to be frank, it seemed a bit intimidating. After today, that grocery store aisle will never be unapproachable again.

When we walked in, we joined a platoon of other pregnant women at the registry desk. Now I know why I hardly noticed any pregnant women in public before—they were all sequestered from the rest of society at Baby Bazaar, trying to force their preggy brains to make sense out of the five-page list of must-haves for their future newborns.

“If we don’t know what it is, do we really need it?” Chip looked up from flipping through the pages, his face hopeful. “That would eliminate half the stuff on here.”

I shook my head. “We need to find out what it is before we can disregard it.”

“That seems like a lot of work.”

Sometimes he’s such a guy. “I know, Chip, but imagine how much work it will be if we don’t have something we need and I have to run out and buy it while you sit at home with a screaming baby.”

He looked alarmed. “Good point.”

The woman seated behind the customer service desk finished with the couple in front of us and smiled as we stepped forward. “Hi. Welcome to Baby Bazaar.” She looked from the list in Chip’s hand to my rounded stomach. “Are you wanting to register?”

“Yes, but we aren’t familiar with a lot of things on this list.” I looked over Chip’s shoulder. “For instance, what’s a Boppy?”

Smiling, the woman held out her hand for the list. “We get asked that question every day.” She pointed to the heading on the page. “Do you see where it says nursing accessories here, and the aisle number?”

Chip and I nodded.

“That gives you a clue as to what the item is—something you would use if you plan to breastfeed. You can either look through the shelves in that section of the store to find the item yourself, or you can ask one of our sales associates to help you. In the case of the Boppy, you would go to the nursing accessories aisle and would find that it’s a nursing pillow that you can later use to help your baby learn to sit up.”

After she typed our names and due date into the computer, she reached under the counter and pulled out a scan gun. “We’ve made this as easy as we can on parents-to-be. If you see anything you want, just point, scan, and it will automatically be added to your registry. And if you want more than one item, scan the product the same number of times as the quantity you’d like.”

“You mean we get to zap stuff?” Chip looked excited at the prospect.

The saleswoman laughed and looked at me. “That’s another thing I run into every day. Dads aren’t too crazy about going shopping with their wives until I pull this out.” She placed the scan gun in Chip’s hand. “When you’re finished, bring the list and scanner back to me and we’ll print out your registry to make sure it accurately recorded what you wanted.”

I grabbed Chip’s arm as we left the registration area and headed to the first section of the store. “This makes it all seem so real!”

First we picked out items to baby-proof our home, like covers for electric sockets and safety latches for the kitchen and bathroom cabinets. Next we scanned the labels of pastel receiving blankets, wash cloths, hooded towels, and fitted crib sheets. We chose an electronic thermometer that determines body temperature in half the time of an adult thermometer, a folding washtub, a sleep positioner, and a nursery monitor. We scanned pacifiers, teeny nail clippers, a comb and brush set, and a beautiful eyelet-covered bassinet.

Since my and Chip’s tastes are pretty similar, we agreed in no time on a cheery lamb motif for the infant car seat, picked out a playpen (now called by the euphemism “play yard”), a collapsible stroller, and an open-top, battery-operated swing. My parents promised to buy us a light maple Jenny Lind crib and changing table for the nursery, so we skipped that section altogether.

Just about every mom I know decorated her baby’s room in either Pooh or Noah’s ark. I wanted our child’s room to be different from everyone else’s and chose a light blue and yellow plaid bedding for the crib.

Those were the highlights of our two-hour trek across Baby Bazaar. I didn’t look at baby blankets and clothes, since I’ve been told by numerous people that we will receive lots of those things at showers and as second-hand items from friends. It will be so nice, after all my trips to the department store to buy cute little outfits for my friends’ babies, to be the one getting the clothes for a change! There have been times I stood there in the middle of a department store, buying something for a friend, and had to blink back the tears.

Later I plan to scour eBay for a lamb border, lamb light switch plate, and lamb wall prints.

20 weeks

I’m not sure what Beck was thinking when she gave me the assignment. I still don’t know, now that I’ve completed it and turned it in. But it sure does seem odd that she would ask me to be the one to write the article on SHARE, a support organization for women who have experienced miscarriages, stillbirth, or newborn loss.

Maybe she thinks I’m a big girl and, as a reporter, I should be able to put my personal experience aside, bow into the wind, and do my duty. After all, how could she have known that the person I would wind up interviewing would have miscarried at twenty weeks… exactly the same place that I’m at in my own pregnancy?

It was so sad to hear the woman, Sherry, and her husband, Roy, recount their story. It was their first child (another similarity to my pregnancy) and they were so excited.

Everything had been fine, there was no warning, and then… BAM! On the day they went to the doctor to find out the sex of the baby, they not only found that they were to have a girl, but they also learned her kidneys had ceased working. What should have been a day of rejoicing became a day of sorrow.

It’s been seven years since that terrible day. They went on to experience two more pregnancies, neither with any complications whatsoever. Now they are the parents of a vivacious, beautiful girl named Mallory, 5, and a towheaded youngster who is the epitome of “all boy,” Harry, 3. And yet, there is still a pallor, a sadness, that hangs over this couple.

I don’t dare tell Chip any of this, as he’s an even bigger worrywart than I am. I’m trying to keep the emotions about the story at bay, to stop drawing any more comparisons, and I’m certainly putting the kibosh on dwelling on this any more than I have to.

But at the same time, I wish Beck had exercised a bit more discernment in assigning me this task.

Ugh! I have a strange growth on the inside of my upper arm. It’s like a deflated, flesh-colored balloon.

Why didn’t anybody mention this sort of thing? I have to believe it’s pregnancy-related, although neither What to Expect nor my favorite week-by-week Web site mention anything about weird growths.

I’ll have to ask Dr. Simmons the next time I’m in.

Month Five: October

Well, thanks to the archives of Web MD, it’s official.  As my stomach grows, my brain shrinks.

According to the article, a woman’s brain diminishes three to five percent during pregnancy and doesn’t return to its normal size until approximately seven months postpartum.

Intrigued by this bit of information, I promptly linked the article to my Facebook page and invited my friends to comment.  They were unanimous in their affirmation of the information, save Bonnie.

“Ellie, don’t you believe a word of it,” she wrote.  “Mine never did grow back.”

Preggy Brains 6, Golf shirts 0

If Dr. Simmons turns out to be completely wrong and we end up having a boy, we can just save Chip’s shirts for Percival III. Rather than fitting my six-foot-two husband, they now fit someone closer to two-foot-six.

My husband tried opening the door tonight but became so frustrated with the keys that he banged on the door and yelled for me to open it instead. It was my first clue that something hadn’t gone well at his job and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what had so quickly eclipsed the euphoria of finding out we were having a daughter. But being a pretty good wife, I asked anyway.

He shot me a hurt, angry look. “Everybody came up to me today wanting to know what we were having, and I was shocked to see how the guys responded.”

I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “It was there for only an instant, but in almost all of their eyes, I saw a flicker of pity or disappointment. They recovered quickly enough to shake my hand and tell me how great it was, but it was there.”

“Everybody did this?” I couldn’t believe it.

“No. Only the guys. And not all of them, but several.” He shook his head. “Like boys are better, somehow. You’re a girl, Ellie, and I like you better than anybody!”

Even when he’s furious at someone else, he can still manage to make me feel great. It’s just another reason he’ll make a wonderful dad.



Week 19

Chip and I are sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Simmons’ office, about to find out whether to paint the nursery seashell pink or cornflower blue. That is, of course, if the baby hasn’t inherited its father’s extreme sense of modesty. Chip wouldn’t even change in front of our next-door neighbors’ female Pomeranian when we dog-sat one weekend.

It’s so cliche to say it, but I would really be happy with either a boy or a girl. (Chip is reading over my shoulder and says he would too. And that he doesn’t appreciate the dog comment.) I speak for both of us when I say we’re just happy to be having a baby, period.

Oops, got to go. They just called our name. I'm so excited!

***

IT’S A GIRL! I can’t believe we’re going to have a girl. And I can’t believe how much she’s grown! I don’t know what she could possibly be noshing in there, but she was chewing. And she rolled. And she moved her arm up near her face. (Can you tell I’m smitten?) Her spine is perfectly formed. And so are her little toes! Chip went absolutely nuts when he saw those itty-bitty feet.

We’ve got new ultrasound pictures to tack onto the refrigerator, including one where the baby has a rascally expression that Chip insists looks just like him.

So it looks like the future holds dolls, stuffed animals, telephones, sleepovers, and dance lessons for the McAllisters. And lots of adorable little outfits that are definitely girly but not too fru-fru.

And most important, a mother who had better be ever-vigilant that her husband doesn’t get wound too tightly around this little one’s pinky.

Month Four: September

Somewhere in no-man’s land along I-16 between Savannah and Macon

Chip and I had to curtail our baby’s first in-utero trip to the Georgia coast. Relaxing on the windswept beach at Jekyll Island and running out for food ten times a day to appease the baby's appetite was pleasant enough until this morning, when the air conditioner broke in our car. Trust me, you don't want to be driving around in the coastal Georgia heat when you're pregnant. Currently all our windows are down as we head home but I'm getting little relief even at seventy mph. Carrying on a conversation with Chip above the roar is impossible.

We spent over a hundred dollars and three hours at the service station trying to determine the problem, apparently a blown fuse. We drove about five miles and reveled in the cool air blowing on us when we heard a “click” and the air started blowing hot again. Chip stopped at Walmart and bought a packet of fuses from the automotive department and we started back toward Atlanta, popping in new fuses as the old ones blew. Eventually that no longer worked, though.

You know how adversity often creates opportunity? The whole lemons and lemonade thing? Well, all that sweating (sorry, Miss Manners, but there's no way perspire is going to be an adequate word usage) has given me a terrific idea. If Georgia ever returns to the harrowing drought conditions of just a couple of years ago, at least now I’ve discovered the solution. Just put some pregnant women in a car without air conditioning. I'm thinking three would do it. And voila, there would be enough fluid streaming down the middle of their backs to overcome ANY drought.

15 weeks

My baby and I lay on the couch tonight in a sea of pillows to our aft and starboard sides. With all available sofa space allocated to women and children, Chip was relegated to the love seat, where he poked fun at the dudes and dudettes vying for love (or, at the very least, a Hollywood agent) on the latest reality show.

His insights into the rampant intellectual vacuity of the cast made me laugh throughout the first forty minutes. Toward the end of the hour, however, Chip made a quip that I didn’t get. To my chagrin I saw him in my peripheral vision, his eyes sparkling, as he waited expectantly for a laugh.

“Honey, did you hear me?” He gave me a playful poke, clearly not wanting his audience to desert him. “That was the best one of the night.”

“Um, yeah sweetie. I heard you.”

“You didn't think that was funny?” He looked incredulous. “C’mon. You know. From Fawlty Towers. Get it?”

I winced. How could I miss a zinger tied to my favorite television comedy? Sadly, try as I might, I didn't have the foggiest notion what he meant.

“You really don't know, do you?”

“No,” I wailed, hating the stupid thing I had become.

Baffled, Chip shook his head. But before long a sly smile spread across his lips, causing me much greater concern than his prior look of disbelief.

“What?” I demanded.

He shrugged, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me. What?”

He avoided my eyes. “It’s just that—”

“Just what?”

He looked me straight in the eye, the smirk still very much in place. “She would know.”

“She?”

“Yeah, you know. That other chick who looks a lot like you....”

One of us chicks promptly whacked him with a pillow.

I found out that little weasel, Opal, is trying to stir up trouble by making incendiary remarks about me.

When I answered my phone at work this afternoon, Jesse was on the other end. “Ellie, can you step into my office a minute?”

I wasn’t exactly worried as I crossed the newsroom because I know he likes me. But I was curious. My interaction with Jesse is typically pretty minimal. He’s got his hands full overseeing the copy desk, Beck, the sports editor, the news reporters, and correcting Beverly’s erroneous word usage, so he and I don’t speak much except to exchange pleasantries.

His eyes crinkled as I entered his doorway. “Thanks for seeing me, Ellie. Have a seat.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at his computer screen. “I have an e-mail here from Opal Haynesworth that I want to talk to you about.”

I shifted in my seat. “Okay.”

“It says, ‘Jesse, I am concerned for the Herald’s reputation. I have it on good authority that Ellie McAllister is alienating key residents of Peachtree County with her blatant disregard for accuracy and overall deficiency in knowing the right people to interview for her articles.”

I sat up straight and gripped the arms of my chair. “Does she have any proof?”

Jesse held up his hand and kept reading. “‘Recently, while on assignment for another publication to cover the unveiling of the new stained glass window at St. Mark’s Cathedral, I noticed Ellie among the invited media. As the afternoon wore on, both I and the leader of the women’s auxiliary, Clara Umbridge, became gravely concerned when Ellie did not take time to speak with Clara, whom I quoted extensively in my article. Ellie instead obtained her information from another source.’”

I crossed my arms. “That’s her beef?”

Jesse removed his glasses. “Except for a brief mention of your public library typo toward the end, that’s about it.”

It angered me to have to defend myself against such an asinine accusation. “Jesse, the source she’s referring to that I extensively quoted is none other than the pastor. I think everyone except Opal and her crony from the women’s auxiliary would pretty much agree that he’s certainly a valid spokesman. From what I understand, the church is on the verge of a split, led by none other than the women’s auxiliary head. If Opal defines good journalism as taking sides in a Hatfield-McCoy feud, then I'll just have to be a bad journalist.”

Jesse tried to stifle a smile, but there was no way he could extinguish the twinkle in his eyes. “Thanks for clearing things up.”

His voice stopped me as I was leaving. “Oh, and Ellie? Keep up the good work.”

Later, Beck paused by my desk after the daily editorial meeting. “Thought I’d let you know Jesse is cutting back the number of assignments we’re giving Opal.”

I kept typing. “You don't say?”

Chip and I saw Dr. Simmons this morning. Although we didn’t see another ultrasound, we did get to hear the baby’s heartbeat.

He (or she) is a rascally little critter. Our nurse had the dickens of a time trying to locate the baby. When she finally did, it decided it didn’t want anyone listening in and moved, giving the nurse a fit of giggles as she chased it across my stomach.

“I hope you’re quick on your feet!” She looked at me pointedly. “You’ve got an active one in there.”

Rather than the typical “thump-thump” of an adult heart, the baby’s heartbeat was much more rapid (one-hundred sixty, which the nurse said is completely normal). About the best way I can describe it is as a siren on whisper mode.

I’ve gained a couple of pounds and Dr. Simmons says everything looks great. For our next appointment we get to have another ultrasound and, if the baby is in a cooperative mood, can find out whether it’s a boy or a girl. Chip and I can hardly wait!

Second trimester: 14 weeks

According to my pregnancy books and online resources, some women can feel the baby as early as fourteen weeks, but I haven’t noticed anything different. Their description of what to look for isn’t helpful either. Apparently “quickening” is akin to looking at a piece of art: basically you could poll a hundred women and each one would describe it in as many different ways.

What’s really disappointing is that first-time mothers don’t know what to look for and therefore don’t recognize the movement until as late as twenty-four weeks—more than halfway through their pregnancy. With my luck, that will be me.

Speaking of polling women, I’m starting to get a little worried. Almost everyone I meet in the break room, no matter how svelte they are today, says they put on about sixty pounds when they were pregnant.

Sixty pounds! I was up fifteen pounds when I got pregnant, so I sure can’t afford another five dozen on top of that. I can’t bear the thought that I actually might weigh more than Chip before this is all over.

Cal, my best friend at the paper, gave me quite a shock today at lunch.

Things were rolling along as they usually do when we get together—no mention of the murder trial she was covering, just lots of laughter and total nonsense.

“So why does Beck call them the ‘Self-Righteous Brothers’?” Cal wanted to know as I pulled the latest CD by the local Poteet Boys from my purse. The quartet had sent it to me in the hopes of receiving a review.

“Well, for starters, track number one is called ‘You’ll Be Thankin’ Me in Heaven.’”

Cal tried to swipe the case from my hand, but I snapped my wrist back just enough to keep the CD out of reach.

“Ellie, it does NOT say that!”

“Au contraire. Here’s another one: ‘If I’da Been a Disciple, I’da Done it Right.’”

This time I definitely heard snorting.

Mercilessly, I continued. “Oh, and we mustn’t forget ‘You'll Be Lucky Just to See the Back of My Head (in Heaven).’”

At that point she disappeared from view, although I and the rest of the restaurant patrons could hear guffaws as she wallowed on her back on her side of the booth.

Finally she sat up, dabbing the corner of her eyes with her napkin. “Ellie, that’s just too funny. I think you made my week.” She sipped her water. “That baby must be getting all sorts of great endorphins from you.” She nodded at my stomach. “So what names are you and Chip considering?”

Smiling, I told her, just as I’d done with dozens of others before, that we didn’t plan to reveal that until after the baby was born.

To my surprise, her hand shot out and twisted my arm.

“Hey, that hurts,” I complained, trying to pull free.

Her grip intensified and her eyes bulged. “Don’t name it anything stupid.”

“Okay, okay, Norman Bates, you can let go now.” I started rubbing my arm the instant she released it. “Ow. That’s going to bruise.”

Looking shocked, Cal drew her hand back across the table and immediately resembled my friend again. “Ellie, I’m so sorry.” She looked as if she were going to cry.

Convinced that she meant it, I decided to let the trespass slide. “Hey, that’s all right.” I kept rubbing my wrist. “At least tell me what brought that on.”

Tears filled her eyes as she rummaged in her purse for a tissue. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—that—my mom named me something really dumb and I’ve hated it all my life.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Cal’s a great name. I wish my mom had named me something cool like that instead of Eleanor.”

She shook her head and picked at the lettuce on her plate. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet it was barely discernible. “Just like Ellie’s not your real name, Cal’s not mine. It’s a nickname too.”

“Really? So what’s your real name?”

She raised her head and measured me with puffy eyes. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

How could I say no? “Promise.”

Cal looked away, pursed her lips, and exhaled before turning her eyes back to me. “It’s Calgon.”

I blinked. “Calgon? You mean—”

“Like the bubble bath? Yeah. Do you know how many times I heard, ‘Calgon, take me away!’ in grade school? It got to the point where I had to leave the room every time those stupid commercials came on TV. My dad even went to see a lawyer about having my name changed.”

We sat without speaking for several moments as I digested my quiche along with what she’d just shared. “You know, I don’t want you to take this wrong,” I said, treading carefully in an attempt to avoid another outburst, “but I think the name really suits you.”

Cal looked skeptical. “How do you mean?”

“Look, you’re just associating Calgon with all the taunting you received as a kid. But the fact is, you’re someone refreshing to be around! Whenever I spend time with you, it’s like I’ve had a nap or something. I always leave feeling better than I did before we got together.”

“Really?” She acted like she didn’t believe me but wanted to. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No.”

“Thanks, Ellie. I really appreciate that.” Suddenly she grabbed my arm again. “But I’m not ready to make my real name public knowledge.”

Wanting to get my arm back unharmed, I assured her the information was strictly off the record.

Tito stuck it to me again today. He enjoys working with me and always holds me up to the rest of the reporters as some sort of paragon to emulate in filling out photo assignments. But I’m pretty sure he won’t be doing that anymore, unless it’s to use me as an example of what the photography department does not want the reporters doing.

On Wednesday I met with some kids from three different foster homes and interviewed them about their hopes and aspirations of being adopted into permanent families. They were so endearing and gave such great quotes that I knew the article would generate phone calls and inquiries from prospective mothers and fathers wanting to know more about these kids and others like them in foster care. And although money for these families is typically tight, as soon as the interview ended, the foster parents started chatting amongst themselves about how they planned to take the kids shopping for special clothes for the newspaper photos. I felt quite the heroine as I picked up my briefcase and told them when the story was scheduled to run and that the photographer would meet them Friday (today) for pictures.

Additionally, when I got back to the newsroom, Beck and I talked at length about the article and brainstormed about the layout and graphics we’d use in tandem with the heartwarming pictures taken by our crack photo staff.

So today I was sitting at my desk, working on a completely unrelated story, when the phone rang.

“Hi, Ms. McAllister? This is Melissa Jenkins. You came out and interviewed me and my foster kids on Wednesday.”

“Yes!” I beamed, settling back in my chair. I always love the after-interview phone call and mentally prepared myself to receive the verbal pats on the back that were sure to come in reference to my professionalism and the fine job I did the other day. Not to mention the ray of light and hope I was to her young charges.

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the photographer’s not here. We’ve been waiting over half an hour.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. It wasn’t like Tito to miss a photo assignment. I politely asked Melissa to hold and glanced at my watch. Tito ran behind sometimes, sure, but he always called whenever that happened. My indignation escalated with each press of the digits corresponding to his mobile number. My mind filled with images of the disappointed, cherubic faces of the foster kids who had gotten all gussied up for no reason. Tito had not only made me out to be a liar by failing to show when I told these people he would, but he was also a poor reflection on the newspaper. In my book, unforgivable.

He answered on the third ring with the happy, singing salutation he uses whenever his caller ID indicates someone from the newsroom is on the line. “Hell-o-o-o!”

“Tito! Where are you?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Ellie. Where are you?” I could tell by the roar that he was in his car, windows down, driving somewhere in Peachtree County.

“Ellie? You don’t sound like yourself.”

I thought of a few choice words that would really sound unlike me, but I managed to keep them to myself. “Tito, you’re thirty minutes late. These foster kids are really counting on you.”

I heard papers rustle and imagined him in my mind's eye rifling through the photo assignments piled on the passenger seat. Organized disorganization, he called it. In my opinion it always looked like a mess, but it had always worked before. Until now.

“Nope, sorry, Ellie. I don’t have a photo assignment for foster kids.”

“Tito, check that rat’s nest again.”

“Ellie, I’m telling you—it’s not here.”

“Hang on.” I placed him on hold and pressed the blinking light on my phone.

“Melissa? Thanks for holding. We’re just trying to sort out what’s going on here. I’ll be right back.”

Spurred by raging pregnancy hormones, I jumped up and stormed into the photography office. Whenever we leave photo assignments on the photographers’ desks, we also note it in the assignment book, so there’s a fail-safe in place that lets the photogs know that they should always have an assignment to match what’s in the book. Yanking the assignment book off the desk, I ran my finger down the page and looked for my handwriting next to three o’clock. That would prove I had filled out the assignment and that the irresponsible dufus had lost it.

Except... the blank was empty.

Slinking back to my desk, I pulled open the drawer where I file all the information for the articles I’m working on and pulled out the manila folder for the foster families story. As I opened it, the missing photo assignment slid onto my desk.

It took quite a bit of sweet-talking to get Tito to forgive my assumption that he had messed up, but the kids got their pictures taken, which is what really counts—even though it means I’ll have to eat crow over the next two weeks whenever I see a certain photographer swaggering my way.

As I related the entire debacle to Chip, he struggled to keep the corners of his mouth straight.

“Don’t you dare call me Preggy Brains,” I warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, turning his head to smirk.

Literalist. I distinctly heard him mutter the initials “P.B.” as he strode from the room.

13 weeks

Chip and I were among several couples at a cookout this weekend. As always happens at these things, the men congregated around the television to watch sports and the women gathered in the kitchen where they jostled infants and looked out the window to keep an eye on their youngsters in the back yard.

The female conversation was punctuated by mothers getting up from their perches to bang on the window and holler at their offspring. “Billy! Stop throwing dirt at your sister!”

In the living room, the men punctuated hollering at the television with conversation about current events. “C’mon, Hawkins, try not to drop the ball this time! Did they ever catch that guy who held up Gunter's Restaurant? Oh, for crying out loud, Wilkins, my five-year-old can throw better than that!”

I’m no sports fan, but I longed to join the men. All the women talked about were stinkies, spit up, and scrap booking. What their little angel did today. What their little angel is doing tomorrow. Is that all mothers talk about? During the birthing process, along with the baby and the placenta, do women also deliver their ability for intelligent discourse?

Forgive the pun, but I don’t think I can bear it.

Wait... what happens if I DO turn into one of these women? Chip married me for my brains as well as my body, and I think we can pretty much write off the latter after this pregnancy (have you SEEN what havoc nine months can wreak on a formerly hot woman who doesn't have the financial means to get lipo and no inclination whatsoever to work out? Sheesh). So if I do become a babbling fount of inanities who can't connect with my husband (much less anyone else) on any other level than what the baby did or said or ate or pooped, maybe Chip will turn to someone else for lively conversation. Maybe it will be another woman. A hot woman. A hot, interesting, smart woman. Like I used to be.

Oh my gosh, he's going to have an AFFAIR! He can't do that to me! We have a child together, for crying out loud! How dare he! What if he leaves me and the baby for her?

Wait, what am I saying... this is ridiculous. I can't believe I'm even worried about Chip leaving me. Get a grip, Ellie. You know better than that.

You'd kick his sorry butt to the curb if he ever cheated on you. ;)

This pregnancy has made me aware of a subject just as divisive and hotly debated as religion or politics: whether you should find out the sex of your baby. Two camps exist in this debate, and there are strong feelings on both sides.

“How can you possibly want to know?” chided Misty from the ad department. “I wanted it to be a surprise, like Christmas.”

Well, gee, lady, there are some people who spend the weeks before Christmas hunting down the places their parents hide their gifts because they can’t bear to wait.

“I wanted to have something to look forward to after all that pushing,” said the Herald’s editorial assistant, Gina.

What’s there not to look forward to? Unless you do a four-dimensional ultrasound, you have no idea what your baby looks like, and even that can’t tell you his or her personality.

Besides, who wants a bunch of green and yellow baby clothes?

12 weeks

People really do say the most stupid, thoughtless things when you’re pregnant. I was talking with a group of women after church when Maggie, a seasoned mother of four, started speaking rather loudly to an expectant mother next to me.

“Honey, if you’ve been throwing up a lot, that’s good, ’cause it means your baby’s healthy.”

Excuse me, but I haven’t been sick once, and I don’t appreciate the inference that if I’m not tossing my pickles and ice cream, there’s something wrong. But instead of blurting out what was on my mind, I took a more tactful approach. “I haven’t been sick at all,” I murmured.

Talk about instant change. Maggie immediately went from staunch and authoritarian to concerned and apologetic. “Oh, honey, I’m sure your baby’s fine.”

Later, Bonnie and I commiserated over lunch.

“Ellie, don’t worry about it. I heard the most ridiculous things when I was pregnant. ‘If you have lots of heartburn, it means your baby will have lots of hair.’ I supplemented my diet with Tums and both my babies were bald. ‘If your stomach’s upset, it means you’re having a boy, because it’s a scientific fact that the male hormones make you sick.’ I had morning sickness with Amy and none whatsoever with Matt. So much for science.”

And old wives’ tales.

Thanks to a prank pulled by my rascally husband, I found myself in a pretty awkward situation yesterday.

See, there's this beautiful picture frame Chip purchased for the monthly profile shot of me and my belly. While the frame itself is gorgeous, the faux snapshot that comes with it is not.

I have never seen such an ugly baby in my life, and I'm typically pretty generous when it comes to finding beauty. I can usually find some facet of loveliness to focus on that transforms the rest of the image.

Not this time.

There's a Seinfeld episode where Jerry, Elaine, George, and Kramer have a friend who keeps insisting, “You gotta see the bay-bee. You gotta see the bay-bee!” Jerry and his friends finally give in but can't look for more than a second without jerking their heads away in horror. Kramer actually goes into spasms at the sight.

It's that bad.

I can't help but wonder about the back story behind that photograph. Of all the cute babies on earth, why would anyone use that one? Was it the child or grandchild of the president of the frame company? Or maybe this same president and his/her spouse got a divorce, and the judge decided to divvy up the company profits between them. In an effort to stick it to the ex, the president found the ugliest photo he/she could find and put it in the picture frame to discourage any sales.

Whatever the case, Chip and I had a good laugh over the photo and started passing it back and forth, kind of like Hot Potato. It's like the thing had bad mojo, and neither of us wanted to be the one stuck with it. So then he took it to a whole new level, pretending to be mature about it and letting me think I had won. Until later in the evening when I turned the covers down and found the thing nestled beneath the sheets on my side of the bed.

Not to be outdone, I unrolled the toilet paper roll just enough to slide the picture in where my husband would find it the next time he visited the bathroom. I heard a laugh shortly after he went in there. Minutes later he came into the bedroom with a big grin on his face, shaking his finger at me.

I didn't think much more about it until yesterday afternoon when I opened my notepad to conduct an interview with the newly elected state senator from Peachtree County. I turned the page and there was that photo, looking like the genetic mutation produced by lab experiments in the recent horror film Splice. It was all I could do to keep a straight face and not burst into laughter.

So how am I getting him back? Let's just say a bunch of TSA agents out at the airport should be getting a pretty good laugh at my husband's newly doctored identification badge right about now.

Month Three: August

Life has become predictable and formulaic. Everyone who hasn’t seen me for several days gingerly sidles up with a concerned look on their face and asks, “How are you feeling?” I know they care for my well-being, but I’m pregnant, for crying out loud, not suffering from dementia.

The ones who are just now finding out my good news go down the same litany of questions when they find out. I feel like standing there and using my fingers to tick off each question as they come, without fail, one after another:

1. “Have you been sick at all?”

2. “When are you due?”

3. “Are you going to find out what you’re having?”

4. “What names have you picked out?”

It really takes the spice out of life to answer the same questions all the time, day in and day out. To quote Ursula K. LeGuin, “The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.”

Chip says I’m just being crotchety.

Preggy Brains 4, Golf shirts 0

My friend Terri loaned me one of her pregnancy books which gives a week-by-week account of what’s going on with my body and the baby. I love reading about the approximate size and length of my little one but hate the authors’ inclusion of all the things that could go wrong at each point in the pregnancy. It’s become so bad that I’ve started envisioning a couple of sadistic, misogynistic MDs collaborating on the book, laughing maniacally as they smoke cigars and type another chapter.

It’s kind of like being single and having someone tell you all the wonderful attributes of the guy she’s set you up with, then caution you that he might have a criminal record, multiple personalities, or a current marriage license. Are those things possible? Sure. Are they likely? No. Is it possible to still go on the date and enjoy yourself? Fat chance. More than anything, it would make you wonder if the so-called friend had your best interest in mind.

I’ve grown weary of wondering if my baby will grow a second head, an eleventh finger, or will even make it until next week. I’m returning the book to Terri, even though the authors undoubtedly would caution against it. No doubt they would suggest I run the risk of getting into a traffic accident on the way home.

11 weeks

Of the sixty-seven maternity castoffs given to me by friends, I can actually use four.

When you’re expecting, all your formerly pregnant friends see you as a dumping ground for their maternity wear. It doesn’t matter that the items are stained, ripped, reek of mothballs, are four sizes too small, or were fashionable during the 1980s. They have great sentimental value to these women, and they want to pass all their wonderful memories off to you.

I’ve found protesting, even when interspersed with logic, doesn’t work. “Mary Jane, I appreciate the gesture, but you weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet when you were pregnant with twins, so I really don’t think these jeans will fit.”

“Just try them,” she’ll invariably reply. “You might be surprised.”

What she means is, “Don’t be silly! I don’t want to cheapen all my wonderful prenatal experiences by abandoning them to GoodWill, so I’m giving my clothes to you and making myself feel good in the process. You really don’t want to rob me of that, do you?”

So in my friends’ efforts to do me a favor, they’ve given me more work to do as I haul yet another bag of unfashionable tatters to the nearest charitable donation center.

I wonder if any future pregnant friends will realize what a huge favor I’m doing them when I don’t offer them any of my old maternity clothes.

Beck’s words haunted me last night. I dreamt Opal and her miniskirt were chasing me, trying to overtake me and my job.

I felt better this morning, though, upon remembering that Jesse has kept on Beverly Fields, a once-brilliant political reporter in her mid-sixties who’s beginning to go a bit loopy. Because Jesse always reads Beverly’s copy first, no one realized there was anything amiss until a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving when he went on vacation.

When Beverly’s articles went straight to the copy desk, the copy editors quickly discovered that she has a penchant for mixing up words that sound alike. Not just common flubs like “specific” and “Pacific,” but far more dangerous mistakes. It was all they could do not to howl as they fixed Beverly’s column on the anniversary of JFK’s assassination and the frequent references to the Texas Book Suppository.

I felt nauseated for the first time this morning. Not because of morning sickness, but because the newsroom received a visit from Opal Haynesworth. In a miniskirt.

Honestly, when AARP sends out welcome kits to people on their fiftieth birthdays, they really ought to include a sentence in the cover letter about how any members showing leg above the knee will be automatically excommunicated and their senior citizen’s discounts irreparably revoked. Tina Turner and Valerie Bertinelli excepted.

As her name suggests, Opal hails from the time period when it was vogue to name your daughter after a rare mineral. Ruby or Pearl, for example. And like many of the women I’ve known bearing those names, there’s a hardness about her. She doesn’t have time to dally with young whippersnappers like most of us staffing the newsroom and makes it clear in any and all contact, whether via telephone, e-mail, or in person. She’s like Descartes in a dark mood: “You exist, therefore I hate you.”

Opal’s father owned a newspaper, which not only means she automatically (and erroneously) assumes she can write, but also that she also grew up believing she could write whatever she wanted. So when any copy editor judiciously cuts her lengthy diatribes against Peachtree County residents whose only real crime is to have a greater net worth than she has, Opal invariably calls the newsroom and rails. I always know who’s on the line when the copy desk chief answers and holds the receiver a foot from his ear.

Jesse Miln, the Herald’s editor-in-chief, asks Beck to assign Opal a story on occasion simply, I think, to get her out of his hair. Or at least out of his office. Not liking the freelancer any more than the rest of us, Beck complies out of deference for Jesse and nothing more.

It was just such an assignment that brought the yippy little Chihuahua to the paper today.

“Ellie, I just loved your library story,” Opal oozed as she breezed past my desk on the way to speak with Beck. “It’s amazing the things you can learn about your own county when you read the paper.”

“Thanks,” I replied, not bothering to look up from my computer. “And hey, I really like that skirt. That’s a great look for you.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lisa, the graphics editor, nearly spew her Coke as she clamped her hand over her mouth and doubled over in her chair.

Opal stopped and turned. “Do you really think so? I wondered if this look might be a bit young for me.”

I’m not much of a poker face, but get me riled enough, and I can pull it off. “Opal, trust me. You keep wearing skirts like that, and I can assure you heads will turn.” To retch in the trash can, anyway, I fired off in an instant message to Lisa.

“Thanks.” Opal smiled, looking like she thought I might have good sense after all.

“Don’t mention it.”

Beck came and sat on the edge of my desk after Opal left. “Be careful, Ellie. She’s after your job, you know.”

I crossed my arms. “You’d actually fire me and hire her?”

“No. But my decision isn’t the final one, and she’s just waiting for you to slip up.”

“You can’t be serious.” I could not believe the man sitting across from me was the same one who had objected to naming our prospective daughter Alannah because the name sounded too much like the state capital. But then I remembered there are men who experience sympathy pregnancy symptoms along with their wives, so maybe my husband was dealing with his own case of preggy brains.

Still, I was incredulous. “Portia? You would actually name our daughter Portia?”

Chip raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. You're right. That was dumb.” He scratched through the name on the piece of paper he held and sighed. “Your turn.”

“Holly.”

He shook his head. “You don't want people associating our daughter with anything prickly. Besides, you're due in February, not December.”

“Valentine, then?”

“Be serious.”

These were just the most recent casualties we’d tossed out and subsequently backed over in a bid to find a girl’s name we both liked.

I loved Emma but he thought it was too trendy. He loved Emily but I didn’t care for it. And on it went, until we struck through all the names on each of our lists.

We haven’t reached a consensus yet, but we did agree on one thing: God sure knew what he was doing when he decided the length of a woman’s gestation would be nine months. Apparently that’s just about the length of time a husband and wife need in order to figure out what to call the little booger.

I sent out a press release today announcing my pregnancy to the newsroom:

From: Ellie McAllister

To: Newsroom

Subj: McAllister expansion

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Features reporter Ellie McAllister announced today that she is embarking on a new venture of personal expansion and growth. Accompanying her on this developing project is her husband, Chip, and a silent partner who is working closely with the couple to make the aforementioned possible.

In other words, guys… I’m pregnant!

Throughout the day, as each of the reporters arrived for work or returned from an interview, the clack of the keyboards and hum of the computers were punctuated with gasps and, from the desks of Jamie and Cal, squeals. I loved getting all of the e-mail replies, with the exception of one.

“I hope you get your addiction under control before the baby arrives. —Penelope.”

Earlier this week, our families. Today, our friends!

Chip and I wanted to make sure we shared our good news with all our closest friends at once, so last weekend we came up with the strategy of inviting eight couples to our home this afternoon for a cookout. Despite our one-week notice, actually getting them over was like herding cats. I’ve never heard so many excuses.

“Our parents are in town for our son’s birthday, so we can’t make it.”

“We already made plans to go rafting with my extended family.”

“I really need to visit my mom.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a meeting earlier in the day.”

And so on.

As a matter of fact, the Mortons and Andersens were the only couples who said yes immediately, which left me pretty miffed with our older friends. But, to my relief, couple by couple they called to say they could make it.

All the women flocked around Millie, who is seven-months pregnant with her first child, while the men stood around the grill cooking hot dogs and hamburgers. After dinner Chip set up his marker board in the family room for a game of Pictionary and divided us into two teams, the men against the women.

When my turn came, I drew a stick figure of a woman and added a huge stomach. “Pregnant!” My teammates screamed. I nodded and pointed to the figure again.

“Millie!” cried her husband, Bob, and everyone laughed.

I shook my head and pointed again.

“Ellie!” my husband yelled.

With that single word, our game of Pictionary turned to freeze tag.

“Did he say Ellie?” whispered my best friend, Bonnie.

Chip’s eyes gleamed. “Yep.” He stood, put his arm around me, and turned to look at our friends’ gaping mouths. “We’re pregnant!” he underlined.

The room erupted in a cacophony of screams, well-wishes, hugs, pats on the back, and handshakes.

Everyone wanted to know how far along (ten weeks), if I’d been sick (no), and whether I had any symptoms early on (mind-loss). Chip and I wanted to know if any of them had suspected anything, and they all swore they had no idea. I felt like we pulled off quite a coup, the equivalent of a stealth, secret mission that no one in the public sector knew about until the good guys were on the plane home.

My wedding day notwithstanding, it was the closest thing to celebrity I’ll ever experience.

We saw Dr. Simmons today and, for the first time, our baby! I tried to contain my excitement as I sat in the waiting room while Chip paced back and forth. He’d never accompanied me to any OB-GYN appointments before and was nervous.

When the nurse called my name, she asked Chip to remain in the waiting area, assuring him she’d get him when she and the doctor were ready. I didn’t have to see his face to know he didn’t like being left behind.

As I followed the nurse through the door she introduced herself as Karen and asked for the requisite urine sample. (No problem there.) Next she asked me to step on the scale. Not wanting to add another five pounds, I shed my purse and watched the red electronic numbers race to an even one-forty. I wondered how long that figure would last and how much worse it would get before the fat lady sang. (Maybe not the best analogy.) Karen asked me to have a seat in the lab chair, took my blood pressure, and wanted to know the last date of my period.

Everything was pretty routine up until that point. I’d undergone all those tasks and answered that question during each of my annual visits, but that’s where the GYN visit took the OB exit. Karen produced a chart and consulted it to determine my estimated due date.

“February fourteenth.” She looked up, smiling. “Valentine’s Day.”

She took my blood pressure and drew some blood before leading me to an exam room with an ultrasound machine. Instructing me to undress completely and put on the hospital gown, she left saying that Dr. Simmons would see me shortly.

Moments later Chip came through the door, brightened when he saw me, then frowned when he realized I was by myself. “You mean we have to wait some more?”

I assured him everything was completely normal and told him that it’s just how medical offices operate. He muttered and began pacing again.

Just about the time I felt I would snap from being in a confined space with my agitated husband, we heard a soft rap at the door and Dr. Simmons entered. He shook Chip’s hand in introduction before turning to inquire how I was feeling. Taking a seat, the doctor crossed his legs and acted like he had all the time in the world to spend with us.

“Ellie, do you have any questions or concerns that I may address?”

I nodded. “I’m thirty-five, so I’m concerned about the health of the baby.”

Dr. Simmons was so mild-mannered and slow to respond that I wondered if he had heard me or died on the spot. (Chip later told me he’s concerned that Simmons might not respond quickly enough in an emergency.) But the doctor eventually did speak and pulled out a graph along with statistics confirming that the number of birth defects did, indeed, increase with age. Nevertheless, he also pointed out that even women over age forty who can keep from miscarrying have an 87.5 percent chance of giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby.

I exhaled, not even realizing I’d been holding my breath. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

Simmons smiled. “Well, would the two of you like to see your baby?”

“You bet!” Chip said. I bit my lip and nodded.

Dr. Simmons turned out the light so we could see the image more clearly. I held my breath again as he poked and prodded until something appeared on the monitor.

Never in my life have I seen anything more beautiful than that tiny little figure with the enormous eyes, protruding belly, and flapping arm buds. As I watched our baby’s heart beating on the black and white monitor, I felt a tear slide down my face and pool against my cheek on the examining table.

Chip was beside himself and the happiest I’ve seen in a long time. “How about that?” he kept saying with a grin and shake of the head. He even waved at the screen and said, “Hey there, baby!” not caring that the nurse stood snickering in the corner.

I loved Chip’s hand on my shoulder and face next to mine as we gazed at the image of our little one. He kissed my forehead as we watched the baby move. How fitting that our estimated due date, or “go time,” as Chip calls it, is Valentine’s Day.

We laughed and chatted all the way home as we formulated a plan to tell our families. Chip bounded in the front door and immediately picked up the phone. We’d decided to call his mom under the guise of updating her on the latest news about some friends from high school that he’s kept in touch with over the years.

“Oh, Mom, that reminds me. I forgot to tell you.” He threw me a sly look. “You’ll never guess who’s going to have a baby.”

“Who?”

Chip held out the phone so we could speak simultaneously. “We are!”

I’ll never forget how her laughter and excitement bubbled through the receiver.

Next he called his older brother, the sire of five youngsters. I could hear the “Awww!” from across the room.

Chip and I went to our favorite steakhouse to celebrate and ordered the works, propping the ultrasound picture against the salt and pepper shakers. The waitress spotted it, asked if congratulations were in order, then proceeded to regale us for the next ten minutes about her pregnancy and the ensuing infancy of her now one-year-old son. When she finally left with our order, Chip looked at me. “I’m not putting up with that for the next seven months. That was exhausting.”

Sorry, bud, but when I start showing, I don’t think you’ll have much choice.

Since my parents live in town, we wanted to tell them in person and called them after leaving the restaurant. I told my dad we were going to be in the neighborhood and asked if we could drop by. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d said no! After all, he and Mom have been waiting for this as long as we have.

Before I got out of the car, I stuck the sonogram picture in with some photos Chip and I took at the family gathering on July Fourth. Once inside I sat between my parents to show them the prints. About seven pictures into the stack, the ultrasound came up. In my peripheral vision I saw both my parents start, then break into a hullabaloo of hugs, laughter, and tears.

What a wonderful day.

Just discovered a little gem of an article from the British Journal of Psychiatry released back in February claiming preggy brains is a myth.

I don't know what those researchers were smokin', but I'm living proof that they are dead wrong. And I have grave doubts about the women they studied as well.

Apparently an Australian National University team tracking the mental health of 7,500 random subjects from Oz came up with the finding. Now, I've read In a Sunburned Country so I know Australia is an unusual continent. Much of its interior is unexplored. Some of the world's deadliest snakes, spiders, and other creatures are native to Australia. Some of the oddest creatures in the world hail from Australia, like the majority of marsupials, the platypus, and Russell Crowe. So maybe its women are odd as well (once again, SO grateful this is a private blog and not being viewed by the world at large!).

Come to think of it, Nicole Kidman barely looked pregnant when she gave birth, and two weeks after the baby was born, you couldn't even tell the actress had ever been pregnant. Now that's certainly not normal.

I feel so much better. Apparently I have ample reason not to listen to the findings of a bunch of Aussies, about a bunch of Aussies, published in the medical journal of a kingdom that formerly ruled the Aussies.

Phew.

What is the deal with my going to the bathroom all the time? I thought that would come much later, when the baby was big enough to sit on my bladder. I know the people at work must think I’ve got a kidney infection. Or, in the case of Penelope, that I’m shooting up in the stall. I keep waiting for my name to be chosen for the paper’s “random” drug testing.

This frequent call-of-nature really is starting to get annoying. Just when I hit my stride on an article, or right in the middle of a phone interview, whoops, got to go. And it’s not like the restroom is right there by the newsroom. Uh-uh. I’ve got to walk all the way to the other end of the building.

I wonder what other treasures are in store for me over the next seven months?

Well, that was a comical clothing store visit. Just for fun, I tried on some maternity stuff, and boy did I look and feel ridiculous! After getting lost in a sea of fabric that the label identified as a blouse, I finally managed to poke my head through the neck hole only to find I was wearing a deflated dinghy. I can’t believe I’m actually going to grow big enough to wear such a thing. I double-checked the tag before returning it to the rack just to make sure I had a medium.

Even worse, I think all the cute maternity pants were low-rise. Who thought that up? A man? A twenty-two-year-old female designer who hadn’t seen a pregnant belly up close before? Gross. I want my stomach completely covered, not playing peek-a-boo with strangers on the street (or people I actually know, for that matter).

I’m so glad the pants with the elastic waist fit. Before I tried them on, it was like I was in pregnancy limbo—not small enough to wear my regular clothes, but certainly not big enough to wear maternity couture.

Speaking of clothes, it looks like I’m not the only one who’s going to be needing some this pregnancy. We’re going to have to take out a loan to refurbish Chip’s wardrobe. In the past I’ve always thrown his golf shirts in the dryer for just ten minutes to get the wrinkles out before hanging up the shirts to air dry. If I leave them in the dryer any longer they’ll shrink. But now that I’m pregnant, I can’t remember to take the shirts out, and I certainly can’t remember to set the kitchen timer just ten yards away. No matter how much I stand there tossing clothes in the dryer while repeating the mantra “set the timer, set the timer, set the timer,” as soon as the laundry room door shuts, I’ve forgotten. I would just set the dryer for ten minutes if I could ever think of it.

Score so far: Preggy Brains 2, Golf shirts 0.

I had to retire some clothes today. Good-bye, size ten pants! See you in the spring (I hope). My husband offers me no empathy. He just grins as I wail about how nothing fits anymore. It’s not that I’ve gained any weight. It’s that all my poundage has migrated to my waistline.

Back during my sophomore year in college, I had to endure a daily visual assault of my English prof’s bulging stomach and ample hindquarters stretching her knit pants to capacity. By the time spring break rolled around, I’d sworn off any garments involving elastic waistbands and drawstrings. Ever. So it’s a bit embarrassing to confess clothes with these once-shunned characteristics are looking pretty good right about now. At Chip’s insistence, I plan to shop for some this evening. He’s been on me about smooshing his baby.

I knew the jig was up this afternoon when Penelope accosted me in the hall at the Herald.

“McAllister, a word,” she squawked, jerking her head toward the break room.

Never good at coming up with excuses to get me out of undesirable situations, I dutifully followed.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, crossing her arms. “I know what’s going on.”

I feigned nonchalance. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play innocent with me.”

“Honestly, Penelope, I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”

“The tiredness. The paleness. The increase in appetite. The shakes.” She nodded, her eyes slits. “I know.”

My cheeks grew hot. Was it that obvious? Could people tell I was pregnant before my waistline (noticeably) started expanding? Would I be forced to divulge my secret because of this wily, observant old bird? Penelope was certainly not at the top of the list of people I wanted to tell. I believe there’s a sacredness attached to announcing that I’m carrying a new life inside me, and to have to reveal it to her before anyone else bordered on the profane.

“Here.” She pressed a slip of paper in my hand. “Call them. They’ll help.” She turned with a flounce of her layered skirt and left the room.

Bewildered, I unfolded the piece of paper and stared at the chicken scratch before throwing my head back to laugh. Of course. She had just done a series on addiction.

Narc-Anon: 404-708-3219

As long as Penelope doesn’t do any stories on telepathy, my secret is safe.

Even though I’m so tired, I’m having difficulty sleeping. I only get six hours a night now instead of the usual eight. When I do sleep, it’s filled with strange dreams. I spent last night picking chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in pastel foils from our blueberry bushes.

So far I haven’t had any real food cravings, except an odd penchant for anything green. On the flip side, I’ve an aversion to the McAllister mainstays of tacos, fried chicken, and hamburgers. Yuck. Just the thought is unpleasant. And the smell, intolerable. Even so, still no morning sickness!

Why is it that pregnancy affects women so differently? I've been reading What to Expect When You're Expecting and it seems what is true for some women is the antithesis in others. Take, for example, skin. The book poses a question from a woman who complains that her face is breaking out just like she's a teenager again, yet in my case, my complexion has never looked better.

I've heard women swear that their hair looked like something straight out of a conditioner commercial when they were pregnant and others gripe that every day was a bad hair day. Some women exude that rosy glow and others look haggard. Their feet balloon or don't, bust increases or remains status quo, belly button pops or doesn't; whatever the case, pregnancy truly is a unique experience.

Once again, I did something uncharacteristically absentminded today (but of course, try as I might, I can’t remember what). However, I do remember what happened next.

Instead of calling me Preggy Girl, that endearing term of wonderment and goodness, Chip morphed it into the incarnation of memory lapses and foibles afflicting a once-sharp mind.

My nemesis.

The Hyde to my Jekyll.

“Preggy Brains.”

There’s been a moratorium placed on his calling me that again.

Little One, I think about you all the time and wonder what you’ll be like. Indigo eyes like your daddy's or green like mine? Dark brown hair like my relatives' or light brown like his? Will you inherit your grandfather’s crooked smile and dimples? And what about your personality? Will you laugh and find joy in life, or will you be all business?

You’ll be such a welcome part of the family celebrations that we hold each holiday at the home of your great-grandparents, like the cookout your father and I went to this afternoon. Even though no one on either side of the family has ever badgered us about having children, it was so hard not to say anything to them about you today. I can’t wait to see their faces when we tell them you’re on the way!

My child (I just love writing that!), if you and your spouse decide to keep your pregnancy to yourselves after finding out that you’re expecting someday, only then will you understand how difficult it is to keep such a wonderful thing secret. When Granny G. asked me and your Aunt Linda to insert the leaf in the oak dining room table, I confess I pretended to pull on my side. But in truth, I let your aunt do all the work. It was just too heavy to take any chances. I wonder if your aunt noticed. I also stopped myself from having a slice of the apple cake after Granny G. revealed she had made it with artificial sweetener on account of Granddad’s diabetes. You were foremost in my mind when I refused that piece of caffeine-laden fudge pie, too.

Could you feel the boom of the fireworks tonight as they exploded overhead? Did you wonder what they were?

There’s so much I look forward to sharing with you and experiencing through your eyes. Know that I pray for you often and ask the Lord to watch over you.

Month Two: July

I did something today that I haven’t done in nearly twelve years. I locked my keys in the car. I also locked my wallet and lunch in it too, meaning no food and no trip to the snack machine during the two hours I spent waiting for the auto club. (Yes, that’s right, I chose to do this on a day when Chip was out of town.) In ravenous pregnant-woman terms, two hours without food is the equivalent of two days for members of the non-pregnant population.

When the auto club rep finally arrived, I didn’t know whether to kiss him out of gratitude or harangue him for taking so long. I did try to ignore Penelope’s watchful eyes as I returned to my desk and, with trembling hands, drew slices of bell pepper from my recently recovered lunch bag.

Getting ready for work each morning is exhausting now. I can’t even stand up for the ten minutes it takes to put on my makeup. By the time I’ve eaten, showered, ironed, eaten, dressed, and eaten, I’m ready to go back to bed. How will I ever make it through the next eight or so months?

At night, I fall asleep on the couch between ten and ten-thirty despite my efforts to remain awake and keep Chip company. After all, these next few months will be our last opportunity to enjoy we-time for the next two decades.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m so glad this baby is on the way.

I’m so glad Chip and I are going through this together. We talk about the baby all the time and he even gets excited when I tell him my clothes aren’t fitting right anymore or that I’m suddenly tired or that I was starving the other day.

He places his mouth against my stomach every day, a couple of times a day, and talks to the baby. I don’t know why, but I really love it when he does that. When he’s out of town he tells me he misses talking to the baby, and I love that too.

I have no doubt he will make a terrific father.

Keeping things under wraps is difficult. Jamie, our business reporter, is two months further along in her pregnancy than I am, and there are tons of women at church who are expecting.

I’m pretty sure Penelope, the Herald’s hypochondriac health reporter, suspects something. I’ve looked up several times to find her watching me from her desk in the far corner of the newsroom.

I don’t know which came first, the hypochondria or her beat, but she’s got the worst case of psychologically induced illnesses I’ve ever seen. Whatever she’s investigating, she’s got, prostate cancer excepted. I think the time she wrote about psoriasis was the worst. Just being around her constant scratching convinced the rest of the newsroom we had it.

The good news is, she’s so well-informed about every possible ailment that she probably won’t guess my true diagnosis. And since she’s so frequently out sick, she won’t be around to tell anyone if she does happen to guess correctly.

Chip told me yesterday that he wants to keep our secret for as long as possible in order to put off hearing all the pregnancy horror stories people feel compelled to share. Here’s a sample of actual comments made over the years to our pregnant friends:

• "You're sure you're not carrying triplets? 'Cause honey, you're big enough to be carrying triplets. Here, hold my purse a sec. I want to take a picture of you on my cell phone. Nobody on Facebook is going to believe you're just carrying one."

• “You’re thirty-five? My aunt waited until she was thirty-five to have a baby. Poor Cousin Emmett. All the kids made fun of him because he was touched in the head.”

• “Yeah, by the time the baby finally came out, the place looked like a crime scene. There was blood everywhere.”

• “You’re pregnant? That’s great! I had a friend who was pregnant.” Pause. “She died.”

My brain seized up today in mid-conversation with Chip. All of the sudden, without warning… nothing. The thought simply vanished. I never did think of what I was going to say.

As he watched me struggle, a look of recognition crossed his face. Chip later told me he was recalling all the stories our friends had shared about their experiences with mind-loss during pregnancy and realized it had finally happened to us.

Mustering up a mock-sad expression, he stuck out his hand and said, “It’s been nice knowing you.”

Glad one of us finds my own personal Flowers for Algernon so amusing.