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.

Chip and I went to see a movie today at the new local cineplex. While he stood in line for popcorn and drinks I went looking for the bathroom.

Since I'm basking in the nuances of this whole pregnancy experience, anything that hints of motherhood shows up rather quickly on my radar. So, when I walked into the brand-new restroom and saw the shiny, stainless-steel urinal, I thought it was quite thoughtful of the cinema's designers to include it for all the moms taking their little boys to the bathroom.

Just a nanosecond later my rational, normal neurons fired and I realized I was not standing in the middle of a women's restroom designed by a thoughtful architect, but was standing in a regular men's room designed by a regular architect who obviously wasn't suffering from pregnancy-related dementia when the plans were drawn.

Thank goodness I was able to get out of the men's room and into the right bathroom without anyone but me knowing of my blunder.

Chip and I just had our first disagreement as parents. The subject matter?

Baby names.

We’re usually on the same page about most things, so it was a bit of a surprise when he reacted so violently to my suggestion.

“Alannah? Uh-uh. It sounds too much like the way we pronounce ‘Atlanta.’ I don’t want people to think we’re naming our offspring after the state capital.”

I tried not to be hurt. I really loved the name. “Are you sure?”

He wouldn’t budge. “Positive.”

I willed myself to keep from pouting. “Well, what girl’s name do you like?”

He smiled and twisted one of my curls around his index finger. “I’m pretty partial to Ellie.”

I made a face. “We’ve already talked about naming a son after you. I’m not going to name a girl after me and a boy after you. That would be too weird.”

“Okay. What about Jessica? I’ve always liked the name. We could call her Jess.”

“I don’t care for Jessica. Besides, I’m not going to name our baby one thing just so we can call her something else. Honestly, I really don’t know what my parents were thinking. Or for that matter yours, Percival.”

“Hey.” A mock warning flashed across his face. “Watch yourself.”

I crossed my arms. “If you don't like the name, why burden your son with it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. My parents called me Chip to keep me and my dad straight. Being named Percival is a family tradition. And I want to pass that heritage on to my son.”

“So you get to unequivocally choose our son’s name, but I don’t get to name our daughter? That hardly seems fair.”

It was Chip’s turn to be hurt. “Ellie, don’t you you want to name our son after me?”

I toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Actually, I do. I just wish you liked Alannah.”

He pulled me into a hug and rested his chin on top of my head. “Sweetie, I think the name’s fine. Really. But I really believe people will think we're saying ‘Atlanta.’ Do you want to go through the rest of your life having to explain that that’s not what you said? I think in the end you would find it very frustrating.”

Why does he always have to be so right about everything?

Chip kissed the top of my head. “We’ve got a little less than eight months to decide on a name that we both love. That’s plenty of time.” He took a step back and held me at arm’s length. “Why don’t you check out a book of names from the library or do an Internet search and let me know what other names you like?”

I nodded. “I want you to be thinking about it too.”

He promised he would.

I feel great, I’m still not tired, and I haven’t been sick. Even my mind seems to be functioning better. If the rest of the pregnancy goes like this, that would be great!

Speaking of morning sickness... how weird a concept is that? Can you imagine if the same rules applied to dating? No one would ever procreate again. “Here’s someone new in your life who will be with you pretty much twenty-four/seven for the rest of your days, so let’s get this relationship of to a great start—namely, by them making you violently ill!”

And that’s only the way things start off with a baby. This tiny person, whom you know absolutely nothing about, literally invades your personal space for nine months, eats all your food, keeps you awake at night by kickboxing your insides, and basically does an extreme makeover on your interior and exterior. Then, when their nine-month lease is up, they certainly don't leave the place in better condition than they found it. And even after they’re no longer living inside you, they’re still hanging around, eating your food and keeping you awake at night.

Yet each year, more than four million of these house-guests come to stay permanently across the United States, and we’re more than willing to take them in. No wonder foreigners want to emigrate to America.

Wow. This world is really a scary place for pregnant ladies. On my way to work this morning a car coming from the opposite direction veered into my lane and I felt fear and protectiveness like I've never felt before. It all happened so fast—the oncoming car corrected its path before I even had time to respond—but I was struck by the intensity of emotion surging through my body.

Then, after work, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up an item or two, which means I was walking through the store without a buggy. Another shopper came barreling around the corner with her cart aimed directly at my stomach. Again that intensity of protectiveness and fear that I felt earlier surged through me and I found myself covering my abdomen with my hand and jumping back to avoid a collision. Maybe my actions were instinctive and not really out of the ordinary, but my thoughts were not for myself and my safety. They were solely for the little one inside me.
 
I'm amazed by how early and forcefully that protectiveness has presented itself.

All the pregnancy books in the towering stack I checked out from the library indicate that memory loss and absentmindedness are common among expectant women, but for a perfectionist, it’s disconcerting. I’m accustomed to receiving phone calls and e-mails at my job thanking me for my accuracy and thoroughness, not jibes and snide comments because I got something wrong.

It all started yesterday afternoon when I found it difficult to concentrate as I put the finishing touches on my story about the public library.

“Hey, are you feeling all right?” asked Beck, the lifestyle editor, as she peered over the top of her glasses. “You look a little peaked.”

I assured her I was fine.

She’s not that much older than I am, but she’s got a kid, which means she’s got that maternal/nurturing thing going.

“Why don’t you wrap it up and call it a day, Ellie?”

Figuring the haze surrounding my brain wasn’t going to lift, I agreed. After running spell check, I sent her the completed piece and turned off the computer before heading home.

This morning I arrived at work before anyone else and savored the sun streaming through the windows as it formed patches of light on the carpet. There’s a unique serenity attached to a newsroom of blank computer screens and silent phones—a stark contrast to the chaos and edginess it takes on after everyone arrives.

After inhaling a final bit of peacefulness, I booted up my computer and checked my voice mail. To my surprise, I had twenty messages waiting—a lot for an innocuous features writer. I became really concerned when the computer screen indicated that I had at least three dozen e-mails. As I scanned the subject lines, I dropped the phone and bolted across the newsroom for a copy of today’s paper.

To my horror, Beck and the copy editors failed to catch that I had left out an “L” in “public library.” There are two “L’s” in that pairing of words, so why, oh why, did I have to omit the one in “public”?

Any print journalist with any amount of experience knows to live in fear of the public. Not the masses, but the word itself. With the omission of a single “L,” public transportation, public broadcasting, and public education become new things entirely.

As do public libraries.

Tito, one of our photographers, heard about my gaffe as soon as he arrived (we do, after all, work in a newsroom) and wasted no time straddling a chair near my desk so he could razz me between sips of his favorite roasted blend. Meanwhile, I painstakingly went through each wise-acre message inquiring about the hours and location of this heretofore under-reported investment of taxpayer money. I even received an e-mail that began, “Sorry to split hairs….”

It's times like these that I am so thankful for this private, personal blog that Chip set up for me. It's nice that I have a place where I can write whatever I want with no worries about scrutiny from the public.

P-U-B-L-I-C.

Happy Father's Day to my wonderful husband, Chip!

One of the things that attracted me when we were dating was the way he interacts with little children. He obviously loves them and what's more, they love him back. While a lot of men ignore children completely, Chip makes a point to connect with them at church and even when we're out at restaurants among complete strangers. I'll turn around from giving our name to the hostess to find my hubby waving at a cute baby or puffing out his cheeks and widening his eyes to make a toddler laugh.

With his nieces and nephews it's even more intense. They squeal with delight and run right to him whenever we visit, and in just a manner of minutes, he's on the floor with a cadre of children crawling all over him. My heart is so warm and full every time I see it. I have so many images of him engaging in a serious conversation with his brother with a child attached to his back and another one or two wrapped around his legs.

And now, in just a matter of months, he's going to have a child of his own to lavish all that love and affection on.

I thought it was odd when I drove up this evening to see Chip’s car parked in the driveway instead of its usual place in the garage. Even more curious was my husband meeting me at my car door rather than waiting for me inside the house. His grin and eyes radiated excitement as he pulled open the door to my SUV.

“Hey, Ells!” He gave me a quick kiss. “Come with me.” Chip led me to the empty side of the garage, away from the door leading into the house. To my surprise he took my shoulders and turned me sideways, so that my profile was parallel to the wall, and told me to place my toes right up against the edge of a strip of masking tape on the floor.

“Chip, what are you doing?”

Ignoring my question, he nodded with apparent satisfaction. “Okay, perfect.” He held up his hands. “Hold it right there.”

Dashing to his tool shelf, he grabbed some items and hurried back to where I stood. My yardstick and a pencil were clutched in one hand as he slipped our digital camera in his pocket with the other.

“Chip, what....” I stopped in sheer bewilderment as he placed the yardstick flat against my stomach, stretched it to the wall, and made a corresponding mark on the drywall with the pencil.

Turning toward me, Chip grinned again. “I’m measuring you! We’re going to record the whole pregnancy month by month on the wall, just like a growth chart. Except this one will be sideways.” He wrote today’s date above the mark before pulling out the camera. “We’ll take pictures so we can have a pictorial record too.”

I cupped his face with my hands. “You thought of this?”

Chip shrugged. “Call me sentimental.” Taking a step back, he held the camera out toward me. “Okay, Preggy Girl, smile!”

Chip woke me with a nuzzle and a new nickname.

“Good morning, Preggy Girl.”

I love being Preggy Girl! It’s the embodiment of all that is wonderful and good about being a mom-to-be. There’s such tenderness in Chip’s eyes as he speaks the words that caress my soul. I’m not sure I can ever go back to just being plain-old Ellie.

And that’s good, because I’m just starting to realize how much is going to change once this little person arrives. I nearly collided with a mother and young son coming out of the restroom today at lunch. I don’t know which of the two needed to “go potty” in the first place, but as I stood aside to let them pass, it occurred to me that I needed to savor something as seemingly insignificant as going to the bathroom by myself.

While I know in my head it’s a bit early, I keep looking for signs of my being “in the family way.” Sure, I understand it’s too soon to be showing yet, but I’ve not been sick (not that I desire it, mind you), I’ve not been tired, and I’ve not even been hungry. I have been unable to think, though, and am making some pretty glaring errors as I write my articles, even after double-checking my work. Thankfully, I’ve caught all my mistakes so far.

Pregnancy is such a common occurrence, as attested by the six billion-plus people on the planet, but it’s such an exciting one for me. I’m so thrilled to be a mom!

I cherish the sweetness Chip and I have felt toward each other since we found out. It’s as though this little person is drawing us even closer.

I like him/her already!

Wow. I received the royal treatment this morning. Chip and I felt like our happy news warranted a special lazy-day, just-us-two celebration (well, technically, I guess that ought to be just-us-three), so we each took a personal day. After making the necessary phone calls to our respective employers, I got to dine on breakfast in bed consisting of Eggs a la Chip (I can't ever bring myself to call them Eggs Benedict because he makes the best I've ever had), followed by a day spent lounging around in our pajamas watching 30 Rock and The Office on DVD. The day ended with Chinese delivered to our door, plus I got an unsolicited yet oh-so-welcome back rub from my husband. I felt so pampered and taken care of! That man of mine nearly spoiled me rotten. A girl could get used to this.

Hmm. Maybe I should get pregnant more often.

Month One: June

Dear Sir,

You don’t know me, but that’s okay, because I don’t know you either. But all that’s about to change.

You see, I’m about to become a very special person in your life. In fact, next to your wife, THE most important.

I’d tell you about myself, but I really don’t know a whole lot at this point. Suffice to say when you finally meet me, it will be love at first sight!

Your wife has told me all about you, and I’m looking forward to getting acquainted. We’ll be spending lots of time together and you’ll teach me all sorts of things.

Even though I don’t know you all that well, “sir” seems a bit formal. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just call you “Daddy” instead.

See you in about eight months!

With love,

Baby McAllister


In a fit of maternal longing I wrote the preceding letter to Chip years ago to announce, whenever it should finally happen, that we were going to have a baby. This morning, after years of watching our friends pop out progeny like toaster pastries, I finally got to give it to him!

I cried when the window of the pregnancy test formed a second pink line. We’ve been waiting over a decade for this baby, which means our friends quit asking a long time ago if we were ever going to have kids. (I’m pretty sure they think our pipes are clogged, but in actuality we just decided to focus on our careers first.) It also means I had lots of time over the years to dream and plan and think up a memorable way to announce that we were expecting. So while Chip was in the shower, I ran to my desk and fished out the letter I’d written so long ago from its hiding place beneath a stack of stationery and slipped it in with the rest of the mail.

When he spotted my handwriting on the envelope, his eyebrow lifted. “Ellie, what’s this?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Open it.”

As he started to read, he looked up, clearly puzzled. Determined not to let him ruin the beautiful moment I’d envisioned all these years, I shook my head and pointed him back to the letter. Before long his eyes grew round. By the time he reached the end, we both were blubbering. He called me over to his chair for a hug and pressed his mouth against my abdomen to speak to our baby, causing me to cry all the more.

“Hey there! This is your daddy. I love you so much, and I can’t wait to see you. Make sure you grow big and strong, and don’t give your mother any trouble. Love you! Daddy out.”

He later surprised me with a bouquet of flowers and this private blog, which he set up for me under the pretense of having to do some additional work for his boss.

For now, we’ve decided to tell no one. Not my coworkers at the newspaper, not his colleagues at the airlines, not our friends, not even our families. We plan to let our parents know July 19 after our first prenatal appointment with Dr. Simmons.

By the way, our gardenia bush bloomed today for the first time this year. A single, perfect, fragrant white blossom.