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.