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.