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.
Friday, November 26
Thursday, November 25
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.
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.
Monday, November 22
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.
“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.
Monday, November 15
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.
“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.
Friday, November 12
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.
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.
Monday, November 8
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.
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.
Thursday, November 4
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.
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.
Monday, November 1
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.
“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.
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