26 weeks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love him.

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

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

Month Six: November

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

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

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

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

“So that’s a no, then?” I guessed.

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely,” Terry said.

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

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

It was maddening.

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

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

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

I wasted no time in making the transfers.

24 weeks

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

We’ll see.

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

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

* * *

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

22 weeks

As my size increases, my privacy diminishes.

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

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

“Did you have any trouble getting pregnant?”

“Were you trying long?”

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

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

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