Preggy Brains 6, Golf shirts 0
If Dr. Simmons turns out to be completely wrong and we end up having a boy, we can just save Chip’s shirts for Percival III. Rather than fitting my six-foot-two husband, they now fit someone closer to two-foot-six.
Thursday, September 30
Tuesday, September 28
My husband tried opening the door tonight but became so frustrated with the keys that he banged on the door and yelled for me to open it instead. It was my first clue that something hadn’t gone well at his job and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what had so quickly eclipsed the euphoria of finding out we were having a daughter. But being a pretty good wife, I asked anyway.
He shot me a hurt, angry look. “Everybody came up to me today wanting to know what we were having, and I was shocked to see how the guys responded.”
I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “It was there for only an instant, but in almost all of their eyes, I saw a flicker of pity or disappointment. They recovered quickly enough to shake my hand and tell me how great it was, but it was there.”
“Everybody did this?” I couldn’t believe it.
“No. Only the guys. And not all of them, but several.” He shook his head. “Like boys are better, somehow. You’re a girl, Ellie, and I like you better than anybody!”
Even when he’s furious at someone else, he can still manage to make me feel great. It’s just another reason he’ll make a wonderful dad.
He shot me a hurt, angry look. “Everybody came up to me today wanting to know what we were having, and I was shocked to see how the guys responded.”
I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “It was there for only an instant, but in almost all of their eyes, I saw a flicker of pity or disappointment. They recovered quickly enough to shake my hand and tell me how great it was, but it was there.”
“Everybody did this?” I couldn’t believe it.
“No. Only the guys. And not all of them, but several.” He shook his head. “Like boys are better, somehow. You’re a girl, Ellie, and I like you better than anybody!”
Even when he’s furious at someone else, he can still manage to make me feel great. It’s just another reason he’ll make a wonderful dad.
Monday, September 27
Week 19
Chip and I are sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Simmons’ office, about to find out whether to paint the nursery seashell pink or cornflower blue. That is, of course, if the baby hasn’t inherited its father’s extreme sense of modesty. Chip wouldn’t even change in front of our next-door neighbors’ female Pomeranian when we dog-sat one weekend.
It’s so cliche to say it, but I would really be happy with either a boy or a girl. (Chip is reading over my shoulder and says he would too. And that he doesn’t appreciate the dog comment.) I speak for both of us when I say we’re just happy to be having a baby, period.
Oops, got to go. They just called our name. I'm so excited!
***
It’s so cliche to say it, but I would really be happy with either a boy or a girl. (Chip is reading over my shoulder and says he would too. And that he doesn’t appreciate the dog comment.) I speak for both of us when I say we’re just happy to be having a baby, period.
Oops, got to go. They just called our name. I'm so excited!
***
IT’S A GIRL! I can’t believe we’re going to have a girl. And I can’t believe how much she’s grown! I don’t know what she could possibly be noshing in there, but she was chewing. And she rolled. And she moved her arm up near her face. (Can you tell I’m smitten?) Her spine is perfectly formed. And so are her little toes! Chip went absolutely nuts when he saw those itty-bitty feet.
We’ve got new ultrasound pictures to tack onto the refrigerator, including one where the baby has a rascally expression that Chip insists looks just like him.
So it looks like the future holds dolls, stuffed animals, telephones, sleepovers, and dance lessons for the McAllisters. And lots of adorable little outfits that are definitely girly but not too fru-fru.
We’ve got new ultrasound pictures to tack onto the refrigerator, including one where the baby has a rascally expression that Chip insists looks just like him.
So it looks like the future holds dolls, stuffed animals, telephones, sleepovers, and dance lessons for the McAllisters. And lots of adorable little outfits that are definitely girly but not too fru-fru.
And most important, a mother who had better be ever-vigilant that her husband doesn’t get wound too tightly around this little one’s pinky.
Sunday, September 19
Month Four: September
Somewhere in no-man’s land along I-16 between Savannah and Macon
Chip and I had to curtail our baby’s first in-utero trip to the Georgia coast. Relaxing on the windswept beach at Jekyll Island and running out for food ten times a day to appease the baby's appetite was pleasant enough until this morning, when the air conditioner broke in our car. Trust me, you don't want to be driving around in the coastal Georgia heat when you're pregnant. Currently all our windows are down as we head home but I'm getting little relief even at seventy mph. Carrying on a conversation with Chip above the roar is impossible.
We spent over a hundred dollars and three hours at the service station trying to determine the problem, apparently a blown fuse. We drove about five miles and reveled in the cool air blowing on us when we heard a “click” and the air started blowing hot again. Chip stopped at Walmart and bought a packet of fuses from the automotive department and we started back toward Atlanta, popping in new fuses as the old ones blew. Eventually that no longer worked, though.
You know how adversity often creates opportunity? The whole lemons and lemonade thing? Well, all that sweating (sorry, Miss Manners, but there's no way perspire is going to be an adequate word usage) has given me a terrific idea. If Georgia ever returns to the harrowing drought conditions of just a couple of years ago, at least now I’ve discovered the solution. Just put some pregnant women in a car without air conditioning. I'm thinking three would do it. And voila, there would be enough fluid streaming down the middle of their backs to overcome ANY drought.
Chip and I had to curtail our baby’s first in-utero trip to the Georgia coast. Relaxing on the windswept beach at Jekyll Island and running out for food ten times a day to appease the baby's appetite was pleasant enough until this morning, when the air conditioner broke in our car. Trust me, you don't want to be driving around in the coastal Georgia heat when you're pregnant. Currently all our windows are down as we head home but I'm getting little relief even at seventy mph. Carrying on a conversation with Chip above the roar is impossible.
We spent over a hundred dollars and three hours at the service station trying to determine the problem, apparently a blown fuse. We drove about five miles and reveled in the cool air blowing on us when we heard a “click” and the air started blowing hot again. Chip stopped at Walmart and bought a packet of fuses from the automotive department and we started back toward Atlanta, popping in new fuses as the old ones blew. Eventually that no longer worked, though.
You know how adversity often creates opportunity? The whole lemons and lemonade thing? Well, all that sweating (sorry, Miss Manners, but there's no way perspire is going to be an adequate word usage) has given me a terrific idea. If Georgia ever returns to the harrowing drought conditions of just a couple of years ago, at least now I’ve discovered the solution. Just put some pregnant women in a car without air conditioning. I'm thinking three would do it. And voila, there would be enough fluid streaming down the middle of their backs to overcome ANY drought.
Monday, August 30
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.
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.
Friday, August 27
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?”
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?”
Wednesday, August 25
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!
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!
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