A Bump in the Road (21 page)

Dear Crouton,

First of all, I’m very sorry I ate that pizza thing with red peppers yesterday. I had no idea you don’t like red peppers. I think you also owe me an apology because it was an honest mistake and I don’t think hurling for four hours straight is an appropriate punishment.

OK, so now that we’ve cleared that up, um, like, so how are you doing? Is it comfy and all womblike in there?

Your dad and I are going to find out in a few weeks if you are a boy or girl. Your dad is betting girl
and I am betting boy, and I should tell you right now I really hate losing so if there is any way you could really, really try to make a penis, that would be great. We haven’t thought of names yet, but don’t worry, we’ll pick something good, something that won’t get you made fun of on the playground.

Hmmm . . . what else? Oh, you should know I didn’t mean it when I called your father that bad word the other day. He just ate all of the cookies from Wild Oats you and I like so much. Please don’t ever use that bad word.

I know I’m probably not going to be the best mom in the world, but I’m sure as hell (don’t use that word, either) going to do my best. We didn’t expect to get you so soon, so I’m sorry if we mess up, but we’re quick learners, I promise. Your dad and I love you very much and wish you would hurry up and grow so we can see your face. Speaking of which, the first time you see me I might not look very good, but don’t be scared. I look great with a good makeup job and a blowout.

Well, anyway, I just wanted to say what’s up and ask you what’s the dealio. (Do you know what that word means? If you do, please stop listening to the music I play. Your father will have a heart attack.)

Love,

Your mom

P.S. I’m sorry I drank all those cranapple martinis before I found out I was pregnant with you. I hope you didn’t get drunk.

Despite Mule Face’s broadcast of her wedding plans, I managed to focus yesterday and pull together an event dossier for the Flynn-Shepard wedding, since today I met with Jessica Greene’s sister, Rachael Flynn; their mother, Irene; and Rachael’s fiancé, Ben Shepard. My face hurts from smiling so much. They want a typical black-tie blowout wedding in the city—reception at the Ritz, mile-high centerpieces with individual lighting design, custom-made chair covers, the works. Irene and Rachael did most of the talking while Ben stood outside the conference room on his cell phone with a business call. The meeting would’ve been very easy, but Irene Flynn has a penchant for long, inappropriate pauses during sentences; the kind lasting just a second too long, just long enough to make me hurriedly talk just to cut the silence.

Me: “Where is the location of the rehearsal dinner?”

Rachael: “We were thinking Morton’s. Right, Mom?”

Irene: “Well, I . . .” (Long inappropriate pause as they both stare at me.)

Me: “So, Mortonswouldbereally—”

Irene (at the same time): “Yes, Morton’s.”

I felt like an idiot with zero communication skills.

The good news is they have a pretty clear idea of what they want and already picked their vendors so all I need to do is be the point person and tie up all the loose ends. Oh, and attend the wedding. One week before my due date. They made it very clear that they expect
me
to be the one to attend, no matter if nine months pregnant, baby hanging out of the birth canal, or wheeled in while still in a hospital bed. I’m expected to sport a walkie-talkie, gush over and provide encouraging words to the bride, keep the groomsmen away from the bar before the ceremony, bend over and take every insult slung at me from Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Shepard, yell at the band if they play the wrong song, beg the florist to make last-minute changes, and possibly give
birth quietly in the bathroom in between courses: “It’s a girl! Oh, shit—the floral toss bouquet is the wrong color!”

When they informed me the wedding is on New Year’s Eve, I calmly told them about my pregnancy and that my due date is the first week in January.

Irene looked suspiciously at me. “Oh, you’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well are you . . .”

“Um, well, I—,” I started to say.

“Even married?” she finished.

“Yes, I’m married.”

“Well, at least you’re married,” she said.

She continued to stare at me and I suddenly realized she thought I was some knocked-up teenager who got married in a shotgun wedding.

“I’m twenty-seven,” I finally said.

Irene and Rachael looked relieved. Irene said, “Well, then! I am so . . .” Long inappropriate pause. Happy? Nervous? Flatulent?

“Wellyeahitwillbeokand—,” I started to say.

“Grateful you are due after the wedding and won’t miss a thing,” Irene said at the same time.

“Oh. Um. Yes. Although, sometimes babies come early, so we’ll see,” I choked out when I was pretty sure she was done and not just pausing.

Long stare from Irene.

“You will be the one present, won’t you?” she finally said. “I can’t imagine working with an event planner who won’t be there the evening of the actual event.”

I noticed Mule Face slowly inching toward the door, no doubt praying I’d give birth spontaneously at that moment so she could work on the account and get all the credit.

“Of course,” I sighed, picturing Jake wheeling me into the Ritz-Carlton, still in my hospital bed and nursing baby attached to my boob.

Upon hearing I’d be coordinating the event, still-pregnant or not, Mule Face looked quite disappointed and went into the break room to heat up her lunch: a cheddar and onion bagel. Soon, the entire office became filled with the stench of cheesy BO. Believe me, Crouton and I were gagging, but the look of disgust on Irene’s face made it all kind of worth it. Also knowing she’d walk around all day smelling like body odor and rotten cheese at the country club made me smile. Mule Face brought the bagel with her when she came in to introduce herself. Watching Irene and Rachael try to be civil while holding their breath almost made me love Mule Face. She certainly has impeccable timing.

Approximately ten minutes after Irene and Rachael left, Jessica called me to congratulate me on the news.

“How nice it is that you and your friend are pregnant at the same time!” she said.

I didn’t have the heart, energy, or patience to correct her, so I simply said, “Yep! I hope my boobs get as big as hers!”

Today started out great. I sat on the couch for most of the morning, snuggled underneath my new cashmere throw, watching DVR’d episodes of
CSI.
After three straight hours, just as I determined “petechial hemorrhaging” is said in every episode and almost any crime can be solved with a black light and glow-in-the-dark spray, my cell phone rang.

It was Reese.

I contemplated not answering it, not wanting to disrupt honing my forensic skills, but I felt a pang of guilt and snapped my phone open.

“Hi, girlie,” I said.

“Oh my God, Clare. You have to help me.” Reese sounded frantic and I could hear kids screaming in the background.

“Tyler! Put that down. Your mommy would be very mad if I told her you broke the pretty vase.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Matt just called and he got into a car accident. He’s OK but the car is probably totaled.”

“Oh my God—what can I do?”

“I have to go pick him up and I can take the baby but Meredith’s supposed to come pick Tyler up in an hour. I can’t leave him here by himself and I can’t take him with me, so . . .” She trailed off, waiting for my response.

The last thing I wanted to do was babysit a toddler who needs to be on Ritalin, but I knew Reese needed me.

“Don’t worry. Jake and I will come over and watch Tyler until his mom comes.”

“Thank you! I owe you big time! Lunch on me!”

I basically threatened Jake’s life (since the threat of divorce had little or no impact) to get him to agree to come with me. He was deeply engrossed in looking up videos on YouTube and not exactly thrilled to drop everything to go play Romper Room.

Reese threw about a million thank-yous over her shoulder when we got to her house. She grabbed Grace and pointed to a small boy and said, “That’s Tyler.”

I warily looked at him. His hair stuck straight up and he clutched a dripping Popsicle.

“Hey, Tyler! Why don’t you let me clean that stuff off ya?” I said in a high-pitched, extremely unnatural-sounding voice.

He froze. He looked at me, then at Jake, and finally back at me.

Figuring his silence meant acceptance, I took a step toward him.

Big mistake.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” Mr. Hyde suddenly came out and he ran out of the kitchen.

Jake looked at me, his face clearly saying,
I gave up the Internet for this?

I sighed and followed Tyler into the living room. He rolled around on the couch, the Popsicle placed on one of the pristine white
cushions, melting icky red liquid into the material. “Hey, Tyler! Why don’t we see if there are any cartoons on the TV?”

He gave me a blank look again. I racked my brain.

“Barney? Do you like Barney?” He looked at me with an open mouth and slowly nodded his head. The kid actually went for it. Now I needed to produce something.

I tore open Reese’s media cabinet, desperately searching for anything I could pass off as Barney to the kid, while Jake worked on cleaning up the puddle on the couch.

Ten seconds later, Tyler started screaming.

“BARNEY! I want BARNEY!” He started howling and crying.

Jake gave me a look and tried to pick Tyler up to calm him down but he escaped and ran back into the kitchen.

“Whose kid is this again and why are we here?”

I gave up on finding Barney and turned to face him.

“Because Reese is my friend and I’m trying to—” I stopped. “What was that noise?”

“What noise?”

“It sounded like a toilet flushing.”

We both ran into the bathroom and found Tyler, smiling and clapping, pointing to the toilet.
Oh, please, God, don’t let it be anything important,
I prayed.

Jake peered into the toilet and started laughing.

“Hope you don’t need to make any phone calls,” he said.

“Wha?” I looked into the toilet and saw my new pink Razr swirling around in the bowl.

“TYLER! That’s bad! That’s not a toy!” I yelled, flustered, as I shamelessly stuck my hand in the toilet and pulled out my now worthless phone.

Tyler started crying again and began turning purple. Jake scooped him up and tried to calm him down.

“It’s OK, buddy. Let’s get away from the mean lady. She’s mean, isn’t she?” Still hysterical, Tyler nodded his head while Jake carried him away and left me with my dripping wet phone.

Half an hour later, the little monster fell asleep on the floor, surrounded by every toy we could find. After a major temper tantrum, four Popsicles, and eight million farmyard animal toys, he had officially passed out. Jake and I took the opportunity to tiptoe into the kitchen to raid the fridge for anything worthwhile.

Jake was halfway through an Amstel Light and I a bottle of Pellegrino when the lights dimmed.

“What the fuck?” Jake asked.

Then we heard a blood-freezing scream. We stared at each other for a split second before jumping up. We raced to the source of the shriek and found Tyler, awake, sitting on the floor next to a blackened electrical socket, looking stunned.

We stood there for a moment, everything frozen in slow motion.

I picked Tyler up and examined him. He seemed to have all of his fingers and toes and wasn’t bleeding from any orifice. He immediately started giggling.

“Look!” Jake pointed to the floor, looking stunned, a plastic baby-proofing plug on the floor, next to a blackened penny. “I think he stuck it in the wall.”

“OH MY GOD! He could’ve DIED. WE ALMOST KILLED HIM.” I hugged Tyler to me, which only made him laugh even harder. I thought,
Oh, great, have given the kid brain damage
.

“He seems OK, I don’t think he’s hurt or anything.”

“How can he not be hurt? WE ALMOST KILLED HIM!” Tyler stopped laughing and stared at me, transfixed, his mouth open.