A Bump in the Road (24 page)

Crouton’s still not giving up the goods. I’ve tried to psychically receive messages about the gender from him/her, but nothing. I concentrated really hard tonight, but the only message I got was to go eat pizza. This kid is definitely coming out with pepperoni all over it.

After we had some pizza, Jake and I decided to treat ourselves and go out to see a movie tonight. Not just any movie, but a gory, disgusting horror movie. Jake first offered to go see the latest romantic comedy/chick flick starring an impossibly gorgeous and sweet leading man, but after weeks of being on the hormonal pregnancy crazy train, a romantic movie was out. I mean, I cried during
Never Been Kissed
last week, for chrissakes. (I couldn’t believe Michael Vartan’s character got stuck in traffic while on the way to meet Drew Barrymore’s character in the end. I mean, what would’ve happened if there was an oil spill or something? He would’ve
never
gotten there in time and she would’ve walked away, rejected and depressed, and would’ve gotten drunk or high and slept with some random guy. I mean,
come on
.)

Anyway, I opted to see the most nightmare-inducing movie out right now. Plus, I figured there wouldn’t be any obnoxious brats in a movie dubbed “the biggest scare you’ll get all year.” Man, was I fucking wrong. There were
three
kids in the theater, one of whom was under ten. All of these children were with their parents/guardians. I was shocked when I sat down and felt someone kick the back of my chair. I turned around, ready to let loose some expletives, and saw the sweet face of a little girl. In an R-rated gore fest at 9:30
P.M.
on a Friday night. At one particularly bloody part involving a character getting his head ripped off with a chainsaw, the little girl screamed and her mother said, “Close your eyes, Charlene. Remember what I said—it ain’t real.” Not only were these kids probably traumatized for life, they spent the movie talking loudly, asking questions like “WHO IS THAT?” “CAN I HAVE MORE POPCORN?” “WHY IS THAT GUY CRYING?” “WHY ARE YOU SUCH HORRIBLE PARENTS YOU TOOK ME TO AN R-RATED HORROR MOVIE STARTING WAY AFTER MY AGE-APPROPRIATE BEDTIME?” (OK, the last one was mine.)

“But you brought your child,” Julie pointed out later.

“Yes, but my child is the size of an onion and hasn’t developed vocal cords yet, so it is too small and too mute to annoy anyone,” I snapped back at her.

But seriously, these people thought this movie was appropriate for their kids? Those people must have “Parent Brain,” a condition when someone has a child and loses all touch with reality. Parent Brain mainly shows up in places like shopping malls. Its symptoms include ramming one’s stroller in a weaponlike fashion into innocent bystanders, strolling casually along with one’s child while blocking everyone from passing, and ignoring one’s child in public while talking to other adults, thus allowing said child to destroy everything within reach (sometimes followed by amused laughter rather than the appropriate horror/shock/embarrassment).

I must see if there is medication to prevent this.

Genitalia countdown: T minus one week.

My mom agreed with my assessment of Parent Brain at the movies last night, and then surprised me by offering to take me shopping this afternoon for maternity clothes. I’d complained to her last week about my inability to find stylish maternity clothes that don’t cost eight thousand dollars each and she offered to take me shopping and treat me to some clothes.

I met her at the mall around noon and found her talking on a business call in front of Expecting Style.

“That sounds good. Send over the proposal first thing.” She looked at me and mouthed “Sorry.” “Listen, John, I really have to go. I’m about to get on another call. I’ll look for that e-mail.” She snapped her phone shut and turned to me. “Ready?”

“Yep!”

We walked into the store and a pair of beautiful black wool pants immediately caught my eye.

“Aren’t these gorgeous?” I said.

“They’re beautiful. You’ll need them for work,” my mom said, as
her phone rang again. She picked it up and checked the number. “Just let me take this for a minute.”

I wandered over to the jean section and held up a pair of hip-huggers in a faded wash.

My mom reappeared. “Sorry about that. We have this huge presentation next week that everyone is freaking out about.”

“No problem.”

“How’s everything been?” she asked as we walked over to a sweater display.

“Fine. Boring. Being pregnant is like watching paint dry.”

“Be thankful for that. I was on bed rest for three months before I had you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How’s Jake been handling all of this?”

“He’s been great. He’s pretty excited about everything. Well, everything except for the fact he changes the kitty litter himself now.”

“Ah, yes. See? There are some pluses.”

“Few and far between.”

“Well, your father and I are just so excited for you guys.”

“I know. It would be nice if Sam shared the sentiment.”

“She does. She just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Right.”

“No, really. She is excited. She’s just so focused on herself right now. It’s the high school years. She’ll grow out of it.” She patted me on my back. “Just like you did.”

“I was never as bratty as she is.”

My mom silently looked at me.

“Please. I was never as obnoxious as her.”

More staring.

“I think you’re finally going senile, because she’s so much worse.”

“Honey, it’s a miracle your father and I didn’t sell you into white slavery when you were in high school.”

“Watch it. I’m going to remember those comments when you’re
old and decrepit and Jake and I have to choose between the state-run nursing home or the nice one without bars on the windows.”

“Very funny. What do you think of this?” She held up a gorgeous pink cashmere cardigan.

“Gorgeous. But oh-so-expensive.”

“Well, I’m treating.”

“Mom, you don’t have to—”

“Look, you should just say ‘Thank you’ and ‘You’re the greatest Mom ever’ and accept the clothes.”

“That’s true. You might not have anything left after a few more years of supporting Sam. Thank you. You’re the best mom ever.”

As I twirled in front of the mirror this morning, admiring my new fabulous cream-colored maternity pants and blue seersucker top, I called to Jake, “Don’t forget, we have dinner with Gwen and Alex tonight at eight.”

He paused, razor held in midair, then sighed deeply and made fake sobbing sounds.

“I don’t want to hear it. I sat through four hours of tailgating with Bill-I-Still-Live-at-Home-with-My-Parents-and-Smoke-Pot-Every-Day-at-4:20. You can deal with a few hours of dinner.”

He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling, as though he was a man on Death Row, left to contemplate his future during his last few hours.

Truth is, I’m not looking forward to dinner tonight, either. After graduation, Gwen and Alex suddenly aged approximately fifty-two years each, stopped drinking, and became way into book clubs, gardening, antiquing, and going to bed by ten o’clock. Which is completely strange, since they were two of the biggest drunks we knew in college. In fact, they met at a frat party and had bad drunken sex the same night. Slowly after college they started staying in more and
more and going to bed earlier and earlier. Whenever we would all go out to a bar together, they would have approximately a quarter of their drinks, yawn, and leave. After a few frustrating experiences, we now just do things like dinner. I think they’ll be the perfect dinner companions, seeing as how I’m not going to be dancing on tables anytime soon.

10:08
P.M.

Once again, I was very, very wrong in my assumption that dinner would be fun and relaxing. The words “horrific,” “torturous,” and “disaster of biblical proportions” are more accurate.

“Do we have to go? Seriously, can we just say we’re sick or something? My grandmother’s dead? We couldn’t get a babysitter for Butterscotch? That it’s my back-waxing night? That my balls are—,” Jake whined as we drove to dinner.

“You’re going,” I cut him off. “Deal with it. These are our friends.”

“They’re not my friends! It’s like having dinner with my parents—no, my
grand
parents, if they were a hundred and eighty-seven years old! Do you know that the last time we all got together, Alex told me he doesn’t watch football anymore? Because he doesn’t like to spend any time on Sundays lying around? What kind of a freak doesn’t even watch football? And Gwen! She spent the last dinner we had with them talking about what flowers are in season in her garden and how to make marzipan cake decorations. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“I put up with lots of crap from your friends. Like the time that you and Jonathan drank Jaegermeister and Red Bull all night and came home and puked up chicken wings all over the couch.”

He remained silent.

I stared at him and he finally relented and grabbed my hand. “All right, fine. But La Dolce better have GALLONS of vodka ready.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s going to be fun,” I said.

We were twenty minutes late due to an accident on the expressway and when we finally got to the restaurant, we were both humming
with anger, shaking, and nearly drawing up divorce papers. Of course, Alex and Gwen were already there with half-finished glasses of wine in front of them. As we made our way over to the table, Gwen very pointedly looked at her watch and then smiled at me, shaking her head and waving her finger.

“Hey! Sorry we’re late!” I said.

Gwen jumped up from her chair. “We were starting to get worried! We thought you might’ve gone into labor or something. Ha, ha!”

“Um, no,” I stuttered out as she looked me up and down.

“How far along are you?” she asked.

I tried to answer but she cut me off. “Oh, no, wait, let me guess! Six months?”

“
Four
months.”

She and Alex chuckled and he whispered a “Whoops” under his breath.

“Oh, well. You’re either going to need a lot of stitches or a C-section because that kid is going to be
big
.”

I signaled to the waiter and pointed to whatever wine was first on the list. I could feel everyone staring at me. I met their eyes and challenged them to say anything.

“Do you think you should?” Alex said.

“End up getting that car you were looking at a while back?” Jake asked, trying to change the subject.

The waiter brought over my wine and I took a big long sip.
Oh, how I’ve missed this
, I thought as the beautiful, smooth, velvety liquid went down my throat.
Love wine and Crouton does, too
.

“So, how’s everything been?” Gwen asked.

“Great. Work is crazy but going well. We’ve been staying in more, relaxing.”

“I noticed. You mentioned it on your Web site. So, do other people actually read it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like people who aren’t your friends?”

“They must. I don’t have thousands of friends. It’s kind of strange, actually.”

“It’s such an invasion of privacy, isn’t it?”

“How?”

“Well, I can’t imagine Jake wants his every move documented for the Internet. Nor your unborn child.”

“I think Clare’s a great writer and I’m happy to provide material,” Jake said quickly.

“Well, OK. I guess some people choose to keep their marriage private,” Gwen said with a small laugh.

After our food came, Gwen regaled all of us with her decorating stories.

“. . . and then we picked up the most darling Waterford crystal bowl, which perfectly matches our wedding pattern, to go on the coffee table from Pottery Barn I told you about. It is just stunning in the sitting room next to that wine chest I e-mailed you a picture of. Remember?” Gwen looked at me and I nodded mutely for what felt like the frillionth time. My neck was already starting to cramp up.

“So how are you guys feeling about all of this?” Alex asked.

“What? The ravioli? It’s great.”

“Uh, no. You know, having a baby?” Gwen said.