Week 19: I Wear the (Maternity) Pants in the Family

Happy New Year! I can hardly believe it’s 2006. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, C. leaned down and said to my belly, “Welcome to the year of your birth.” Our baby’s being born this year! In some ways, five months seems like forever. In other ways, May seems like it’s just around the corner.

I’ve already started off the new year differently. For one thing, I was sober. It actually wasn’t that bad being one of the few non-champagne drinkers at our friends’ New Year’s Eve party. It was the first time in years I’ve woken up on New Year’s Day without a hangover. And I did make it till midnight, instead of falling asleep in the onion dip as I had feared. I admit I did feel a twinge or two of envy eyeing the svelte gals in their tight satin dresses and tiny sequined tank tops. But seeing as I can still squeeze into a couple pairs of my pre-pregnancy pants, I guess I’m not too much of a heifer just yet. And anyway, who cares? I’m having a baby this year!

When I was home for Christmas, my mom thought it would be fun to take me shopping for maternity clothes. I don’t really need them just yet, but I am starting to feel a bit constricted by that top button on my pants. Every night when I take them off, I have a red ring around my middle. Can’t be comfortable for the Bean. (I have taken to calling the baby “the Bean,” short for Jelly Bean, even though my pregnancy books tell me this person inside me has now grown to the size of a zucchini. Again with the produce!)

So I gamely went along with my mom to paw through racks of large, elastic-waist pants and tent-shaped tops. Let me tell you, on the fun meter, this ranks considerably lower than shopping for wedding dresses, no matter what my mother says.

I hauled armloads of stretchy, loose, and drawstring garments into the dressing room. The first few swam on my frame like deployed parachutes. The shop girl suggested I strap on one of the store’s fake, cotton-stuffed “bellies” to see what I’d look like in a couple months. I just looked like I’d fastened a flotation device around my waist. Ridiculous. I managed to find a couple pairs of jeans that actually looked like normal-person clothes aside from the large band of elastic at the top. But with a long maternity shirt – the ones that tie in the back or are gathered under the bustline at least give the illusion that you still have a waist – they didn’t look half bad. I steered clear of the maternity bathing suits. No amount of ruching can make those things look cute.

I did break down and buy a few new pairs of underwear, though. I specifically did not get the ones labeled “maternity panties,” I just bought my regular kind a size (or two) larger. It’s a little tough on the ego to purchase undergarments that could double as patio umbrellas, but comfort won out in the end. I really should also buy some bigger bras. Normally, I’d be thrilled by this prospect, except that if there’s anything I hate worse than shopping for elastic-waist pants, it’s trying on bras. So in the meantime, I’m enjoying the voluptuous illusion given by stuffing myself into my too-small ones. Look out, Pamela Anderson!

Week 18: Is That a Foot?

OK, I think C. finally gets it now. He’s seen with his own two eyes that there’s a living being in my belly, with a head, a spine, a tiny beating heart, and moving arms and legs. The ultrasound is one of the coolest pregnancy experiences so far. It’s like your own private baby cam! We saw the feet, the fingers, and the leg and arm bones, glowing white against the black background. We could make out the profile – oh, boy, it’s looking like it’s got C.’s nose already, and is that an overbite? – and see the baby crossing its legs and sucking its thumb. Amazing.

The nurse doing the sonogram was, inexplicably, not quite as enthusiastic as we were. Can you imagine? But she obliged when we told her we didn’t want to find out the baby’s sex. “OK, I’m going down there, look away,” she’d say, and we’d dutifully shield our eyes.

I was surprised to learn that we are in the minority among our pregnant pals when it comes to not wanting to know whether we’re having a boy or a girl. I thought most people wanted to be surprised. Instead, it seems most want to spare themselves the hassle of picking out two names and buying only gender-neutral baby items.

One of our friends claimed they didn’t want to find out – only to admit that they’d caved under pressure when they were in the midst of the sonogram. “It’s too hard not to find out when the nurse is right there and you know she knows,” they explained. Not only are they having a girl, but they stole our top girl’s name to boot! I suppose they have dibs because it’s a family name and they’re giving birth a month before us, but still. It hurts.

I’ve been carrying around the ultrasound pictures for days, showing them to anyone who will look. It’s both fascinating and freaky at the same time. It’s also probably the last time I’m going to see my baby before he/she is born. Will I recognize her? Will his overbite correct itself? Will anyone else steal our baby names? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

Week 17: Jump on the Baby Bandwagon

Once I became pregnant I started noticing pregnant women everywhere – at the grocery store, at the airport, at the mall. Were they there all along and I just never paid attention? In addition to the profusion of pregnant strangers, I also suddenly have a whole bunch of friends and acquaintances who are expecting. It’s like one started the trend, and then the rest jumped on the baby bandwagon.

First to announce the news was my friend T., pregnant with her second child, and just one week ahead of me. Then there’s J.G., due a month before me, and J.P., due two weeks after me. Pregnancy pals, how fun!

At a recent party, the conversation focused on J.G.’s newly visible bump and the search for cute maternity clothes. J.P. mixed up special non-alcoholic cocktails so we could at least pretend we were drinking champagne. And A., recently married and trying to get pregnant, listed with rapt attention as we recounted every last symptom and swelling. It’s nice to have a captive audience. Husbands and non-moms have a low threshold for that kind of talk.

It is nice to feel like you have companions as you progress through your pregnancy. The veterans are a little more laid-back, a lot more focused on what comes after the birth than the stuff leading up to it. That’s normal, I guess. Talking about the “terrible twos” beats gruesome birth stories any day. (Which many women are all too happy to share with you, whether they’re invited to or not.)

But I especially like chatting with the rookie moms-to-be like me. “Is your belly button sticking out yet?” we’ll ask each other. “What’s all this talk about food cravings? I haven’t had any, have you?” It’s uncharted territory for us, and endlessly fascinating. It’s heartening to hear that someone else is having similar experiences, and it’s also interesting to hear how pregnancy is different from person to person. (Thank god I didn’t have much morning sickness! How weird that no one else is constipated.)

This week, I think I felt the baby move for the first time. I say “I think” because most books will tell you that you won’t feel any “quickening,” as they call it, until at least week 20. But I keep feeling a sort of bumping, bubbly feeling in my lower abdomen. I suppose it could be gas, but it feels … different, somehow. J.G. says people described it to her as butterflies in your stomach, but she likens it more to a bug crawling around inside you. “It’s kind of gross,” she admits.

It is sort of weird to feel the first stirrings of what seems to be an alien life form growing inside of you. But also reassuring, in a way. I’m finally starting to believe there’s a real baby in there! Now if only my husband would start getting a clue … I’m still waiting for the foot massages and breakfast in bed.

Week 16: Dumb Stuff I Never Used to Care About

There’s a long list of topics I can honestly say never crossed my mind for a good 90% of my life. Yet many of these things have suddenly become massively important to me as an adult. For instance, I never thought I’d ever give a hoot about escrow or equity, nor did I ever imagine I’d concern myself with crown molding, fiber, gas mileage, or furniture shopping. However, I currently expend all sorts of mental energy on these issues, especially the last.

I’ve become preoccupied – no, obsessed – with finding the perfect upholstered rocking chair for the baby’s room. This room, mind you, is at the moment a rather cluttered home office. We’re leaving the light green wall color intact because we can’t be bothered to repaint. I may get some new curtains or I may not. I haven’t done a lick of research on cribs or changing tables. For whatever reason, I’m focused solely on this particular item, which in many people’s opinions (and they’re probably right) is an entirely optional addition to a nursery.

In a dream (or perhaps a Pottery Barn Kids catalog) I saw my ideal rocker – it was big but not bulky, cushy, comfortable, and best of all, covered in the cutest oversize green-and-white gingham fabric you’ve ever seen. I envisioned myself nestled in the cozy confines of the chair, nursing my newborn babe, rocking him/her to sleep, perhaps even humming a soothing lullaby. I pinned my maternal hopes and dreams to that checked chair. Now, if only I could find it.

I scoured the Internet for hours on end and came up blank. I drove miles out of my way to visit baby furnishings superstores. I asked friends and colleagues if they’d seen my elusive chair anywhere. Then, while visiting friends out of state, I saw it. Right there in their pastel-decorated nursery was a green-and-white checked rocker – with a matching ottoman! And matching valances on the windows! I sank into the chair and it glided back and forth as if floating on a cloud. Heaven.

But here’s the thing: these friends of ours are loaded. We’re Target, they’re Neiman Marcus. We’re pizza, they’re bruschetta. We’re 3 bedrooms, 2 ½ baths, they’re 7 (!) bedrooms and 7 (!) baths. Turns out, the rocking chair came from an exclusive, local custom furnishings shop. I wasn’t rude enough to ask the price (I wish I had been), but it’s probably a safe bet that it was out of our price range.

A few days later, a sheer stroke of luck landed me on a web site that offered a nearly identical chair. And to my surprise, it wouldn’t even require taking out a second mortgage. In fact, the only problem was that I couldn’t test out the chair before I bought it since the seller was an Internet-only retailer. I mean, what kind of idiot buys a several-hundred-dollar chair without sitting in it first? Well, um, actually … But I didn’t buy it just yet.

First, I stalked their customer service people. I felt like I was calling a phone-sex hotline as I asked them to describe, in intimate detail, what it felt like to sit in this chair. “It’s very comfortable. And roomy. I can tuck my legs up under me and still have room on each side,” they’d purr. “I fall asleep almost every time I sit in it.” “Uh, huh, go on,” I’d say, salivating. They sent me swatches. I caressed my cheek with the perfect pale green and white cotton, visions of nursery rhymes dancing in my head.

So did I go ahead and order the chair and get on with my life? No. Why? Because at heart, I’m a practical person. You might even say frugal. The extra shipping and handling fees irked me, but mostly it was the no-return policy that made me uneasy. What if I ordered the thing and it was as comfortable as sitting on a bag of wet sand? What if the customer service ladies had tricked me with their dulcet descriptions? My life ground to a halt for several days while I debated what to do.

It occurred to me that two years before, I’d been gripped by the same dementia over which wedding cake to get. The $600 vision of loveliness with the satiny, two-inch-thick buttercream icing and three different-flavored tiers? Or the $300 homemade vanilla one iced with a half-inch of sugar and shortening? I ended up choosing the latter, and I’m guessing no one but me noticed or cared. The thing about the chair is, instead of being devoured and forgotten in 20 minutes, it will be a fixture in our house for probably the next 20 years. We will sit in it, sleep or not sleep in it, every day for the next several years.

In the end, I just couldn’t take the chance. I settled on a homely, albeit comfortable, glider/recliner from JC Penney that was 30% off. Sure, I sprung for a nice sage green fabric for an extra $50, but it’s no green-and-white gingham. Sure, it swivels and reclines, unlike the chair on the web site, but there’s no cute matching ottoman. Sure, I can sit in it and sing lullabies to my baby, but it’s more like the type of chair a guy named Norm would sit in to drink beer and watch the playoffs.

But, like the wedding cake, I realize a chair is not the most important thing in the world. I’m going to be a parent soon. And parents are practical, right? I just hope our child never comes across a Pottery Barn Kids catalog. All that pastel and gingham would just break her heart.

Week 15: Pregnancy for Dummies

The other day I was having lunch with a couple of friends with small children. The littlest people in our party turned out to have a big impact on the day’s plans. First of all, lunch was delayed 45 minutes because 10-month-old Ava had napped longer than usual. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal, except there were two pregnant women in our party, including me. So we were ravenous by the time the others showed up. I was drooling enviously at 18-month-old Addie’s Tupperware container of Cheerios, which she was gummily snacking on in her stroller.

Then we had to find a restaurant that appealed to 3 ½-year-old Olivia, whose current diet consists solely of chicken fingers and pizza. When we finally found a place, there was a minor situation when it turned out they didn’t allow strollers in the dining room. But high chairs were procured, strollers were stowed, and we were finally shown to our table.

When our meals arrived, I had heartily tucked into my tacos when I noticed that neither of my mom-friends had taken so much as a bite. They were busy laying out disposable plastic placemats, fastening bibs, retrieving sippy cups from the floor, and cutting up chicken into bite-sized chunks. The one poor mom with two kids said, “It’s always like this when we go to a restaurant. I never get to eat.” No wonder she’d lost all the baby weight already.

Sitting there, I was in awe of these women. How did they know how to do all this stuff? How did they know that the baby was grunting for her milk and not more chicken? How did they know to pack placemats and individually wrapped snacks? I know it sounds stupid. I guess they just figured it out along the way. And I’m sure I will. But at that moment, it was like I was an interloper in some mystical world of mommies – a world that I’m going to become a part of in a little over six months.

Of course, before I even get to the Cheerios and Pampers, there’s that little thing called labor and delivery. And I admit, I’m ignorant about that part. I mean, obviously, I know the basics. But when my mom-friends start going on about Braxton-Hicks contractions, mucous plugs, back labor, and episiotomies, I draw a blank.

One friend, after taking in my blank stare, suggested, “You might want to get a book or something.” I have books. I have a whole library! I just haven’t quite gotten to those chapters yet. I’ve purposely been holding off because I don’t want to scare myself. I don’t really need to know all the gory details, do I? I figure I’m better off being in the dark about some of that stuff.

On another note: I noticed for the first time this morning that my stomach now sticks out even when I’m lying on my back in bed. There’s a little, unmistakable bulge around my belly button. There’s really a baby in there! I swear, I’m not stupid, I’m just a slow – and sometimes reluctant, at least when it comes to gross medical stuff – learner.

Week 14: The Name Game

One of the most fun parts about being pregnant is coming up with baby names. I can spend hours on the subject with my friends, debating the benefits of “Emily” versus “Emma” or “Carter” versus “Connor.” For a guaranteed laugh, flip through the baby name books for the outlandish entries like Caradoc and Sachaverell.

And there’s all sorts of fascinating trivia related to names. For instance, it may interest some people to know that my mother visited cemeteries for ideas of what to christen her children. Sounds morbid, but she wanted traditional New England names, so where better to look than the final resting place of a bunch of old Yankees? And, while Abigail wasn’t even in the top 25 in 1974 when I was born, it now ranks among the top 5 most popular names for girls. Who knew?

Unfortunately, the one person who doesn’t find endless enjoyment in the name game happens to be the only other person whose opinion really matters – my husband. He’s a bit of a procrastinator, so it’s no real surprise that he’s not itching to get started on a task that, technically, could wait another six months. Still, his reluctance to participate is annoying.

It usually works like this: I’ll suggest names I like, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust, repeating the name with the most unflattering pronunciation possible. “Cuh-LAIR? Are you kidding? Claire’s a fat girl’s name.” (Turns out he was quoting from “The Breakfast Club,” frequent movie quotations being another annoying husbandly habit.) Sometimes, if I wear him down enough, he’ll toss out a couple suggestions of his own – Seamus? Deirdre? Franz? – which I inevitably hate. I’m not even sure if he’s serious half the time.

It doesn’t help that his last name is a big part of the problem when it comes to selecting the right name. It just doesn’t sound right with a lot of names. Since it starts with “F,” forget Phoebe or Finn or anything else starting with F. The kid would spray spit everytime he said his name. In fact, anything with a “v” sound in it is pretty much out, too. Then there’s the issue of mixing nationalities. C. has a very Irish surname. It sounds good with nice Irish names like Colleen and Danny. But tack on Greta or Irina and you’ve got a cultural mishmash on your hands. Might as well name a kid Boris Garcia or Keiko Schwarzkopf.

Thinking it might be fun to research ancestral names, I browsed the family history my grandfather put together years ago. He traced relatives back to the 1800s and mapped out our whole family tree. Turns out, lots of folks hailed from the South – hence the predominance of Ida Maes and Earlenes. To be honest, there were only a handful of palatable choices in the whole bunch. (I thought Gracie Lee was kind of cute. C. refused to even consider Daisy or Jasper.) I know old-fashioned names are back in style, but there’s no way I’m naming my child Edna Maude, family name or not.

Speaking of family, ours was only too happy to jump in with suggestions – especially what names NOT to pick. My mom started out by saying, “Whatever you choose will be wonderful” before adding, “I just hope you don’t name the baby George. There are way too many Georges in the family already.” Then she went on to disparage the perfectly acceptable name Noah before suggesting – with a straight face – we might name our son Deke. DEKE!!

The problem with opening up the whole name issue to other people is that they feel free to tell you every bad association they have with every name imaginable. One person knew a bratty kid in school named Kyle. Another hated an aunt named Eileen. Yet another has heard of more than one pedophile named William. And once you’ve heard these stories, you, too, will forever make that same association with the name.

The other snag we’re running into is that all the names we like are already taken. If not by someone else’s child, then by someone’s pet. I kid you not. I really liked the names Sadie and Alexis until I discovered those are the given names of a relative’s dogs. Big deal, you may be saying. But do you want your child to be humiliated at the family reunion when someone shouts, “Sadie! Did you make this puddle on the floor?”

If C. and I ever do manage to agree on a name that’s not already taken by someone’s pet ferret, that’s not associated with a hated teacher or convicted felon, that sounds good with his last name, that has the right number of syllables and the correct cultural connotation, I’ll let you know. At this point, it’s looking like the child’s going to be named “Baby X.” Though that could cause some problems for him or her at job interviews someday...

Week 13: Belly Up to the (Salad) Bar

I’ve started to notice that in virtually all pregnancy books and magazines, the size of your growing baby is compared to produce. At week seven, my embryo was likened to a small raspberry. At nine weeks, it became a medium green olive. (Why not a black or kalamata olive, I have no idea.) By then, my uterus was allegedly the size of a grapefruit. Sometimes the descriptions veer into the condiment category, especially early on when the embryo is compared to a grain of salt or a peppercorn. (One book called it a “BB pellet,” but that was the only deviation from the food theme. Maybe that one was written by a guy.)

Since I’ve always had more of a preference for sweets than produce, despite the fact that I’m a vegetarian, I prefer to think of my baby-to-be in terms of candy. The first few weeks, he or she was no bigger than a speck of sugar from a Pixie stick. Gradually, the embryo grew to the size of a gummy bear, then a jelly bean (the regular supermarket variety, not the tiny gourmet ones). Now I reckon it’s about the size of a Circus Peanut.

Of course, after a certain time – say, following the Chunky-bar stage – I’m going to run out of candy big enough to describe the baby-to-be. Sure, I can claim it’s the size of a giant Hershey’s Kiss – the 2-lb. kind you see at Christmastime – but that’s sort of cheating. I suppose I’ll have to move on to snack pastries. She/he will grow from a cupcake to a Hostess Apple Pie. Next it will become a Cinnabon, and then I guess I’ll have to go with a pound cake. Eventually, the kid will end up as a family-sized carrot cake like you see at discount warehouse stores. Or maybe one of those gigantic lemon pies topped with a towering cloud of meringue displayed in the dessert case in old-fashioned diners. Sounds a little less scary than a watermelon, anyway.

So you might be wondering why, in all my first-trimester entries, I haven’t brought up the issue of morning sickness. After all, lots of women suffer from nausea and aversions to certain foods or smells. One friend of mine could only bring herself to suck weakly on sour hard candies throughout most of her pregnancy. But I’m happy to say I got off easy on this one. Aside from a mild distaste of the smell of coffee and hamburgers cooking, my stomach has been pretty calm. I like to think it’s because the universe owes me.

When I was a baby, my grandmother dubbed me “Vesuvius” since I was always erupting like that volatile volcano that buried Pompeii. As a kid, I had the world’s weakest stomach. The tiniest thing -- a bumpy car ride, setting foot on an airplane, a 3-D movie, the anticipation of my birthday, eating too much, eating too little -- could set off my sensitive tummy and send me running for the nearest bathroom. It didn’t help that my parents were big travelers. I’ve hung my head over toilets in Canada, Costa Rica, France, Germany, Greenland, Mexico, Scotland, Spain, and most states in America. OK, I’m exaggerating – I didn’t always make it to the bathroom.

Anyway, with all the stomach troubles I’ve had in my lifetime, I think it’s only fair that I get through pregnancy nausea-free. And as for food cravings, I can’t say I’ve had any strong ones. Sure, I’ve developed a taste for reduced-fat sour cream and onion Pringles, Orangina, and cinnamon candies, but I don’t send my husband out at 3 a.m. to fetch them. Though I have been known to get a little cranky if he dips into my stash. I tell him to lay off my chips and go make a fruit salad or something. I think this week we’re on to peaches.

Week 12: Starting to Show … Somewhere

At week 12, I’m finally starting to look a little pregnant. No, my belly’s not expanding – but my butt is. Normally I don’t spend too much time worrying about the size of my rear-end. After all, I don’t have to look at it. I can’t even see it unless I’m strategically positioned in front of a three-way mirror in a dressing room under harsh fluorescent lighting. And that’s when I try to avoid looking back there at all costs. No one needs that level of detail.

Anyway, I’ve always been pretty happy with my heinie. It fills out a pair of jeans, it’s comfortable to sit on for the duration of most domestic flights, and usually, it’s fairly toned from a regular regimen of squats and lunges. Not that I’d ever go strutting down a beach in a thong or anything – or even walk around my bedroom in broad daylight in front of the dog – but for the most part, I am at peace with my posterior. That is, until it started growing at a faster rate than any of my other pregnant body parts.

I guess I was so distracted by my newfound cleavage that I didn’t pay attention to other parts of my anatomy. I mean, sure, I’ve been checking my stomach for signs of growth, but that’s a given. (Nothing happening yet. I thought for awhile that my belly was beginning to pop, but it turns out I was just bloated.)

Then I saw a picture of myself in snug workout gear. It was my idea to have C. take a picture of me at the same time each month, in the same place, wearing the same outfit, to document my pregnancy. I thought it would be cute to look back and see how I’d grown. But I didn’t bank on my butt filling half the frame. Sure enough, I looked just about the same from my neck to my waist, but below the belt there was an unmistakable swelling in my Spandex.

Just to be sure, I asked C. what he thought. I KNOW, I broke the cardinal rule of coupledom: never, ever ask your man if your butt looks big. Except, I’m pregnant. It’s not like I’ve been hitting the Twinkies hard for no good reason. Everyone knows I’m going to gain weight; it’s what pregnant women do. Anyway, I just wanted his confirmation that my eyes weren’t in fact deceiving me. Maybe it was just a bad camera angle.

After an uncomfortable couple of minutes, C. reluctantly agreed with my initial hypothesis. “I guess now that you mention it, yes, it does look a little bigger. But you’re still not fat,” he rushed to add. “I probably wouldn’t even have noticed if you hadn’t drawn my attention to it.” But the damage was done.

I now had a witness to the fact that my ass had indeed begun to grow to gigantic proportions. Worse, I have photographic proof. And I’m only three months along! I shudder to think of the size my rump might reach by my third trimester. But you can bet your bottom dollar I’m staying away from three-way mirrors.

Week 11: Doctors Can Call in Sick?

So after gearing up for weeks for my first doctor’s appointment – with a brand-new OB/GYN, no less – her office called that morning to say she was out sick. Huh? What ever happened to “physician heal thyself”? Since it was a rainy Friday, I have my suspicions. I bet she just felt like lounging around at home in her PJs watching “Regis & Kelly.” I know I did. But I had already gotten up, showered, dressed, and put on makeup. (I didn’t want her thinking I’m a slob.)

Anyway, the next available appointment was the following Wednesday with a different doctor. I tried not to stress too much, since they do recommend that you see all the doctors in the practice at some point, so whoever’s on call the day you deliver won’t be a stranger. Still, I couldn’t believe I had to wait SIX MORE DAYS to confirm that I’m actually having a baby.

I know, you’d think the missed period, sore breasts, fatigue, ravenous hunger, and two positive pregnancy tests would be good enough, right? But somehow, I just wouldn’t believe it until a genuine medical professional was saying the words to me in person: “You’re pregnant.” Better yet, I hoped I’d get to hear the heartbeat or maybe even get a sonogram as some of my friends had.

So I show up early to my next appointment. My first appointment, that is. I’m ready, eager, and willing to flip through last month’s Glamour as I wait. (Please, I’m so not ready for Parenting yet.) I try to tune out the Jerry Springer show in the background. How is people shrieking about their torrid family dramas in the waiting room relaxing for first-time moms-to-be?

Soon, my name is called by the nurse. She leads me back to an exam room where she takes my blood pressure and weighs me. I’ve gained three pounds already! No wonder, as I’ve been consuming calories like a starving person at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Then I undress, slip into a lovely backless gown, and wait for the doctor. I avert my eyes from the posters charting the growth of the fetus and the inner workings of the womb. There’s such a thing as too much information.

I’m contemplating my socks, relieved that they match and are free from holes, when the doctor breezes in and introduces herself. She’s young, businesslike, and brisk. I ask her a couple of questions and she answers promptly. She does not engage me in conversation. She kneads my sore breasts and attacks my abdomen like she’s molding a nativity scene out of Play-Doh. She apologizes when I moan in pain, but I don’t think she really means it.

After all that, I overhear her say to the nurse, “I’m going to do the ultrasound.” My ears perk up. Then I see her wheel over a machine that’s attached to a device that would look at home in an adult toy catalog. You’re going to put that WHERE? Oh. Sure. I hold my breath and close my eyes until she says, “There it is.” I look up at the screen and see a blurry black and white image. “What’s that? And that?” I ask, jabbing at the screen. “Just a minute, please,” says the doctor, intent on wedging the device even further into my innards. Finally she gestures at a lighter spot on the blurry screen. “That’s your baby.”

I’m having a beautiful baby … lima bean? Honestly, I can barely make out a head or rump, though the nurse swears they’re there. The thing looks like a fuzzy peanut. However, one thing is unmistakable – there’s a tiny little pulsing light in the center of it. The heartbeat! I laugh. I’m having a Mexican jumping bean. The doctor pushes a button and hands me a tiny square of paper. “For your scrapbook.” It’s a picture of my lima bean. (It looks even blurrier on paper.)

I leave, happy and relieved. And also, shocked – I really AM pregnant! Oh my god. That bean’s going to turn into a watermelon before it's done. I try not to think about it, concentrating instead on my baby-to-be’s first photo. When C. sees it, he says it looks like him already. “Just look at the size of that head!”

Week 10: To Tell or Not to Tell

The thing about being pregnant is that sooner or later, you’ve got to tell people. I mean, who was Jennifer Garner fooling when she suddenly started walking around in flowy shirts that covered her normally taut – and exposed – midriff? Sooner or later, it’s gonna come out. (The news, and also the baby. But let’s not think about that part just yet.)

Now I realize there are legitimate reasons to wait until you’re out of your first trimester to tell people. The possibility of miscarriage drops, and you’re feeling better all around. Plus, it’s probably taken you that long just to wrap your addled little brain around the fact that you’re really, actually, genuinely “with child.”

There were plenty of days in the first couple months when I still didn’t believe it – despite two positive home pregnancy tests, a blood test, and a sonogram. I had a sneaking suspicion it was all just an elaborate prank being pulled on me by the rest of the world. At any minute, I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out from under the exam table and declare I’d been “punk’d.” (I should mention my husband is a huge fan of practical jokes.) After all, there were plenty of other reasons why I might feel ravenous, irritable, exhausted, and constipated all the time, right? Well, aside from PMS, which I’d ruled out by this point, probably not.

Of course, there are other people who can’t wait to spread the good news of their pregnancy to their families, friends, coworkers, grocer, mailman, and the guy who waits on them at Blockbuster. I wasn’t one of those people. I soon learned that who to tell and when is a slippery issue.

The first person I told was my friend S. Mostly, because she’s the mother of two small children and very knowledgeable about procreation. Second, because I’d recently been over at her house complaining that my boobs hurt and wouldn’t it be hysterical if I were actually pregnant? I mean, the chances were so slim in my mind that I was slightly embarrassed to even voice this thought aloud. Everyone knows it can take women over 30 a long time to get pregnant, right? Apparently not always.

So now I felt compelled to tell S. that, guess what, the joke’s on me. I also thought that she, with her maternal wisdom, might reassure me that I was nuts. Instead, she said that while she’d heard of false negatives with home pregnancy tests, she thought a false positive was pretty rare. Gulp.

I saw the double line the night before I was setting off for a weekend trip with some girlfriends to visit a friend who’d recently moved to the West Coast. C. and I debated whether to keep the news a secret or not. Surely I could explain away my avoidance of alcohol by saying I was on antibiotics for a recent illness. Except one of my friends was a nurse and might ask, “What kind of antibiotics?” And the only old prescription bottles we had lying around the house had C.’s name on them. My friends aren’t that dumb.

I decided I’d just play it by ear. Who knew? Maybe the alcohol issue wouldn’t even come up. Yeah, right. I realize that it may sound ridiculous – and possibly as if my friends and I should be checking ourselves into the Betty Ford clinic – if someone’s choice of beverage at dinner is the first tip-off that she might be pregnant. But what can I say? My friends enjoy their wine. And beer. And Cosmopolitans.

So we had barely arrived at my friend E.’s apartment when she rattled off the itinerary for the weekend: we’d start with a coffee tasting at a local beanery (I could no longer stomach even the smell of coffee, let alone the caffeine), then we’d have dinner at her favorite microbrewery. The next day, we’d tour a winery and one of the only places in the U.S. that makes sake. I was screwed. So I told my friends the big news, and they were thrilled. The rest of the weekend passed with numerous discussions about baby names and growing bellies. I drank a lot of lemonade.

Back home, though, I felt guilty about telling some of my friends but not the rest. At least I should wait until after my first doctor’s appointment in two weeks, I figured. Then my husband started in with, “If you can tell your friends, why can’t I tell mine?” Grasping for a reason, I said, “I had to tell my friends. We’re not telling anybody else until our families know.” I mean, I had to at least tell my mom next, right?

I called my parents to share the news. They squealed with delight – their first grandchild, at last! “It’s your news, so I won’t tell anyone until you tell me it’s OK,” said my mom, before adding, “I do wish you would call your grandfather, though. He’s having such a tough time these days, the news would just warm his heart. And of course you have to tell Aunt Ann. And you know, your Aunt Dee is recovering from a neck operation and this might be just the thing to cheer her up.” My dad chimed in, “Of course you’re going to tell your brother, right?”

Two days later, my brother and his wife were coming to dinner, so yes, I had planned to tell them. Although C. was still griping at me about how unreasonable it was that I could tell my family but not his family. “Can you just wait one more friggin’ week until I have my doctor’s appointment?” I said through gritted teeth. I even considered holding off on telling my brother. But that plan was shattered when my sister-in-law (SIL) announced that her best friend was expecting a baby. “She’s my first close friend to have a baby,” SIL said excitedly, “so in a way, it’s like I’ll have my own baby.” OK, how was I going to let that pass?

“Well…” I began, while frantically trying to catch C.’s eye to get the silent OK. He was too ensconced in the football game to notice. In the span of that meaningful glance, SIL caught on. I swear, women have some kind of radar for these things. “You?! You’re not … Oh, my god!” she squealed, as she teared up and ran over to give me a hug. My brother looked up from the game, confused. “Wha…? What’d I miss?” he asked. SIL filled him in. “Really? Wow,” he said, eyes widening. Then he turned back to the TV.

At that point, everything started to snowball. We told my in-laws, C.’s four siblings, his five best friends, and the rest of my friends. I told my grandfather, who told my aunt. I started getting congratulatory e-mails from my friends’ coworkers. I began to feel guilty about all those who had to hear it through the grapevine and would pout about why they weren’t on the first-to-know list. But I still hadn’t had my damn doctor’s appointment!

What if the stupid plastic stick was wrong? What if I showed up and the doctor said, “Pregnant? Hardly. You just have indigestion. Have you been drinking a lot of lemonade lately?” Until I see my waistline expand – or at least an image on the sonogram that doesn’t look like a fuzzy lima bean – I will believe nothing. But that hasn’t stopped me from telling my UPS guy.