35. My Bingo Card is Full
35
My Bingo Card is Full
What I’ve learned from writing and revising a book about pregnancy is that there’s no “typical” pregnancy and no “typical” delivery. Pregnancy and childbirth aren’t only a physical process. They’re emotional and intellectual too, and that makes them unique. Every mother’s relationship with their child is different. And as long as that relationship benefits them both, when it’s respectful and safe, we should celebrate it.
Dr. Dorothy Dunne, OB-GYN and bestselling author of Dr. Dunne’s Guide to Pregnancy
LUCIE
S omething inside me lightened when I heard the knock at my door. Mom’s here. It was like the time I was eight years old, sitting on the curb, my bike crumpled beside me and my knee sliced open. She showed up with a wet wipe and a Mulan bandage and made everything better.
But this time the stakes were a lot higher. I had days before a whole-ass human was about to become my responsibility. A responsibility I wasn’t prepared for. Maybe not even suited for. Not like she was.
When I heaved myself out of my office chair, pain shot across my abdomen, all the way around to my back. The Braxton Hicks contractions were cute three months ago, but now they were obnoxious. I rubbed my belly with one hand and kneaded my back with the other as I hobbled to the door.
I opened it to find my mom beaming at me. I threw myself at her and hugged her as hard as I could.
She stroked my hair. “It’s good to see you. Thanks for inviting me over.”
After one last squeeze, I released her. “Thanks for coming.” I led her into my apartment. “Can I get you a drink? Water? Seltzer? I don’t have much else.”
“I’m here to take care of you,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down?”
My euphoria fizzled out. “I didn’t ask you here to take care of me,” I grumbled. “I can take care of myself.”
“Okay,” she said carefully. “Still, you should sit. One thing I learned as a mother is to follow Winston Churchill’s advice: you should never stand when you can sit, and never sit when you can lie down.”
“I can’t believe you’re citing Winston Churchill,” I huffed. “Though lying down sounds amazing.” I lowered myself to the sofa. “I’ve still got to finish reading through my draft later tonight.” I pointed at the laptop where I’d left it on the coffee table.
“Your book?” She joined me on the sofa. “You have a draft?”
I nodded.
“That’s fantastic, honey.”
“Yeah, I think if I work on it for another couple days, it’ll be good enough to send to my editor.” Good enough wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted it to be perfect, but I was out of time. I’d make it perfect in revisions.
Mom hummed her approval, then glanced at the corner of the living room I used as an office. “Is that where the baby’s going to sleep?”
“I…I guess?” After that one brief flurry of putting the baby things away, right before Danny had fixed the crib, I’d forced myself to focus on my book. The mattress was still propped on its side, and the sheet was draped over the top of it. “I was hoping to get everything set up after I send my draft to my editor.”
“I can do that while we chat. Wouldn’t you rather have the crib in your bedroom so you don’t have to come all the way out here to feed her in the middle of the night? You can work out here while she sleeps during the day. Of course, you should sleep while she sleeps, if you can. You’re going to be tired as your body heals.”
Anger flared hot inside me. I hated being wrong about anything, including where to put the damned crib. But Dr. Dunne said the same thing about resting in The Book. How did my mom naturally know these things? Dr. Dunne might know a lot about pregnancy, but she was wrong about me. I was going to be a crap mother.
As much as I hated it, I could admit when I’d been wrong. “That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t we move it to the bedroom?” I reached for one end, but a twinge seized me, and I hissed, holding my back where the worst of it hit.
“Are you all right?” My mother steadied me under my elbow.
“Yeah, yeah. My back has been hurting for a few days. You think it might be sciatica? I read about that in The Book.” I pointed to the worn tome on my desk.
“Is it in your back and legs, or does it go all the way around to your stomach?” she asked.
I chuckled, stroking my belly. “The Braxton Hicks contractions want to get in on it too. They join the party when they can.”
Her smile disappeared. “Are you saying you’re having contractions with back pain?”
“It’s another fun symptom of pregnancy. I’ve almost blacked out my bingo card: swollen feet, stretch marks, forgetfulness, giant boobs?—”
“Lucie. That isn’t a pregnancy symptom. It’s a labor symptom. How far apart are the contractions?” She pulled her phone from her skirt pocket.
My heart pounded in my ears. “This isn’t labor. I’m not due for three more days. I have three more days to turn in my book!” My voice had gone shrill, but maybe it was time to be shrill. I stared at the bare crib mattress. I needed more time.
Shaking her head, my mother gripped my elbow and led me to the couch. “That’s not how babies work. They come when they’re ready, whether you are or not.”
I sank onto the couch. “That hardly seems fair. It’s my body. I should have some say in it.”
“You’ll get to make a lot of decisions on your child’s behalf before she’s eighteen. But this isn’t one of them. Drink some water.”
I reached for my bottle of water. So far, so good. At my visit last week, Dr. Cheema had told me not to come to the hospital until the contractions were a minute long, five minutes apart, for an hour. She’d also told me a lot of things about making a plan to get to the hospital, packing a bag, and turning in that birth plan I’d been meaning to work on for months. “Can you hand me my notebook, please?” I pointed at my desk.
My mother went to the desk and returned with my notebook and a pen. “For recording the contraction times?”
“First I need to finish my birth plan.” I flipped through it to find where I’d started it. At least, I’d hoped I’d started it. “Goddammit!” The pain seized me without warning, radiating from my back to my front.
My mother gripped my hand and gave me her most encouraging smile, the same one she’d flashed me when she’d dropped me off for my first day of middle school. When it was over, she tapped her phone and said, “By my best guess, that’s about four minutes from the last one. Where’s your go bag?”
“I—” Shit. Was this really happening?
“It’s okay. I’ll pack some things for you. Where do you keep your luggage?”
“Under the bed.” When she got up, I pointed to my desk. “Could you hand me that book?”
She walked back to the desk and picked up The Book. “This one?”
“Yes, it’s got a packing list.”
She handed it to me. “I’ll put in some toiletries and a change of clothes for you and the baby.”
“Clothes…for the baby?” Shit, I hadn’t thought ahead to walking out of the hospital with a baby. Who needed clothes.
“Are you keeping her things in here?” She walked to the dresser, and without waiting for my answer, pulled open the top drawer. She pulled out a pink onesie. “See? It’s going to be okay. I’ll just pack some things for you.” She strode into my bedroom.
“Will it be okay?” I stroked my belly and murmured, “You sure you can’t wait three more days? Five would be better.”
From my closet, Mom called, “What about a car seat?”
I snorted. “Mom. I don’t own a car.”
She appeared in the doorway with my small suitcase. “Do you plan to walk back from the hospital holding the baby?”
“Fuck!”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll ask Danny to run out for one.”
“Danny?” I blinked. “But you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him. I just didn’t know how much you two cared about each other. He’ll forgive your father and me for how we acted. We had a chat before I came up here. Why don’t you text him and tell him we’re heading to the hospital in a few minutes?”
My body went numb. I’d hidden from him since that terrible day at the botanical garden. But I’d committed to allowing him to witness the birth of his daughter. I supposed it was time to come out of hiding.
I wished I hadn’t fucked everything up so badly. I’d fully intended to have everything set up for her, to have a safe and welcoming space for the baby. To have turned in my book so I could focus on mothering. To have my shit together.
I’d utterly failed. My mother had seen it, and Danny was going to judge me.
“I’m already the worst mother ever,” I groaned.
“No, you’re not. Why would you say that?”
“Because I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m already fucking everything up.” I sniffled.
“Honey.” She peered into my eyes. “Everyone makes mistakes. That doesn’t make them poor parents. It means they’re learning.”
When the contraction eased, I said, “You don’t make mistakes.”
She snorted. “Of course I do. In your closet, I saw the rack full of dresses I’ve given you with the tags still on. It wasn’t until I saw all those pastels next to all the black that I realized I was asking you to wear something you hate. I thought I was doing something nice for you, but all I was doing was trying to make you seem happy. I should know you’re happiest in monochrome. Like Wednesday Addams.”
“I’m no—” Lightning seared across my belly, so acute that it stole my breath.
“Another contraction?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” I gritted out, my molars clenched.
She picked up my hand, and I squeezed back, closing my eyes. When I thought the pain would go on forever, it eased.
“Still four minutes,” she said. “We should go soon. But I want to tell you something first.”
“The secret to motherhood?” My fingers itched for my notebook.
“I wish I knew it. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have been too scared to continue my career and be a wife and mother at the same time. I admire you so much.” Her voice cracked, but she cleared it. “You’re so strong, and you’re going to be a fantastic mother.”
My heart gave a hopeful skip. “You think so?”
“I know so. You’re confident, fearless, smart. You know what you want.”
But did I? I wanted to do what was right for the baby, myself, and Danny. And that was to handle all this motherhood stuff and let Danny live his life. But every time I thought about him, my heart ached. I missed him. But missing him had no place in my plan to do right by him.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Definitely.” She nodded. “I’m going to grab your toiletries from the bathroom. Call Danny. Remember, he’s part of this too. You can rely on him and share the burden.”
I snorted. “Like you did with Dad?”
“No,” she said. “That was another of my failings. After I gave up on my career, I poured one hundred percent of myself into being the best wife and mother I could be. If I’d let your father share some of the work, maybe you’d have a better relationship with him. And with me.”
“I’m sorry.” Why was this the first time we’d talked about this? I’d been so focused on judging her, never asking her how she really felt.
“We’ll work on it. We’ve got time.” She stood. “Now, call Danny.”
But I wasn’t ready for him to hear my panicked voice. Instead, I texted him, In labor. Heading to the hospital. Want to come with?
I stared at my phone for a minute, but there was no response. It was Monday night, so he was working. He might not have even felt the buzz in his pocket. Or he had, and he was so angry with me that he didn’t want to come to the hospital anymore.
Fair.
The next contraction was miserable enough to make me groan. But when it ended, my mother stood in front of me with my suitcase. “If there’s anything I’ve forgotten, I’ll come back for it. You’ve got your phone? I’ll grab your keys. Let’s go.” She held out her hand.
“I’ll need this.” I handed her my laptop. “And this.” I handed her The Book.
“Book, yes,” she said. “Laptop, no. You won’t have the energy to write. And what if something happens to it? You could lose your work.”
“Goddammit, you’re right again.” My eyes prickled as she set the laptop on the coffee table.
“How about we take your notebook? If you’re inspired, you can write in that,” she said.
I handed it to her, then took her hand to heave myself from the couch.
We made it to the top of the stairs before another contraction gripped me. I leaned against the wall and squeezed my mother’s hand so tightly I heard her knuckles crack. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The next contraction hit almost at the bottom of the stairwell. “This sucks,” I grunted.
“They can give you something to ease the pain at the hospital,” she said.
“Thank god.”
I started toward the exit door, but Mom held me back. “Don’t forget Danny.”
“He…fine.” He might not have seen the text. And even if he had and had chosen to ignore it, I deserved whatever humiliation I was in for. It might not even be the worst embarrassment I’d experience through this childbirth.
I let her tug me through the door into the bar. “Danny!” She waved the arm that wasn’t clutching me. “It’s time.”
My gaze went straight to where he stood behind the bar. He had on a black T-shirt that revealed his muscular arms as he poured a beer. His loose hair flopped over his face, but when he lifted his head, our eyes met. His widened. “Time?”
“If…if you want to go with me. With us,” I said.
There was a crash and a splatter. “Shit!” He looked down.
“I’ve got it.” Leo bounded up to him. “Go.”
Danny looked up again, his face pale. Was that terror? Irritation? Shock?
Another contraction hit, and this time, I felt a gush of wetness down my leg. “What the fuck?” I mumbled. When I lifted my boot, the shaft was wet.
“Looks like your water broke,” my mother said. “Good thing I thought to pack a towel.”
“I’ve got that, too, Luce!” Leo said, louder than he needed to. “Better head out.”
Great. I’d lost my fucking amniotic fluid in my favorite bar.
I was never coming back here.