12. Kendall
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kendall
THEN
“Hmm!”
“What?”
James, his mouth full of cherry compote-filled pastry, points with an insistent finger at the storefront we’re walking by.
We’re at an outdoor strip mall with stores ranging from a comic bookstore to a women’s clothing-slash-cosmetics store to a bakery where we took a break to indulge in some flaky goodness.
To satisfy my cravings, according to James, though I think it was more his appetite we satiated.
People are popping in and out of shops with purpose.
Arms filled with shopping bags and looks of determination stamped on their faces, no time to dilly-dally before they move onto the next destination.
The holiday season will do that to you. Buying presents for every family member and friend, wrapped and ready for parties and gatherings, is a feat in its own.
I’m learning this from firsthand experience.
I’m experiencing my first ever Southern California winter.
It’s not too different from Washington. It’s not like there are a differing set of customs Californians adhere to.
The variance is mainly in the weather. San Diego has the kind of winter that allows shorts and sunglasses.
Sweaters are an option rather than a requirement, usually dependent on the time of day, and I can even enjoy an iced chai latte without suffering through an incessant chill.
I look up at the large, cartoonish drawing of a spider painted in black tempera paint right next to where James is gesturing toward a silver door handle.
Above the silly drawing, the words “Itsy Bitsy Spider” are sprawled on the display window in a whimsical cursive font.
Inside, I see frilly clothes in miniature sizes, gussied up with ruffles or lace, and other goods, all falling into the mommy or baby category.
James shoves the remains of his crostini inside one bulging cheek. “Let’s go in.”
“Why?” I take a long sip of my orange juice. A substitute for the coffee I’d much rather have. They ran out of the decaf.
“I just want to look.” He tugs at my hand, urging me to follow him. “We’ll be quick.”
I reluctantly follow, preferring to get a start on our own holiday shopping before the crowds get thicker. Though, if I were to be completely honest, I’m curious to see what we’ll find inside. What treasures will tempt us into parenthood with all the adorably small clothes and shoes.
The bell trills as soon as we walk inside, and I see James’s eyes grow wide and awestruck.
“Welcome in,” the attendant calls from a rack of dresses that’ll probably fit a decent-sized opossum. “Looking for anything in particular today?”
I shake my head and smile. “Just looking.”
Just looking. So simple, yet it feels so much more than that.
It’s been some time since we last saw the murky ultrasound picture, confirming our pregnancy through the blip of a heartbeat on the monitor.
That was over two months ago. Since then, I’ve buried myself in worry.
What if something happens to the baby? What if something happens to James or me?
What if I’m a horrible parent? What if this kid grows up to hate me?
What if the world gets terrorized by brain-eating zombies, and I have to deliver this baby in some underground bunker on an air mattress surrounded by canned goods and pre-filled jugs of water?
I tried to ease some of my anxiety through pregnancy books, hoping the experts can bring some peace of mind, but then that brought on a slew of new possibilities.
And not the post-apocalyptic kind. More pragmatic but equally scary things like gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, placental abruption, ectopic pregnancy.
It’s strange considering we didn’t even plan for this.
It was a completely unplanned, unexpected pregnancy that we have options for.
Especially in this day and age. I thought for about a half a second whether or not I wanted to go through with it until I couldn’t not.
Not because of some superior piety complex or deep-rooted moral issues, but because I started to grow attached.
The idea of James and me and this baby started to form into something tangible, something I could actually hold and look at, and I didn’t want to toss it away.
I wanted to water it and feed it, put it in sunlight where we could both watch it thrive and grow.
James wanders off into an aisle lined with bedding and baby monitors while I stop in front of a rack of maternity clothes.
Pants and dresses meant to fit a growing belly.
I haven’t had the need to buy any yet, and I hope I can hold on to my regular clothes for as long as possible.
It’s surprising considering I’m already almost eighteen weeks but some days, I look like I’ve just had a large burrito for lunch.
Most days, I still look like…me. The same Kendall I’ve always been.
“Babe, look.” James grins at me, a pair of sparkly ruby slippers in his large palm. The constantly thrashing waves of anxiety and joy clash against each other, and a new emotion starts to paddle to the surface. Love.
I laugh. “Those are nice.”
“And look,” he says again, pointing to a stuffed owl wearing half-moon reading glasses. “Can we get this little guy?”
“Don’t you think we’re jumping the gun a little bit?”
“No,” he argues firmly. “It’s just a stuffed animal.”
I sidle up to him, running my palm over his chest. “Today it’s shoes and a stuffed owl, tomorrow it’s a car seat or a stroller or a crib.”
“A crib!” He rushes to the next aisle over where there’s a row of cribs and bassinets and toddler beds.
He runs his fingers over one with a glossy wood finish and pink floral print bedding.
“We should get this one.” He stands behind it with a proud grin on his face, and I can’t help but imagine him standing just like that but in a place that’s ours.
“We don’t even know if we’re having a girl,” I state, pointing to the very gender specific linen.
“We can just get the crib for now,” he claims. “We can come back for the bedding. And the shoes once we find out.”
He hasn’t said it, but I think he wants it to be a girl.
We claim we don’t care as long as it’s a healthy baby, but I see him eye all the things meant for girls.
Like little bows or glittery shoes. Or how his face softens when he sees a little girl in the arms of her dad, fitting right into the daddy’s girl role he yearns for.
I walk around to the other side, bracing my hands on the crib’s railing. “Maybe we should be telling people before making a big purchase like a crib?”
“Like who?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Like your parents and my mom?”
We got through Thanksgiving with our secret kept between us.
We spent it with his family, making it the first time I met everyone.
They were incredibly welcoming and embraced me with kind arms. I also had finally gotten over my morning sickness and felt like I could sit through a meal without having to rush to the bathroom with every bite of food.
We weren’t quite ready to share the news.
Instead, we enjoyed being us without the fuss of also being expecting parents.
But now…I don’t think we can avoid it any longer.
He rounds the corners, meeting me at my side, and wraps his arms around my waist. He runs a gentle, soothing hand over my stomach, and I melt into his arms. “Then we should tell them.”
“Really?” I don’t know why this surprises me.
We’re far enough into my second trimester that it’s safe to tell people.
To be honest, I don’t know why we haven’t done it yet.
Maybe we’re waiting for a time when we have everyone gathered in the same place so we don’t have to repeat the news more times than needed.
Or maybe a part of me still doesn’t believe it.
It’s all happening so fast. Maybe it’s not happening at all.
Or maybe there’s some other underlying reason I don’t want to face.
Something more volatile and conflicting.
He nods. “We’ll tell them during Christmas.”
My head rears back. “Like, when we’re at your parents’ house?”
“Yeah,” he answers with a heedless shrug.
“I don’t think that’s the kind of news you tell on Christmas.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” My argument is weak, watered down, and redundant.
“It’s a baby,” he points out. “There are plenty of people who tell their family they’re having a baby during Christmas. It’s the gift of life. The ultimate Christmas present.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t even married,” I point out.
“And?”
“You don’t think that would negate this ‘good news’ moment?” A set of air quotes stamps my point.
“My parents aren’t going to go running to the church elders to inform them we’re having a child out of wedlock,” he jokes. “You think they’re that old-school?”
“No,” I say. But maybe yes? What if our news isn’t met with joy and excitement like James expects? What if we’re met with reproach for being so stupid and careless. And not the kind of chiding we can simply brush off, but the kind that comes specifically from parents. My own included.
“We’ll tell them after we open presents,” he explains. “They’ll be on a high from the espresso machine we got them. No way they can get mad at us.”
I bite my lip. “I guess…”
“We are still spending Christmas together, right?” he asks cautiously.
“Yeah,” I tell him with a soft smile. “Of course.”
He cups the side of my face, running his thumb over my cheek. He kisses me, and I taste cherry on his lips. “I’ll do the talking. You just sit there and look pretty with your baby-making skills.”
I exhale through pursed lips. “Okay. We’ll tell your parents at Christmas.” We’re going to have to tell everyone at some point. Might as well rip the Band-Aid right off. Take the top layer of skin and a few hairs with it. The pain and shock will pass. Right?
“Okay.”