bag.”
“Whatever. You and Colin are on the cover of Talk Magazine anyway. They’re still speculating on whether or not you’re pregnant. Hello… you’re either preggers, or swallowed a beach ball.” He holds up the magazine, showing me a paparazzi shot of us.
I’m in a light pink button-up maternity blouse and dark jeans. My hair is draped over one shoulder, and my sunglasses are acting as a headband. Colin’s in faded, hole-in-the-knee jeans, that I’ve encouraged him to donate, and an aqua-blue T-shirt that’s squeezing his biceps. After seeing this picture, we’ll be keeping the jeans. He’s leaning up against the brick façade of a health-food store that we frequent. I’m just exiting the shop and walking towards him. The picture was snapped before I entered the weeble-wobble phase of pregnancy. A bag filled with our purchases is in my right hand, and it’s slightly hiding the profile of my stomach. My left hand is resting on the top of my swollen abdomen, further obscuring it. But it’s the look on Colin’s face that makes the picture cover-worthy. He’s watching me draw near with a hunger in his eyes that no one can deny. This picture could replace the definition of lust in the urban dictionary.
I’m half tempted to steal the magazine, and frame the picture. It’s a candid shot that speaks volumes about Colin’s devotion to me, and this child.
The headline reads, “We’ll know for sure in a couple of months.”
I just shake my head, and walk out of the waiting room while Brad follows, continuing to tell me all the latest gossip about my relationship with my husband.
****
Brad and I had two simple surgeries today after my appointment with Doctor Starr. When we were finished, Carter picked him up from the circle drive out front of the hospital, and the two headed to East Elm to sample the best pumpkin ravioli ever. They invited me to join them, but I decided to head home and spend the evening hanging out with Pancho.
On my way home, I call Rachael. I haven’t been able to shake the whole postpartum-depression comment that Doctor Starr made at my earlier appointment. So instead of talking to Janis, who’s had four kids and gives sage advice, I call Rachael. Why? Because she makes me laugh. Her ability to marginalize anything is a skill that I wish that I possessed. Really, if someone could bottle it, they’d be billionaires.
“How’s my favorite chief of staff to the future President of the United States?” I ask in such a chipper voice that I giggle at myself.
“My feet are on the verge of falling off, because Manolo Blahnik couldn’t design a pair of comfortable shoes if his life depended on it. I haven’t peed since lunch, and if one more goddamned reporter asks me some asinine question like ‘What did the candidate have for breakfast,’ they’re going to lose talking privileges to me for the next twenty-four hours.” She pauses for a second. “You know you’re best friends with someone when you can take the phone into the restroom”
A belly laugh comes spilling out of my mouth, and it feels so good. I can imagine my child-sized friend rocking five-inch heels just so she can look at the media somewhere higher than their chests. I’m sure her white-blonde hair is twisted back in a tight knot. She’s so polished that somehow Rachael manages to look just as fresh late in the evening as she does when she wakes up in the morning. Sometimes I hate her.
“I don’t mind you taking me into the bathroom with you. Go for it,” I reassure her.
“How are you feeling? I bet your stomach is absurdly big.” Leave it to Rachael to state the obvious.
“I’m good, and yes, I can no longer see my feet.” I hear the toilet flush in the background, and the sound of running water. She really did take me to the bathroom with her. “Leaving for the game tomorrow.”
“Yeah. About that. Tell Colin good luck from me, and the future President. I, unfortunately, will not be
“Whatever. You and Colin are on the cover of Talk Magazine anyway. They’re still speculating on whether or not you’re pregnant. Hello… you’re either preggers, or swallowed a beach ball.” He holds up the magazine, showing me a paparazzi shot of us.
I’m in a light pink button-up maternity blouse and dark jeans. My hair is draped over one shoulder, and my sunglasses are acting as a headband. Colin’s in faded, hole-in-the-knee jeans, that I’ve encouraged him to donate, and an aqua-blue T-shirt that’s squeezing his biceps. After seeing this picture, we’ll be keeping the jeans. He’s leaning up against the brick façade of a health-food store that we frequent. I’m just exiting the shop and walking towards him. The picture was snapped before I entered the weeble-wobble phase of pregnancy. A bag filled with our purchases is in my right hand, and it’s slightly hiding the profile of my stomach. My left hand is resting on the top of my swollen abdomen, further obscuring it. But it’s the look on Colin’s face that makes the picture cover-worthy. He’s watching me draw near with a hunger in his eyes that no one can deny. This picture could replace the definition of lust in the urban dictionary.
I’m half tempted to steal the magazine, and frame the picture. It’s a candid shot that speaks volumes about Colin’s devotion to me, and this child.
The headline reads, “We’ll know for sure in a couple of months.”
I just shake my head, and walk out of the waiting room while Brad follows, continuing to tell me all the latest gossip about my relationship with my husband.
****
Brad and I had two simple surgeries today after my appointment with Doctor Starr. When we were finished, Carter picked him up from the circle drive out front of the hospital, and the two headed to East Elm to sample the best pumpkin ravioli ever. They invited me to join them, but I decided to head home and spend the evening hanging out with Pancho.
On my way home, I call Rachael. I haven’t been able to shake the whole postpartum-depression comment that Doctor Starr made at my earlier appointment. So instead of talking to Janis, who’s had four kids and gives sage advice, I call Rachael. Why? Because she makes me laugh. Her ability to marginalize anything is a skill that I wish that I possessed. Really, if someone could bottle it, they’d be billionaires.
“How’s my favorite chief of staff to the future President of the United States?” I ask in such a chipper voice that I giggle at myself.
“My feet are on the verge of falling off, because Manolo Blahnik couldn’t design a pair of comfortable shoes if his life depended on it. I haven’t peed since lunch, and if one more goddamned reporter asks me some asinine question like ‘What did the candidate have for breakfast,’ they’re going to lose talking privileges to me for the next twenty-four hours.” She pauses for a second. “You know you’re best friends with someone when you can take the phone into the restroom”
A belly laugh comes spilling out of my mouth, and it feels so good. I can imagine my child-sized friend rocking five-inch heels just so she can look at the media somewhere higher than their chests. I’m sure her white-blonde hair is twisted back in a tight knot. She’s so polished that somehow Rachael manages to look just as fresh late in the evening as she does when she wakes up in the morning. Sometimes I hate her.
“I don’t mind you taking me into the bathroom with you. Go for it,” I reassure her.
“How are you feeling? I bet your stomach is absurdly big.” Leave it to Rachael to state the obvious.
“I’m good, and yes, I can no longer see my feet.” I hear the toilet flush in the background, and the sound of running water. She really did take me to the bathroom with her. “Leaving for the game tomorrow.”
“Yeah. About that. Tell Colin good luck from me, and the future President. I, unfortunately, will not be
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