I'm feeling things that I believed are caused by the flutters of a little person and I have a great curiosity about what's happening in there. If I were the star of a movie made specifically for the Sy/Fy channel, this thing would be pushing at my abdominal muscles with freakishly bony fingers until they creak open. Then there would be this "Here's Johnny" moment with a head and a not not charming smile. At least that's what it kind of feels like.
TO DO LIST
Today we traded in my very impractical decade-old red, 2-door Honda Civic (with moon roof) for a responsible 4-door with hatchback crossover. It looks enough like a compact SUV to distract me from the fact that it looks more like a station wagon.
In my dream I've had the baby and I'm home from the hospital, but they wouldn't let me bring her home because we didn't have the right car seat.
"This is, like, your biggest fear right now," Chuck says when I tell him.
Instead of being angry with myself or the hospital or car seat makers in general, I'm mad at my parents for not being there for us. My dad is coy and non-committal when I scream at him on the phone; My mom, he tells me, is either at 8 a.m. or 10:30 a.m. mass and she'll probably help out when she gets home. Probably. He seems amused that I'm in such a rage. Like it's adorable.
I'm yelling. Throat cinched, red-faced yelling at anyone and everyone.
"My baby is two days old and I haven't even seen her yet!" I shout.
No one senses the urgency in this.
Finally I'm told that the baby is waiting for me at the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center. When I get there, she's standing next to her stroller. She walks over and wraps her little arms around my neck. I try to remember if it's normal for a 2-day old baby to be able to walk, or if this just happens sometimes.
Chuck: "In 15 days we find out whether we're having an Emma Stone or a Malachi."
|Adorable and likable film star|
|Sociopathic muscle behind "The Children of the Corn."|
"Did I ever tell you about the old woman who came into my hospital room and milked me?" CHRISSIE asks.
We're at the Buffalo House, first visit ever, because a week ago I saw a commercial for ribs and now I want to go crazy on half a rack and a house salad.
"No," I say. I'm eating them with a knife and fork, like a civilized human being instead of, like, a Flintstone.
She tells a story of giving birth to her now 7-year-old son and and drugs so strong that even her arms are numb. She's hardly aware of what's happening when an older woman, a lactation specialist, comes into her hospital room and begins tugging at her nipples.
"At least she didn't bring a stool," Chuck answers.
"Anyway," Chrissie says, "I guess what I'm saying is: Shit is going to get milked and weird."
WILD AND CRAZY
I find a bit of satisfaction, and grotesque curiosity, in Steve Martin becoming a first-time father at age 67. That's loads older than us.
"Congratulations," Chuck says. "You managed to get pregnant at a younger age than Steve Martin's wife."
THE OTHER DREAM
And then there is this dream, which I'm having versions of: I'm at RT Quinlans, except it's an outdoor bar, and I drink a 22 ounce mug of Amber Boch at a rate usually reserved for drinking my daily dose of Tang.
I belch, order another.
I drink it halfway down in two gulps and realize I better slow down. Then I worry: I know people who have had a beer or wine while pregnant, but none of them have ever mentioned getting hammered at RT Quinlans. I see my friends in a circle, smoking cigarettes together and start to join them. Then I remember that this is definitely off limits.
Chrissie sidles up next to me and looks at my beer. I wonder if she'll think it's nobigdeal that I'm pregnant and drinking or if she'll flip.
"Whoa," she says. "You better slow down."
I wonder what she would say if she knew about the first beer.
Chuck rubs the bump and insists it has gotten bigger just today.
"I think it happened when you bought the car," he says.