“You’ve caught me on a bad day,” I told her smoothing my hair back. We got out of Target before some other mothers could accuse me trying to corrupt their children. Perhaps I wasn’t the biggest ladies’ man that Perry had thought I was, but at least she called me her roommate. And for now, being any kind of mate of hers, was good enough for me.
The Baby—A Steph & Linden Story
“Are you all right?”
I knew it was a mistake the moment I opened my mouth. I’ve been saying nothing but variations of “Are you all right?” for the last week and every single time I’m met with a withering stare or an irate grumble that makes me feel like a wanker.
Because my darling, gigantic wife Stephanie is 42 weeks pregnant and miserable as fuck. And I’m miserable as fuck in return because I feel so horrible for her, the fact that it was my damn sperm that got her into this situation and there’s nothing I can do about it. I mean, bloody hell, I had no idea that you could even be 42 weeks pregnant. All this time we’ve been worrying about an early labor and it turns out our child is a hermit that refuses to come out.
“If you ask me that one more time,” she threatens, the frustration rolling through her words.
The reason I asked – this time – is because she’s lying on her back and half off the bed, an expression of utter madness on her face and the contents of spicy vegan Pad Thai over the front of her tank top and not in the takeout food container where it should be.
“Well, baby blue, you’ve got food all over your shirt,” I say delicately as I step into the bedroom. “And that’s supposed to go in your mouth.”
She makes a grumbling sound and closes her eyes, breathing up and down. I watch her big belly rise, looking utterly hypnotic, like some alien life force about to unleash. Dangerous and strange.
Of course she looks beautiful. I’m supposed to say that. And it’s true. I think there’s some kind of hormone that pregnant women give off or maybe it’s a pheromone or whatever it is, it’s enough to fool the husband or sperm-donor or hapless partner to stick around. Somewhere in the back of my head I know I’m looking at a bloated, sweaty whale of a woman who looks ready to blow and yet I’m still managing to find her wildly attractive. If that’s not messed-up, I don’t know what is. Or maybe it’s just what you call love.
In fact, I’ve been so attracted to Stephanie during her pregnancy that I’ve been trying to lure her into sex every chance I get. And every time I do that, she shoots me down. Not even an ounce of tact for my feelings. It’s just “Don’t you fucking touch me” or “Don’t even think about it.” Occasionally it’s peppered with a “I’m so disgusting, you’ll never want me again” which is then followed by me trying to make-out with her, which then goes back to the “don’t touch me.”
It’s been a trying nine months to say the least.
Also, we both know that having sex can sometimes induce labor, though she still refuses to try it. All I’m wanting is to give her a bloody orgasm so she can at least relax but none doing. It doesn’t help that when we went to her OBGYN the other day, they said her cervix was as locked down as Fort Knox. No one is getting in or out.
“I got too tired to eat,” she says, opening her eyes to look at me while I stand above her. “So I gave up. And now I can’t get up.”
“Do you want to get up?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “No. I just want to lie here. Linden…why does the baby hate me?”
I can’t help but laugh. I crouch down beside her. She smells like Pad Thai sauce. “Steph, the baby doesn’t hate you. It loves you. Too much. It doesn’t want to leave. Your womb is like…”
“A womb?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s a place the baby wants to stay cozy in. That’s not a bad thing. You did a great job. But now…she needs to be evicted.”
Her forehead wrinkles, her blue eyes watering. “I don’t want to be induced, Linden. I’m scared.”
“You’ll be fine. They do it all the time. You heard what the doctor said.” I squeeze her hand for reassurance though to be honest, I’m a little scared too, though that’s nothing new. The last nine months have been a lot of me being scared. And horny. Scared and horny, a bloody brilliant combo.
“I know,” she says. “I just wish I could have her naturally. You know, that she would do what babies are supposed to do and COME THE FUCK OUT!” She yells this last bit, staring at her stomach with all the fire in the world.
My phone rings which brings another roar out of her.
People have been calling and texting and emailing non-stop for the last two weeks, starting from a few days before the due date. Everyone means well but it’s getting annoying with my parents and her parents and our family and friends asking every hour if she’s in labor yet.
“Ignore it,” I tell her. “I’m ignoring it. I’ve told them a hundred times already, if you go into labor, they’ll know about it. Baby, you just need to relax.”
“Are you talking to me or the baby?” she asks dryly.
“Both,” I tell her. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I clean up the pad thai from her shirt and grab her arms, gently hauling her up to her feet. I start to lift the tank top off of her but she grabs the ends herself and turns her back to me to take it off.
I sigh, hating how bashful she is at a time like this when there’s absolutely nothing
