*Spoiler alert: Bambi’s mom doesn’t make it.
Okay, get prepared, because this chapter is kind of depressing and is about dead babies. I know. Ew. But they don’t all die, and in the end everything is fine. Mostly. If you just forget about all those dead babies. Or if you call them fetuses. Calling them fetuses makes it feel more clinical and less sad, but I’m pretty sure I get to call them whatever I want, because they’re my dead babies. And no, I’m not calling them “babies” instead of “fetuses” for any political reason, because I’m actually totally prochoice and you can do whatever you want with your body, but stop hijacking this chapter, asshole, because this is about me. God, you have a problem. Also, my editor is all, “WTF are you doing? How are you going to build up suspense if you just gave away the entire chapter in the first paragraph? Don’t you know about the six elements of drama?” and I’m all, “No, but I know that when I go see a sad movie I always want someone to run in right before the sad scene and be like, ‘Okay, Bambi’s mom’s about to bite it, but it’s totally going to be okay in the end. Don’t freak.’” And that’s what I just did for you. You’re welcome. My editor just pointed out that I just ruined Bambi for everyone who hasn’t seen it, but IT’S FUCKING BAMBI, y’all. It’s totally not my fault if you haven’t seen Bambi yet. It’s been out for years. Hey, have you heard about this new thing called “a sandwich” yet? It’s awesome. My editor says I’m being purposely fatuous. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds bad, so I’m going to go back up to the top and add a spoiler alert. I’m like a goddamn saint.
So, how do you write something funny about dead babies? Answer: You can’t. So get prepared.
I ALWAYS IMAGINED that when I got pregnant it would be awesome, and everything would go perfectly, and I’d pose for all those artfully naked, pregnant Demi Mooresque pictures and put them all over my house, and suddenly I’d have less cellulite, and then I’d go into labor while I was standing in line at the bank, but it would be okay because the baby would get stuck in my pants leg, so it totally wouldn’t slam into the floor. Thank God for skinny jeans with maternity panels; am I right? And that was basically exactly what I expected would happen the first time I got pregnant. In real life, though, I found out I was pregnant, promptly got so sick I could hardly move, and threw up into my office garbage can all day long. At the time I was still working in human resources, teaching people how to act appropriately at a nonprofit Christian organization in Houston. That sounds like it’s a joke, but I assure you it’s not. I was actually really good at pretending to be appropriate (when I wasn’t throwing up in front of large groups of people), but it started to become obvious to everyone that I was either pregnant or dying, so Victor and I decided to go ahead and tell everyone. And everyone was thrilled, except for the cleaning lady at my office who had to empty my trash can.
I had always wanted to be a mother. I didn’t really like other people’s babies, but I never considered that a job requirement, as I assumed that my baby would be kick-ass, or would at least quickly turn into a kid. When I was little I always wanted to have a slumber party, but my parents were too smart to ever agree to have one, and so I told myself that one day when I was old enough I’d have a kid and have a slumber party with her every night. That seems like a ridiculous reason for having a child, but there are worse ones. At my core, though, was a need that I couldn’t quite verbalize. I wanted to be part of my family legacy. I wanted to give a child the kind of magical childhood I wanted. I wanted to see a small reflection of myself and the generations before me in a new face, and be reborn again too. I wanted to have someone I could beat at Scrabble.
Victor and I picked out names, bought baby sweaters, and wondered what our lives would be like as parents. I was nervous, but too sick to really worry. A few weeks before the second trimester, Victor and I went into the doctor’s office for an ultrasound. I hadn’t slept much that night, because I’d had a panic attack and ended up calling my sister at midnight, hysterically yelling, “OHMYGOD, WHAT IF THE BABY’S A REPUBLICAN?” Then she hung up on me because she enjoys being unsupportive. Or maybe she was mad that I call her only at midnight when I’m having panic attacks. I don’t really know. What I do know, though, was that I was braced to hear almost anything in that exam room.
“It’s twins.”
“It’s triplets.”
“It’s a Republican.”