The Knocked Up Plan

“Perhaps I need to spend more time looking in lakes, then, for Mr. Right,” I quip as Ruby yanks gently toward a squirrel scampering up a tree. A quick tug from me reminds her to stay on track. Ruby raises her face, meeting my eyes with a look that says, See, Mom, I listened to you.


“Good girl,” I tell her.

Delaney inhales deeply as we prepare to run up a steep hill. “In all seriousness, though, why do you think it won’t happen to you?”

She asks a good question, and since my job is to zero in on matters of the heart and the bedroom, I’ve applied the same rigorous examination to myself. I have the answer handy. “Here’s why. I believe that writing about dating and love and sexual fetishes has made me immune to love. It’s the nature of the beast. The more time I spend breaking down habits and strategies, the more I become resistant to them. I’m like a doctor who can be exposed to all sorts of viruses but won’t catch them.”

Penny quirks her eyebrow. “So, love is a virus?”

“Absolutely. And it seems I’ve got more antibodies to it than I expected,” I say as a mom crests the hill pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller in the other direction. My heart skips a beat. My eyes snap to the sweetest little bundle of joy in the stroller—a baby girl, decked out in a cute, pink onesie. A blond angel I just want to smother in kisses, and I don’t even know her. Butterflies launch a full-scale fiesta in my chest. Trumpets blare.

“Oh my God, your little girl is so adorable,” I call out with a bright smile.

The young mom returns my grin, her ponytail swishing as she jogs. “Thank you.”

“How old?”

“Six and a half months.”

“She’s a little princess.”

“She is, indeed,” the mom says. “Thank you for the sweet words.”

I sigh happily as I jog, and twenty feet later it occurs to me that I’m alone. I stop and bounce in place, looking around for my girls. Penny and Nicole are frozen in their spots, jaws languishing on the running path, eyes the size of fried eggs.

“Why are you looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings?” I ask as I stop moving.

Delaney goes first, flapping her arms in the direction of the mom. “Yes!”

I furrow my brow and jog back to them. “Yes, what?”

“It all makes sense,” Delaney says, jerking her gaze to Penny. “It all makes perfect sense, right, Penny?”

My dark-haired friend nods then gestures to me. “You always comment on how cute babies are. You always talk to the moms in the dog park. At the dog shelter events, you’re the one who’s interacting with the kids who’ve come along.”

My grin turns to a full-scale beam of the highest wattage. “I love kids. I’ve always wanted my own.”

Penny smacks her forehead. “My God. It’s so obvious now. Like at the bookstore a few weeks ago, picking up baby shower gifts for one of your clients,” Penny says, pointing to Delaney, and I can remember the day perfectly. A cute little four-or five-year-old was sounding out the words to Brown Bear, Brown Bear, and I helped him with the ones he struggled with. It was just second nature to me.

Delaney jumps in. “I knew you wanted to have a family someday, but I guess I always thought you’d want to do it as part of a couple. But you don’t need to. You can do this on your own.”

My heart bursts full and bright in my chest. I love that they get it. That they understand this is part of who I am. Maybe my path to parenthood is unconventional, but the end result is part and parcel of my very makeup.

“And how adorable was that little girl we just passed?” I turn to Ruby and talk to my dog. “She’s so totally cute, and soon we’re going to have one of our own.” I bend closer to my pooch, tousling her silky, russet coat. “Do you want to be an aunt?” With my hands on her snout, I make her nod yes. “You do. Oh, you do want to be an aunt. You’d be such a good auntie dog.”

Ruby wags her tail faster and paws at me. “I know, I know. We’ll get you a little niece or nephew very soon.” I rise and meet the gawking gazes of my best friends. If I shocked them when I started this conversation, I might have completely rendered them speechless now. I flash a smile and pat Ruby’s head. My dog leans against my thigh. “We’re going to be like elephants. Ruby and I. Raising our young in a little matriarchal society.”

“Yoo-hoo,” Penny says, waving dramatically and pointing at her and Delaney.

“Are we chopped liver?” Delaney asks.

“You’re in, too?”

Penny rolls her eyes. “If you’re doing this, we’re all in.”

Delaney laughs. “We’re going to be part of your elephant matriarchy, you crazy woman.”

For the rest of the run, I debrief my best friends on all the research I’ve conducted so far on Project Bun in the Oven, detailing obstacles and opportunities, pros and cons.

By the time we’re done, I’ve told them I intend to approach this like I do one of my columns—with a Top Five Reasons Why list and a firm deadline.

The clock is ticking.





Four





Ryder

The next day, as I work on a column on third-date etiquette and expectations—let’s be real: the only thing a guy wants to know is if he’ll get the third night’s lucky charm—Cal Tomkin calls me into his office.

My overlord is a lot like Peter Parker’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson, in the Spiderman movies. He speaks as if he’s firing bullets, and he’s made of geometric shapes. His head is a rectangle. His chest is a trapezoid. His lips are an oval.

“Come in, Ryder. Have a seat.”

Words you never want to hear from the man who signs your checks. Have a seat translates into “I’m so unhappy with your work I’m molting, and you’re one step away from getting fired.”

I park myself in the blue upholstered seat across from his desk, prepared for the onslaught of angry feathers.

Words don’t come, nor do feathers. Instead, Cal stands and strides to his bookshelf. Ah, so this will be a long, drawn-out kind of reprimand. Great.

Drumming his fingers over the spine of one title, Cal appears deep in consideration. Like I don’t know what book he’s about to pick up. “Now, what is it I’m looking for?” he muses, as he taps a chubby, cylindrical finger against his chin.

“Gee, I’m not really sure,” I say.

“Hmm. I could have sworn I had a signed first edition from the author himself.”

He hunts, dragging his fingers across the shelf in a dramatic show. I wonder, wonder, wonder if he’ll find it.

“Aha,” he declares and plucks a yellow tome from the shelves. He spins around, a gotcha look on his blocky face, and brandishes an incriminating photo of me on the back jacket. A smiling, happily married me.

Tomkin taps the book. “Got Your Back by Ryder Lockhart. Number-one bestseller. Translated into ten languages. Sold half a million copies.” He inhales deeply, as if he’s pleased. “The bible,” he says, venerating the book. “Men called this the bible.”