Chapter 20
Due Date
Shannon
“The baby hates me,” I say first thing as I wake up and realize I am not in labor.
“The baby does not hate you,” Dec mumbles, shoving his pillow over his head.
“I am grounding this child the second he is born.”
“For what?” A dark little tunnel, just big enough for Dec’s mouth, opens up in the white pillow puff covering his head.
“For not coming out on his due date.”
“Pam told us only five percent of babies are born on their due date.”
“Our son was supposed to be exceptional!”
“He will be.”
“I can’t go longer than my due date. This is agony.”
“The doctor said you can do an induction.”
“I don’t want that. Let nature take its course, you know?” There’s also the fact that I am absolutely terrified of what’s coming, so actively initiating labor and delivery feels about as awful as living day to day with forty pounds of baby and organ support system hanging off me, pulling me down, making me feel like all I can do is eat and cry and obsessively clean closets and cupboards.
Nuzzling my neck, he murmurs, “How about we let nature takes its course right now?” putting my hand between his legs where there is an organ in need of support. A nice, big one, growing bigger by the second.
“You want sex? With me?”
“No one else I’d prefer.”
Declan shifts my body so I’m on my side, his lips moving down from my shoulder to my breast, mouth hot and steady, moving in a languid way that makes it clear he’s interested. In spite of my ever-spinning mind and aching body, I rouse, my pulse relocating to my earlobes, my core, my tongue.
“Mmm,” I say as he licks his way down to my belly button, where a long, brown line makes its way over Mount Phineas.
“I can’t sit like this, Dec. My hip,” I whisper, hating how big I am, how awkward, how I can’t just be. My brain hums all the time, unable to plug in, tune in to my body. Sex is as much mental as it is physical, and right now, my brain is in Zimbabwe while my body is half of the United States.
“How do you want it?”
“Can we turn back time to 2017? Because if you’re fulfilling wishes, let’s go with that.”
Instead of a time machine, I get gentle, loving hands on my hips, his palms sloping under my belly, up to cup my breasts, the sensual, exploratory nature so inviting that tears fill my eyes. I want nothing more than to be fun, uninhibited, free and easy and good natured.
All I can manage now is to stay upright and to cry. Dec touches my face, feeling the tears. He tenses.
“I… I can’t have sex with you while you’re crying. I’m sorry Shannon, but it feels too–”
“You’re using my crying as an excuse to avoid touching your big old whale of a wife!”
“When have I ever turned down sex?”
“Half our honeymoon!”
“Well, yes, but…”
“And all those times during my second trimester when you complained!”
“I complained once. Once, honey. And it was after seven times in twenty-four hours. Even high-performance race cars need to make pit stops to refuel.”
“But you said no!”
“Ok… aside from that?”
“Never.”
His hand brushes away the tear on my cheek. “Why are you crying? Does it hurt?”
“No! It doesn’t hurt. I’m crying because the entire reason for having sex is so my baby will come into the world and meet me.”
“And that makes you.. cry?”
“Doritos commercials make me cry, Declan. When you leave a dirty sock under the bed, I cry. Getting ready to meet the most important person in my life–second to you–and having him emerge from my body is a much better reason to cry than Doritos and socks.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“And besides, this may be the last time we make love for a very, very long time!”
He goes still. “Very long? Most of the guys I talked to said once the doctor approves you at the two-week checkup, you’re fine to go.”
“And ALL of the women I talked to said they weren’t ready by six weeks, and it was three months or more before they could even think about being touched by their husbands!”
“Three months?”
“Or longer!”
Silence. Something wet splats against my lower back, then trickles down the cleft of my ass.
“Dec, is there a leak in the ceiling?”
“No.”
“Then what is that dripping on my back?”
Silence.
“Declan, are YOU crying?”
“I don’t cry! It’s sweat.”
I cry harder.
“If anyone should be crying now, Shannon, it’s me.” But he holds me until I can’t stand the pain in my hip, and I peel out of his arms to stand up.
Where it all just hurts.
“No one tells you it’ll be like this!” I cry out as he stands, too. I’m pacing now, my belly moving two seconds later than the rest of me. I’m naked and ranting and I don’t care, because if there is ever a time when a righteous woman should rant, it is now.
“Like what?”
“THIS!” I put both palms on either side of my breasts and squeeze. Milk drops form on my nipples. To my surprise, a little comes in if I squeeze, and because I’m curious, I did a few weeks ago. The midwife says it’s normal for some women. When am I ever normal? I take her words at face value, though.
My hands move down to my belly, where I play bongo drums with an enthusiastic partner inside me.
“No one tells you a sneeze is one half-second away from a tsunami in your panties. No one tells you that your cervix will become a charley horse. No one tells you that you’ll go from talking to the baby and telling him your deepest, darkest secrets and your wild declarations of a love you didn’t know you were capable of feeling to rage at heartburn caused by an alien your semen inserted in me. No one–” My rant cracks in half with a sob.
Patient and sweet, he stops and holds me. I hate being like this. Hate it. Live, snapped electrical wires after a bad ice storm are more predictable than a pregnant woman’s emotions.
“I still,” I say through sobs, “cannot believe we built a baby. We said we wanted one, we had sex, I got pregnant, and we’re making a baby.”
“You’re making 99.99 percent of it.”
“True. But Dec, I mean–we really did it! He’s more than ready to come out, and once the labor and delivery is over, we’ll have made a human being. Words are so inadequate to describe how crazy that is. We just–made another person.”
“It’s basic reproduction.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Yes.” The skin around his eyes crinkles with happiness. “It is. I can’t wait to see you holding him, breastfeeding him, just being here, around the house, living life. We’re starting a family. I never in my wildest dreams thought this was what my life would be like the day before I met you.”
“Really?”
“Really. I–” He pauses and squeezes me harder. “Words aren’t exactly communicating what I’m feeling, either.”
Movement deep inside me reminds me of how much I love Declan, the physical manifestation of that love perched on the precipice between the safety of my womb and the loving but decidedly more risky world outside, where Declan can finally hold him. I’ve had the luxury of these last forty weeks alone with my baby, the only person allowed to be with him.
That all changes very soon.
Maybe today.
“I love you,” I tell Declan as he palms the baby, seeking movement, a sign, a fist bump. Simple acknowledgement.
“I love you, too.” He kisses me,
Bzzzzzz.
Twin groans emerge from us. “That must be you,” I tell him.
“No. Your phone.”
“Oh, that’s right! Mom’s coming over!”
A much louder groan comes out of Declan.
“It’s my due date. Did you seriously think she wouldn’t start hovering the day I’m due?”
“I was holding out for a miracle.”
“You never struck me as the religious type, Dec.”
“When it comes to your mother, I can’t help it. Someday, we’re going to need an old priest and a young priest...”
He dodges the pillow I throw at him and kisses me deeply as the phone buzzes again.
“I–can I take a raincheck on sex?” I ask him, feeling apologetic and massively guilty.
And just plain old massive.
“Of course.”
“Then again,” I say, holding out for a miracle of my own, “maybe today’s the day, and we’ll have to wait a long time before having sex because the baby will be born.”
He pauses mid step toward the bathroom.
“Uh...” Body language is a funny thing. You learn more about someone from watching than listening.
I look at him from the bed and pat the space next to me.
“Let’s cash that raincheck in now.”
And we do.
“Shannon? There’s a note here with your name on it, right on your pillow,” Mom calls out to me as I hobble down the hallway. We’ve spent the afternoon assembling all the baby presents I received, making sure the nursery bedding is washed and ready, and crying over old photo albums of me as a baby and toddler.
You know.
A typical day.
After a big lunch of filet mignon, sweet potato, and perfectly grilled asparagus, topped off with more tiramisu than should be legal, Mom’s helping me by putting a bag of nursing pads away in my bedroom closet.
“Just leave it!” I call back.
And then I remember.
This is my mother.
Picking up speed, I race to the room.
Because my instincts were right.
“Mom!” She’s opening the envelope, which is sealed. “Stop right there. What are you doing?”
“Opening it!”
“It says Shannon. Not Marie.”
“I can read.”
“You’d never know.”
“I want to see what it says,” she continues, pulling a slip of paper from the small envelope.
“Boundary!”
She freezes, takes a deep sigh, and hands it off to me. “I’m sorry,” she says.
I freeze, too.
Because Carol is a freaking rock star for telling me about this.
“I’ll go make us some nice tea,” Mom adds as she pats my hand. “I really hope Declan didn’t fall in love with his secretary and leave a Dear Jane letter on your pillow when you’re about to have his baby,” she adds before whistling her way into our kitchen.
Damn.
I never considered that.
The letter is now the written equivalent of Schrödinger’s cat.
Thanks, Mom.
Trusting Declan, I open it.
And read.
Dear Shannon,
You're asleep right now. Moonlight is pouring in, casting shadows across the bed as I watch you, your hair in long, soft tendrils around your sweet face. These moments are more real sometimes than any of our waking hours. I am just me. You are just you, relaxed and dreaming. I hope you dream of me.
I know you dream about him.
Yes, him. The baby you carry in your glowing, beautiful body.
You are growing my child inside you. Our child. The gift you are giving to me is one I can never, ever match. No grand estate, no luxury car, no diamond of any size–not even a national coffee chain–can compete. I am a man stripped bare to the bone, nothing more than an open, beating heart in a cracked chest as I ponder your sacrifice and wish that I could give equally.
For all my remaining days, I will treasure you and our child. Children, if we have more. I will spend eternity trying to show you my gratitude. When we met, I knew. I knew instantly that a part of my life had come to an abrupt halt.
The part that was bleak and empty.
I knew then that we would have a layered sort of love. Time is our best asset, and my urgent wanting has only increased. I never imagined I could want and need you more now than I did in our first year together, but dear God, I do. You do that to me. You.
And only you.
As I see you stir, a smile pressing your lips into the pillow, restless slumber rolling your swollen belly into the light, I memorize the curve of your hip, the pink of your cheek, the pattern of eyelashes on the hollow under your eyes.
And damn you.
Damn if you don't bring me to the breaking point, to an emotional summit where the only way out is to let myself be overcome. I'm filled with an unquenchable need to protect you, to insulate you, to keep you safe.
Keep you both safe.
Your body is the most precious item in my world because it holds you and him. Billions of dollars mean nothing when I imagine your smile.
That same body grows my child, right now, as your chest rises and falls. You breathe for him.
You don't know it, but you breathe for me, too. You are my second heart.
Just know this: To the outside world, I am one man. With you, I am thousands.
And every man that I am loves you and always will.
Yours in every meaning of the word,
Declan
The baby kicks just then, a swift jolt that comes like a shout above the fray in a crowd, as if drawing my attention to him for no reason other than because he can.
Clusters of dark drops dot the tops of my thighs, emotion converting into liquid form as Mom walks in, sits down next to me, and pulls my head to her bosom.
“We’ll take care of you and the baby,” she says in a seething voice. “And Jason will snip his testicles off with my pinking shears. Don’t you worry, Shannon. There is nothing Declan can do to hurt you anymore.”
“Uhhhh,” I say, trying to breathe. Mom’s as well endowed as I am, which means I am at great risk of suffocation right now. I’m also laugh-crying and about to choke to death.
“It happens. Men in positions of power run off with their secretaries all the time. Sickening, but a sad reality. What’s his secretary’s name again?”
“Dave,” I cough out.
Mom tenses. “Oh, dear. That’s... honey, how long have you known Declan is gay?”
“STOP!” I make a wheezing squeal as I laugh and cry and feel everything as my bladder decides to breach the storm wall and almost turns my pants into a jacuzzi. I stand and waddle, making it to the bathroom just in time.
And then I realize, damn it, I’ve left the letter next to Mom.
“Don’t read that!” I shout, scrambling to wipe, pull up my pants, and get out there quickly, all of which is starting to feel like being a Cirque du Soleil performer with flaming batons glued to my eyeballs.
Silence.
Damn.
“Mom!” I exclaim, bursting out of the bathroom with my pants caught on one hip, the elastic belly band of my maternity pants showing.
She looks up from the letter.
She’s crying.
“Oh, honey. He loves you so, so much. I didn’t know about this side of Declan.”
“I think he wanted to keep it that way, Mom,” I say, giving up. It’s clear she’s read the letter, and I can’t have her unread it.
“You found your Jason, didn’t you? Wrapped up in a suit, with a different personality, but the same deep, loving, protective man inside.”
“Please don’t give me daddy issues, Mom. I found my Declan. Not my Jason.”
“You know what I mean. I’m so happy. I couldn’t have asked for more for you and your life. For my grandchild to have a father who is so wonderful.”
“That we can agree on.”
She hugs me, hard and tight, smoothing my hair away from my face like she did when I was little.
The rare flash of a calm, centered mother who has depth and insight comes to me in this moment, and I get all of her at once, focused like a laser beam.
“This child is so lucky,” she says, giving the baby her palm, then gazing at me with a sharpness that takes me back to my childhood, to that bedrock time when all I needed to do was to love and live and move.
“I’m lucky, too, Shannon. Thank you, God, for giving me you. It’s been an honor being your mother. I know I drive you crazy sometimes, but it’s always out of love. I’m not perfect. No one is. But I hope that you know I will love you no matter what, until the day I die.” She tilts her head in consideration. “Beyond that. I’ll love you forever.”
More fat tears fall on my pants, my belly, my breasts.
“I love you, too.”
Declan
I hate being away from Shannon on her due date. Hate it. But a leasing issue involving the Department of Health in Seattle is hampering expansion goals, so half my day was spent troubleshooting and networking to untangle a mess.
As I walk into the house, I expect silence. She’s probably out cold, asleep in the bedroom, exhausted.
“Hi!” says a disembodied voice.
I damn near grab a heavy glass bowl we use to hold keys and mail and fling it at the sound. Chuckles pops up on the back of the leather couch and hisses at me. Me!
“Who is that–Shannon?” Wildly confused, I look everywhere, my gaze sliding over the floor to the kitchen, where the glow of the open refrigerator door draws my eye.
I look down.
Shannon is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her enormous belly covered in a long-sleeved, red knit shirt, her hands encased in yellow plastic gloves, a squirt container of cleanser in one hand, two rolls of paper towels to her right.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Cleaning the refrigerator.”
“Did the maid service forget?”
“No. I just need to make sure it’s as clean as possible.”
“For what?”
“For the baby.”
“Do babies generally inspect refrigerators as part of the birth process? Did I miss that chapter in What to Expect When You’re Expecting?”
My words have no effect, her hand slow and steady as she empties a small shelf, the milk, orange juice, package of bacon, and assorted condiment jars resting on the floor, her body rotating from its fixed position to spray the glass inside.
“We need to get this place in order. Once the baby’s born, we won’t have time.”
“I don’t clean my own refrigerator, Shannon, and neither do you.”
“It needs to be in order.”
Completely stumped by this strange new behavior of hers, I walk into the bedroom, kick off my shoes, open my closet to shake out of my suit jacket, and–
All of my clothing is hanging in the wrong place.
And it is color coded.
Much of my teen years was spent playing various sports and studying hard at Milton, but occasionally, my buddies and I would hang out and watch horror movies. The first creepy chords of a danger scene start playing in my head. I open Shannon’s closet doors.
Reorganized.
Color coded.
And–are those color-coded spreadsheets taped to the insides of the doors, with pictures giving a schematic for what goes where?
More minor keys explode in my head.
I’m all for order in life, but this is uncharacteristic. I look in my bedside drawer. Nothing’s changed.
Whew.
I look in Shannon’s bedside drawer.
Edward Cullen has a red sticker on it.
Wait a minute.
I thought she got rid of him?
The top drawer of my dresser has all of my underwear folded in thirds, rolled into some strange formation. Drawer two: t-shirts, the same. Little red, blue, and green stickers dot everything.
“Shannon?” I yell as I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt, leaving my dirty shirt on the back of a chair like I always do. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning!” she shouts. Spritz spritz.
In the bathroom, the counter is clear. No hand sanitizer, no lemon verbena lotion, no half-used tubes of toothpaste, all three of them. I open a drawer. All the “I don’t know whose toothbrush that is” toothbrushes are gone. The drawer is lined with paper that has inspirational sayings on it. Every surface is gleaming.
She’s still on the ground, like a perfect Buddha with long hair, cleaning the bottom rows of the refrigerator door, when I go back into the kitchen.
“This is... a lot.”
“The place was filthy!”
“Shannon, your idea of cleaning is brushing the potato chip crumbs off the bed before you sleep.”
“Is that a dig about my weight?”
“What? No. It’s not. It’s a dig about your sudden OCD regarding cleaning.”
“You make it sound abnormal. I’m nesting. This is part of the preparations for labor and delivery.”
“What’s with the color-coded stickers?”
“Those stand for Keep, Give, Hide. And please follow my planograms. We need our closets to be more organized and stay that way!” She bends down and uses a Phillips-head screwdriver to remove four tiny screws, then a metal panel at the base of the refrigerator. Ponderous and out of balance, she carefully pulls herself to a standing position and takes the grate to the sink.
“What is that?” I ask.
“The metal thingy from the fridge. Look at how gross it is! I am not bringing a baby into such a filthy house!” She grabs a fresh steel wool pad and starts furiously scraping it clean.
“Unless our child develops abnormally advanced crawling skills and has a tongue like a lizard, he will never lick or touch that.”
“But knowing it’s here and so dirty is making it impossible for me to sleep!”
Aha.
I step around her and reach into the fridge for the first of what I assume will be many beers tonight. “Nesting, huh?”
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Taking care of the neglected, filthy corners of our life before the baby’s born?”
“Exactly!”
“You know... I haven’t showered.”
“What does that have to do with...” Her voice trails off as I strip out of my shirt and pants.
Hey. I’m a man who is about to face six to twelve weeks, maybe longer, without sex.
“I am a filthy, neglected corner in human form.” Opening my arms nice and wide, I give her full access.
“You are a con man, taking advantage of a vulnerable pregnant woman on her due date!” Soap covers her hands as she washes them under hot water, the steam rising. As she dries her hands, I go in for the close.
“Don’t you want to make me neat and orderly? Empty me out like a shelf, wash me off... and put me back together again, only better?”
Love shines in her eyes, even as her hands go to her back, supporting the poor, strained muscles there.
“I got your letter.”
Even better.
“You did?”
“It was lovely,” she says, moving in for a hug. My erection is big, but her belly is bigger. We twist as we embrace, her mouth on my shoulder, my pecs, that tongue doing maddening things to my body.
“I should write more letters.”
“You should.” She reaches up and kisses me with an intensity I don’t expect.
“You know what else you should do?”
“Hmm?” I groan as she touches me, then takes my hand.
“Clean up,” she says as she leads me down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
She threads through our bedroom into the bath and turns on the shower. The delightful sight of my round, voluptuous wife’s body undressing before me makes every part of me go hard and soft at the same time, heart pliant and singing.
Erection fully engaged.
“You’re dirty? Let’s get clean,” she says as she slips out of her panties and takes one step into the shower spray, reaching a dripping hand out to me.
I look at her behind the wet glass wall.
And realize I really love the third trimester, too.