I order a smoothie and the man doesn’t offer me a free boost.
“Can I get a Vitabek?” I ask.
“Umm. Those aren’t good for pregnant girls.”
And this is the first time someone, totally unprovoked, alludes to the baby. Just from looking at me.
Which makes today one of those times I know for sure that I’m pregnant.
This isn’t just something I want to be true. This isn’t just some fantasy my doctor and husband are in on, cooking up fake sonograms just to make me happy and using some other baby’s pre-recorded heartbeat sound to convince me. No, it’s on.
The confused background processing that passes for thinking in the pregnant mind can present this as a real possibility: every symptom, every item of clothing that no longer fits, every middle of the night leg cramp, every barely digested breakfast tossed into the toilet for the last five and a half months, these are all just figments, coincidences. It could be a delusion, a sham or a wishful trance. Or maybe I’m just carrying my weight all wrong these days.
There can’t really be a baby.
That would be too weird if you just wanted to have a baby, had unprotected sex, and two months later peed on a stick and got a plus sign and pregnant. That could not have happened. Not to me.
Yet this smoothie guy is a total stranger. He could not be in on it. He took one look at me and decided it would be a bad idea to offer me a boost. Because I’m PREGNANT. I tell him I think the vitamins will probably be okay, and he says he didn’t want to say anything to me because last time, the lady turned out not to be pregnant, so he just didn’t offer, and I check out the reflection of my belly’s profile in the glass door of the smoothie shop and announce, “Well, I really am pregnant, so don’t feel bad.”
And the most banal of errands, just running out to get a raspberry banana smoothie, turns out to be pretty juicy.
(Carrie Bradshaw just vomited when she read that last line. Give me a break, they can’t all be gems).