paying my dues by jonny
	Somehow I’ve joined the secret club of pregnant people, a club I never thought I’d belong to. In the last couple of months I’ve learned a great deal of strange little facts that no one bothered to tell me before. That’s because this club is very mysterious. Since you know me, I’m willing to let you in on some of the information. I agree some of it really is top secret and I won’t tell you those parts. It turns out this club has a lot of secret rules. One of them is that everything is counted in weeks. I know people want me to say, “I’m three months pregnant,” but I am already conditioned to say, “I’m 12 weeks pregnant” in a robot voice. Apparently this continues once the baby is born, because every parent I know refers to their baby’s age this way, causing you to do a complicated little math equation in your head. When the baby turns one you get to talk in terms of months, because a one year old and a 14 month old are very different. Again, you want to hear the age declared simply. “She is one. He is two.” But instead she is 15 months and he is 25 months. I might have made up that last thing. Maybe once the baby turns two you can talk in years. This is not something I’ve learned yet. Another secret rule is the way weeks are counted when you’re pregnant. Although we actually conceived this baby ten weeks ago, I am considered 12 weeks pregnant. They give you two bonus weeks. I think this is one of the weirdest secrets ever kept by a group of people. I’ve watched friends look at me skeptically when I tell them, “This happened in Austin,” and then I tell them how far along I am and they quickly add some numbers together and say, “No, this must have happened before that.” Then I try to explain the secret system and I get more skeptical looks, as if I’m making it up. Another interesting math equation is taking 9 and multiplying it by 4 and getting 36. That’s four weeks less than 40, which is how long most pregnancies last. That means you’re really pregnant for ten months. I think this is very sneaky and I’m planning on bringing it up at the next meeting. The best secret of all is the attention you get. I’m practically a celebrity! One friend calls me a biological phenomenon. My dog can’t stop staring at me. Troy makes me fruit smoothies every single morning and he also invented the perfect blend of decaf Starbucks espresso roast coffee with one scoop of caffeine. Each time I get up in the night to use the bathroom, which happens approximately 47 times, Troy says in a panic stricken voice, “Are you okay?” when I return. Actually this kind of gets on my nerves, but it’s sweet. No one ever cared so much about my trips to the bathroom. I’m constantly asked how I’m feeling, and my family’s and friends’ emails and phone calls have a little extra dose of lovin’. My best friend Shannon reads more pregnancy websites than I do and excitedly tells me what’s going on during a given week, like “Today it’s the size of a lime!” The other day my boss Carmen frantically ran across the street to get me a can of Ginger Ale because I’d had a 30 second wave of nausea sweep over me. Plus I now have the appetite of a large truck driver and am actually encouraged to eat all I want. “It’s for the baby,” I say as I eat my 23rd McDonald’s egg and cheese biscuit this week. And being a New Yorker, I am especially excited for the day when strangers start giving me special smiles and seats on the subway and maybe even flowers. Now I’ve had to do a lot of explaining over the last month or so because most people that know me didn’t think I’d ever join this club. True, I spent many years proclaiming that I didn’t want children. But I also used to say I was never going to get married, and at age 22 I did. See? You should have known you couldn’t trust me. But honestly, I have never been a person who longed to experience pregnancy and childbirth. No, no, no. Those things have always been right up there with being murdered or having my blood drawn. (I only recently began saying the word “blood.” We used to call it “blank,” but then I played a doctor in a play and I had to toughen up.) I don’t know how to explain it. I changed my mind, okay? In the midst of this shocking change of heart some people have said, “You’re going to be a great mother.” It’s not a compliment I’ve heard before. Sure, I’m good with kids. I love my nieces and nephew very much and I’m always excited to play with friends’ children, but that isn’t a guarantee that I’ll make a good parent myself. I always knew Troy would be an amazing father, the kind you read about in wonderful novels like “To Kill a Mockingbird” or see on “The Cosby Show.” Once I told my friend Tiffany (who at the time was probably 23, which is like 1196 weeks) that I thought I was too selfish to have children and she said, “Yeah, you probably are.” I don’t think she meant to insult me. What she meant was, yes, you’re too selfish, so have a baby. That’ll change that. I’m practically ten years older than Tiffany. Come to think of it, the whole age thing might have had something to do with changing my mind. It’s one thing to be a carefree 23-year-old with years and years ahead of you. But then you turn 30 and suddenly little voices start reminding you that time is moving right along. Not that your life is anywhere close to being over, but time does start flying once you get out of those tricky twenties. Once we were at Troy’s grandparents’ farm house, a place we loved to be, and I was alone with them at the dining room table. They looked at me lovingly and asked, “When are you going to have children?” I began to make little sounds and sort of cough as I tried to say things like, “Oh, I don’t know … maybe someday,” because you don’t tell your husband’s adorable grandparents that you aren’t sure you want to have their grandchildren. Grandpa Schremmer said, “How old are you now?” I told him I was 30, clearing my throat with another little cough. Their eyes got noticeably larger and I swear one of them gasped quietly and said, “Oh.” They stared at me and then Grandpa said, “Once you turn 30 life goes fast. The next thing you know you’re 80.” Grandma nodded sadly. I bet it was around that time that I began seriously considering becoming a mother. A couple of weeks ago I officially became an enthusiastic member of the club. We had an ultrasound, and there before our very eyes we saw this crazy little fetus flipping back and forth and heard its heartbeat. I could have become club president that day. I actually went around showing people the sonogram pictures, having to say things like, “Now that’s the head,” and “Oh, it’s upside down.” I recognized that look in people’s eyes, the heartbreaking politeness over this talkative and overly smiley mother-to-be. I’ve given that look before. But now this is happening to me! And suddenly I understand what all the fuss is about. So here I am, about to enter the second trimester, which the club thinks is great. Apparently you start feeling more energy, you’re less tired, you begin to look pregnant so people treat you extra, extra special, and you feel the baby moving, which is supposed to be very exciting. However, the thought of an alien-like creature being big enough to kick in ways that I can feel through my skin sounds frightening and unnatural. I’m sometimes haunted by memories of past pregnant women saying to me, “See here? This is the baby’s foot!” In three more months that scary third trimester will arrive and I’ll be expected to carry around a full-size baby inside of me. There is nothing that sounds appealing about that yet. Then again, there was never anything about pregnancy that was appealing to me, and here I am feeling pretty good. (I’m not ready to talk about the giving birth part yet.) 28 more weeks, 196 more days, about 32 more pounds to gain, nearly 700 more egg and cheese biscuits, and then there’s a new club waiting for us to join. This one’s even more complicated and secretive, I’m sure, and comes with a lifetime membership. august 2004