Tuesday, June 21, 2011
From mcsweeneys.net (by Rachel Friedman, entitled "30 and Pregnant"):
There were several people to break the news to, first and foremost my husband. We've only been married for four years, practically newlyweds! This wasn't part of the plan.
"You're... pregnant?" he said when I told him over pasta primavera that evening. "Are you sure?" He eyed me warily. "Is it mine?"
"Of course it's yours!" I cried. What a cretin. He was all sweet talk during our monthly "dates" and here he was in the sober light of day throwing around accusations.
"How did this happen?" he said. I couldn't believe he didn't know. "We were so careful." I sighed heavily, twirling a piece of spaghetti around my fork, feeling overwhelmed that now I would officially have to come down on one side of the cloth versus disposable diapers debate. "Well, of course I'll do my part," he announced in what I assume he thought was a chivalrous tone. "I'll step up to the plate." He reached for his iPhone. "I can't promise that we'll be able to get into a decent pre-K this late in the game, but my colleague's wife is a teacher at the 92nd Street Y. It's worth a shot." He exchanged some pleasantries with the man on the other end of the line then mouthed to me: "How far along are you?" He nodded efficiently and scribbled my response on a scrap of paper next to a list of the city's most prestigious schools that he had begun compiling.
Next on the list was my father, the professor. There was a long silence after I confessed to him.
"But you haven't even made tenure yet!" he wailed once he was finally able to speak. "A baby is going to derail your entire career!"
"It's going to be okay, Dad," I said, trying to calm him. "I'll only have to take a few weeks off."
"I thought you were waiting until 35," he said. "That's what good girls do."
"Sometimes accidents happen," I said.
Read more here.