The Goal
Page 71
“How am I supposed to do that? Jumping jacks?”
“Would that make the baby fall out? Like if you were near your due date, could you shake shake shake it out?” Carin wriggles her arms like she’s a member of Taylor Swift’s dance squad.
I stare at her. “Please tell me that whatever science field you end up studying in grad school, it won’t be important.”
Carin flips me off and shimmies her way across the room before bending down to pick up one of the bags we filled at Goodwill. She dumps them on the floor and starts sorting the whites from the colors. We agreed at the store that everything had to be washed in the hottest water possible given the smell of some of the items.
“Did you know that when the baby starts moving that it’s called the quickening?” Hope says.
I snicker. “So she’s going to burst out of my stomach with a sword declaring there can be only one?”
“Possibly. Women have died in childbirth, right? The baby is essentially a parasite. It lives off your nutrients, saps your energy.” She taps the bottom of a hanger against her lip. “So yeah, I think the Highlander motto could fit.”
Carin and I look at her in horror. “Hopeless, you can shut up any time now,” Carin orders.
“I was just saying, from a medical standpoint, it’s a possible theory. Not here, but maybe in other less developed nations.” She reaches over and pats my belly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. You should’ve gotten more maternity clothes,” she says, moving on to another topic while I’m still digesting that my baby is a parasite.
I shake my head. “No. That stuff was hideous. I already look like a boat. I didn’t need to look like an ugly one.”
“I think if I were pregnant, I’d wear muumuus or housecoats like Lucille Ball,” Carin muses.
“Are those even a thing?” Hope asks.
“They should be.”
I nod in agreement because hell yeah, I’d wear something like that over the awful jeans and polyester gear and their white expandable waist pouches. I know I’m going to appreciate those in a few weeks, but right now I’m not looking forward to getting bigger.
“I tried to bend over and touch my toes this morning,” I tell the girls. “I tipped over, hit my head on the desk, and then had to call for Nana to get up. I’m literally the size of an Oompa Loompa.”
“You’re the most beautiful Oompa Loompa in the world,” Hope declares.
“Because she’s not orange.”
“Oompa Loompas were orange?” I try to conjure up a mental picture of them but can only recall their white overalls.
Carin purses her lips. “Were they supposed to be candies? Like orange slices? Or maybe candy corn?”
“They were squirrels,” Hope informs us.
“No way,” we both say at once.
“Yes way. I read it on the back of a Laffy Taffy when I was like ten. It was a trivia question and I’d just seen the movie. I was terrified of squirrels for years afterwards.”
“Shit. Learn something new every day.” I push my body upright, a task that takes a certain amount of upper body strength these days, and toddle over to inspect the crib.
“I don’t believe you,” Carin tells Hope. “The movie is about candy. It’s called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Since when are squirrels candies? I can buy into a bunny because, you know, the chocolate Easter bunnies, but not a squirrel.”
“Look it up, Careful. I’m right.”
“You’re ruining my childhood.” Carin turns to me. “Don’t do this to your daughter.”
“Raise her to believe Oompa Loompas are squirrels?”
“Yes.”
Hope laughs. “Here’s my theory on parenthood. We’re going to screw up. Badly. Many, many times. And our kids are going to need therapy. The goal is to reduce the amount of therapy they’ll need.”
“That’s a dark parenting outlook,” I remark. “How do these things go together? Are we missing something?” There are two matching end pieces, but the rest of the boards on the floor are like a Lego set with no instructions.
Carin shrugs. “I’m a scientist. I can estimate the volume and mass of the pieces, but I’m not going to hurt myself trying to assemble it.”
D’Andre appears in the doorway, sweat glistening on his dark skin. All three of us turn toward him with pleading eyes.
“Why you all looking at me like that?” he asks suspiciously.
“Can you put this crib back together?” I ask hopefully.
“And if you do, will you please take off your shirt?” Carin begs.
D’Andre scowls. “You gotta stop treating me like a piece of meat. I have feelings.”
But he whips off his shirt anyway and we all take a moment to praise God for creating a specimen like D’Andre, whose chest looks like it was sculpted out of marble.
He smirks. “Had enough?”
“No, not really.” Carin props her chin on a hand. “Why don’t you take off those shorts too?”
I admit I’m curious. D’Andre’s a big man. I’m not opposed to seeing his equipment.
Hope throws a palm up in the air. “No, no stripping. We’re here to help put the crib together. Baby, what can you do?”
“I’m an accounting major,” he reminds her. “Remember? I’m good with numbers and lifting. Tucker’ll put it together. He’s out there talking some stranger into hauling away the desk.” He directs a pointed glance to my belly. “So we wait for your man.”
“She doesn’t need a man,” Hope says. “She has us.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you love me and don’t want to sleep on the sofa,” Hope says sweetly.
“That’s not a sofa, Hope. That’s a piece of wood with some foam on it.”
I giggle. Hope’s new place in Boston is full of items from her grandma’s attic, which contains enough furniture to fill about three houses.
“That’s an original Saarinen.”
“Still don’t make it a sofa,” he insists.
“You sit on it. It has three cushions. Hence, it’s a sofa.” She sniffs. Conversation over. “We need an engineering friend.” She points a finger at Carin. “Go back to Briar and hook up with an engineering student.”
“Would that make the baby fall out? Like if you were near your due date, could you shake shake shake it out?” Carin wriggles her arms like she’s a member of Taylor Swift’s dance squad.
I stare at her. “Please tell me that whatever science field you end up studying in grad school, it won’t be important.”
Carin flips me off and shimmies her way across the room before bending down to pick up one of the bags we filled at Goodwill. She dumps them on the floor and starts sorting the whites from the colors. We agreed at the store that everything had to be washed in the hottest water possible given the smell of some of the items.
“Did you know that when the baby starts moving that it’s called the quickening?” Hope says.
I snicker. “So she’s going to burst out of my stomach with a sword declaring there can be only one?”
“Possibly. Women have died in childbirth, right? The baby is essentially a parasite. It lives off your nutrients, saps your energy.” She taps the bottom of a hanger against her lip. “So yeah, I think the Highlander motto could fit.”
Carin and I look at her in horror. “Hopeless, you can shut up any time now,” Carin orders.
“I was just saying, from a medical standpoint, it’s a possible theory. Not here, but maybe in other less developed nations.” She reaches over and pats my belly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. You should’ve gotten more maternity clothes,” she says, moving on to another topic while I’m still digesting that my baby is a parasite.
I shake my head. “No. That stuff was hideous. I already look like a boat. I didn’t need to look like an ugly one.”
“I think if I were pregnant, I’d wear muumuus or housecoats like Lucille Ball,” Carin muses.
“Are those even a thing?” Hope asks.
“They should be.”
I nod in agreement because hell yeah, I’d wear something like that over the awful jeans and polyester gear and their white expandable waist pouches. I know I’m going to appreciate those in a few weeks, but right now I’m not looking forward to getting bigger.
“I tried to bend over and touch my toes this morning,” I tell the girls. “I tipped over, hit my head on the desk, and then had to call for Nana to get up. I’m literally the size of an Oompa Loompa.”
“You’re the most beautiful Oompa Loompa in the world,” Hope declares.
“Because she’s not orange.”
“Oompa Loompas were orange?” I try to conjure up a mental picture of them but can only recall their white overalls.
Carin purses her lips. “Were they supposed to be candies? Like orange slices? Or maybe candy corn?”
“They were squirrels,” Hope informs us.
“No way,” we both say at once.
“Yes way. I read it on the back of a Laffy Taffy when I was like ten. It was a trivia question and I’d just seen the movie. I was terrified of squirrels for years afterwards.”
“Shit. Learn something new every day.” I push my body upright, a task that takes a certain amount of upper body strength these days, and toddle over to inspect the crib.
“I don’t believe you,” Carin tells Hope. “The movie is about candy. It’s called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Since when are squirrels candies? I can buy into a bunny because, you know, the chocolate Easter bunnies, but not a squirrel.”
“Look it up, Careful. I’m right.”
“You’re ruining my childhood.” Carin turns to me. “Don’t do this to your daughter.”
“Raise her to believe Oompa Loompas are squirrels?”
“Yes.”
Hope laughs. “Here’s my theory on parenthood. We’re going to screw up. Badly. Many, many times. And our kids are going to need therapy. The goal is to reduce the amount of therapy they’ll need.”
“That’s a dark parenting outlook,” I remark. “How do these things go together? Are we missing something?” There are two matching end pieces, but the rest of the boards on the floor are like a Lego set with no instructions.
Carin shrugs. “I’m a scientist. I can estimate the volume and mass of the pieces, but I’m not going to hurt myself trying to assemble it.”
D’Andre appears in the doorway, sweat glistening on his dark skin. All three of us turn toward him with pleading eyes.
“Why you all looking at me like that?” he asks suspiciously.
“Can you put this crib back together?” I ask hopefully.
“And if you do, will you please take off your shirt?” Carin begs.
D’Andre scowls. “You gotta stop treating me like a piece of meat. I have feelings.”
But he whips off his shirt anyway and we all take a moment to praise God for creating a specimen like D’Andre, whose chest looks like it was sculpted out of marble.
He smirks. “Had enough?”
“No, not really.” Carin props her chin on a hand. “Why don’t you take off those shorts too?”
I admit I’m curious. D’Andre’s a big man. I’m not opposed to seeing his equipment.
Hope throws a palm up in the air. “No, no stripping. We’re here to help put the crib together. Baby, what can you do?”
“I’m an accounting major,” he reminds her. “Remember? I’m good with numbers and lifting. Tucker’ll put it together. He’s out there talking some stranger into hauling away the desk.” He directs a pointed glance to my belly. “So we wait for your man.”
“She doesn’t need a man,” Hope says. “She has us.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you love me and don’t want to sleep on the sofa,” Hope says sweetly.
“That’s not a sofa, Hope. That’s a piece of wood with some foam on it.”
I giggle. Hope’s new place in Boston is full of items from her grandma’s attic, which contains enough furniture to fill about three houses.
“That’s an original Saarinen.”
“Still don’t make it a sofa,” he insists.
“You sit on it. It has three cushions. Hence, it’s a sofa.” She sniffs. Conversation over. “We need an engineering friend.” She points a finger at Carin. “Go back to Briar and hook up with an engineering student.”
