The ultrasound was complete and I decided that my fetus had graduated from parasite to baby. After the initial shock wore off that no sleazy tabloids wanted to pay me millions for the first pictures of my baby, I decided tabloid wasn’t the best way for my mom to find out anyway. It was probably more “responsible” for me to tell her myself and since “responsible” was something I was going to have to seriously consider aspiring to, I decided to get it over with quick and dirty. My first attempt at telling my mother had failed. While playing charades with my family at a Thanksgiving getaway to Mammoth, I attempted to act out the word reproduction by positioning a teddy bear doggy style in front of me and humping it. Only I, in my inglorious situation, would be unlucky enough to pick the word reproduction out of the damn hat anyway! My mom was less than impressed at my attempt to free my inner thespian and instead of the applause I was hoping for, disapprovingly replied, “I feel sorry for your children.”
Plan B.
I had no Plan B. What the hell? I could tattoo “Surprise! I’m knocked up!” upside down on my ass and do a naked cartwheel…? No, that would never work. Tattoos are bad for the baby. Damn baby. Besides that, I didn’t need to give my mother anymore reasons to feel sorry for my children than I already had. I was desperate and so I did what any girl in my situation would have done. I promised to go back to church.
I was stupid. I was sorry. I was not behaving like the good girl my mother raised me to be. I was going to find Jesus and turn my life around – a lie that she believed even less than I did. When I was tired of apologizing I surrendered to the silence. And finally her response came.
“I am disappointed but I am not surprised.”
Not surprised? I knew I should have gone with the tattoo.
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