This whole putting things off is not working. She turns herself over again, and her breasts flop around in a good way, move like jello, loose and real, and there are her hip bones, her splayed legs, and he gently thumbs her clit but she pushes his hand off of her pussy and arches up to him, her own hands on her tits, moaning and he grips her hips and thrusts in there deep and she knows he’s about to come. It’s just gonna happen. Her head is twisted to the side and her own hands smash her breasts together — they touch! They’re so big they touch each other! He thrusts again and she can feel he’s so close and he can come inside her if he wants, she’s already pregnant, it’s not going to make her more pregnant, and she loves everything about this, the no condom, the no cervical cap, the no smelly spermicidal jelly, just the thick, salt smell of his dick in her pussy and he can come inside of her if he wants, she thinks. But then he lifts his dick out and holds it over her breasts, his knees up near her armpits now and one hand on his pulsing cock, and the other grasping her round, fleshy breasts together, and he shoots come all over her round, round breasts, banging his cock against her, then—tap, tap, tap—knocking out every last drop of himself onto her. And Sonia is, in no small way, the happiest woman on earth, the womanliest woman on earth, wet with come, pregnant and fucked like only a woman can be, so simple and animal and perfect, God’s perfect creation.
THE NEXT MORNING, NOT so early, the days getting noticeably shorter, autumn light, pale but clean, shines through the skylight above their spent bodies, a thin cashmere blanket cocooning them from the slight chill in the room. Sonia wakes first and looks at her husband sleeping huddled at the other end of the bed. When she wakes, she’s very awake, suddenly, as sometimes happens. No slow opening to the world, no desire to stay in bed and shut her eyes and try for more. No, she’s up. Stealthily, she heads downstairs to make the coffee. Standing in the doorway adjoining the kitchen to the boys’ bedroom is Mike, her little one, a soggy diaper hanging from his bottom and a too small T-shirt showing his round belly and outie bellybutton. He’s standing there, having just woken himself and having started off to fetch a grown-up and having not woken his older brother. Sonia scoops him up and Mike leans his soft head on her shoulder and she breathes her warm morning breath into her son’s perfect, sweet neck. The kitchen is dark but comforting. Walking this way, with her young boy in her arms, she sets about to making coffee, balancing Mike on her hip and doing everything else with one hand, so as not have to put down her son. So she can keep this warm, wet-bottomed bundle in her arms as she does what needs to be done. And life is good. Life is very good. And Sonia is thankful for her family, eager for her precious, mediocre life, and she can’t believe that once again, she’s going to be a mother to someone new.
9
Mike, her little one, her baby, starts preschool at the same little preschool where Tom goes. Three mornings a week, Sonia packs up the kids, pushes the stroller down the street two blocks, and drops them both off. No having to call Carrie. Nobody comes into her house, which is great, since it tends to be a huge mess. There they go, running with excitement, into a room full of blocks and plastic toys and art projects and other little people, the same size as them. The first day Sonia dropped them both off, it was as if she’d done that weird trick where you press your arms hard against the inside of someone else’s arms, and you both clench your fists and push and push until the other person pulls their arms away and your arms float upward. Without having to do anything, without actually trying to move your arms toward the sky, they just go. Flying high. A freaky, uncontrolled feeling. But fun. She had been afraid, ashamed, worried. What if Mike hates it there? And then she thought, yeah, he really wants to be home with me all day, watching too much TV and staring at the same four walls for sixteen hours. He really wants to go grocery shopping with me instead of sing the itsy bitsy spider with ten other drooling two-year-olds. And then she thought, what if some other little brat hits him? And then the counter thought: Tom’s never, ever hit Mike. So, gee, that would be a new experience. Ha.
After two more days of dropping him off, she decided to completely relax about it instead of trying to think of reasons to not be relaxed about it. It goes smoothly this time. She spent a solid month freaking out about Tom when Tom started preschool. Tom developed a case of hives due to witnessing his mother break into a sweat every time she dropped him off. Mike, lucky Mike, misses out on a lot of her neurotic energy. Three days of bewilderment, and then, freedom. Freedom for Mike that is. And for Sonia, too, a sort of freedom. But Sonia doesn’t feel totally free. Free from freaking out about preschool, yes. But, there’s her amniocentesis appointment today. There’s the fact that the last sonogram showed that everything looks fine, but her baby was “shy” and they couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy and so when she gets the amnio, she’ll know for sure. She never had to get an amnio with her other kids because she wasn’t yet thirty-five, and there were no indications otherwise via blood work. Now, she’s thirty-five. All thirty-five year olds get amnios. And so, after she meets Clara and some other mothers for a coffee, she’s going to her appointment.
September! The air is suddenly clean. Sonia is hungry, happy, feels like she may be the luckiest person in the world. She loves her tits, she loves the fall. Her skin has that glow and she knows it. She wears a long sleeve shirt for a change and her same pants, which are starting to get a little tight, and she’s a bit chilly. Soon, it’ll be time for a jacket. And some maternity clothes, really. The construction men have packed their bags and repaved the sidewalks. There is less dust. Less noise. No overbearing heat. She walks, hands free, a little blue bag over her shoulder, to the breakfast place on Court Street where she’s meeting Clara and Risa. She looks in the windowpanes of the stores as she goes, watching her figure, and she thinks, I’m not big yet, but I feel good. The women are sitting by the window — she’s the last to get there. Sonia’s told Clara that she can tell people she’s pregnant. She’s past the miscarrying stage, for the most part. Now, the amnio will tell Sonia whether or not the fetus has Down’s syndrome, as well as a whole host of other genetic abnormalities, and if the fetus has Down’s syndrome, she has the opportunity to abort. But, Sonia, oddly, is not afraid that the baby has Down’s syndrome. Or not afraid enough to not let it be known to the world that she is pregnant. In her mind, Sonia imagines that things could be wrong with the baby, but nothing so obvious as Down’s syndrome. The baby may be a crazy bitch, may have Tourette’s syndrome, may be a psycho serial killer, but Down’s syndrome is not one of Sonia’s fears. Soon she’ll know as much as they can tell her, which Sonia thinks is not a lot. And, in the meantime, she’s ready to have it be official, to have it be public. She’s pregnant. Let the world know, she’s pregnant.
“Congratulations!” says Risa, as Sonia sits down. Clara smiles, beaming proudly, almost as if she were the father.
“Do you know if it’s a girl?” asks Risa.
“No, they couldn’t tell during the first sonogram. But I have my amnio today, so I will find out soon.”
“Pray for a girl!” Risa, leaning into the table now, with a fierceness in her voice. “I didn’t feel like a real mother until I had my daughter. You know what they say, a son’s a son until he takes a wife, a daughter’s a daughter, for all your life.”
“Well, my boys are far from getting married so I feel like a mother or whatever. I’m kind of scared of having a daughter. I love my boys. Either way. I mean, I don’t care that much. Or, I don’t know. I would be very proud to have three boys. As long as the baby is healthy, isn’t that how it goes?”