That Baby

  Table Of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  4 Weeks

  5 Weeks

  6 Weeks

  7 Weeks

  8 Weeks

  10 Weeks

  11 Weeks

  12 Weeks

  The Second Trimester

  13 Weeks

  14 Weeks

  15 Weeks

  16 Weeks

  17 Weeks

  18 Weeks

  24 Weeks

  27 Weeks

  The Third Trimester

  28 Weeks

  30 Weeks

  32 Weeks

  34 Weeks

  35 Weeks

  36 Weeks

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright 2015 by Jillian Dodd

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, brands, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Jillian Dodd Inc.

  Saint Petersburg, FL

  ISBN: 978-1-940652-25-2

  I know that the wait for this book has been long.

  But when you write a book, you put pieces of yourself into it.

  And, quite honestly, I wasn't ready for that.

  Every time I sat down and tried to write it, I couldn't.

  Because sometimes life doesn't go the way you planned.

  And, as a warning, this book may not go the way you imagined it should.

  But it's like life.

  Tragedy can strike when you least expect it.

  This book is dedicated to all the women who have lost a baby, suffered a miscarriage, or struggled with infertility--

  and felt like they lost pieces of themselves in the process.

  I know how you feel.

  January 22nd

  Your MacDaddy

  I am Mrs. Phillip Mackenzie.

  Jadyn James Mackenzie.

  Gosh, I love the way that sounds.

  We're back from our amazing honeymoon and are ready to move into our dream house.

  Phillip unlocked the door and carried me over the threshold then we started unpacking.

  We've been unpacking all day and are tired, but I'm down in the basement excitedly pulling the plastic off our gorgeous new sectional sofa. I'm practically in tears over how amazing it looks in the fabric I chose.

  You know men.

  They prefer function over form, and women typically will give up comfort for fashion. I mean, look at the way we contort our feet into fabulous shoes. Neither one of us had to compromise on this couch. It's the perfect combination of style and comfort. I ordered it in the softest ultra suede, and it's like lying on melted butter.

  "I'm tired," Phillip says, sliding down onto the new couch. "Moving is a lot of work."

  So what is the very first thing Phillip decides to do on our couch?

  Does he go over, lie down, look at me all sexy, and say, baby, come see your MacDaddy, so we can properly break it in?

  No.

  Does he run his hand across the gorgeous fabric and say, wow, this is amazing?

  No.

  Does he comment on how cool it looks and what a statement it makes in the room?

  No.

  He flops on it with his shoes on, turns on the TV, and proceeds to fart on the new couch.

  Yes, you heard me right.

  He farted on my new gorgeous suede sofa!

  Seriously, who does that?

  Who spends good money on something and then farts on it?

  Who does that?

  "PHILLIP!? What the hell? Why did you just do that?"

  "It must have slipped out," he tells me with a little giggle.

  "Phillip Mackenzie, that is our brand new couch!"

  He dismisses my horror. "Chill, it's not going to hurt it."

  "It's a brand new couch!" I say again.

  "And it was one stupid fart."

  "Well, it's the couch's first day here. If it has feelings, it will be terribly offended."

  "You're being ridiculous."

  I change course because I can see I need to speak in terms he can understand. "Phillip, are you telling me if a skunk sprayed your car it wouldn't hurt it?"

  "Well, it wouldn't hurt it, no, it would just smell horrible."

  "Exactly my point! The fabrics in your car are permeable. They hold in scents. Just like our new couch. One of the reasons you liked it is it reminded you of a sports car, remember?"

  "Yeah."

  "So do you want people to come sit on our gorgeous new couch in our brand new house and have it smell like skunks live here?"

  "Jadyn, it didn't even smell, it was just air."

  "No farting on the furniture, Phillip."

  He stares at me.

  So I say, "I'm serious. I'm adding it to our vows."

  He rolls his eyes at me, but says, "Fine. I won't fart on the couch."

  "Good."

  As I turn around to start putting wine glasses in the bar, I hear him mumble, "In front of you."

  Okay, so I get farts.

  I understand that our bodies were designed to do this as a way to let air escape when it needs to.

  And I lived with two boys. I get that boys fart. I get that boys think farts are always hilariously funny.

  But I thought maybe this was something they just did in a group. Like when you fart alone, it's not as funny. I seriously cannot think of a time that Phillip has ever farted in front of me when we've been alone.

  And he chooses this as the way to start off in our new home?

  Is this what happens after you get married? The magic is gone?

  It's stressful enough trying to get everything unpacked.

  And to make matters worse, my pregnant best friend, Lori, decided--today of all days-- that the baby in her belly can hear us, and she was encouraging--snarling/bitching at--us to watch our language all day.

  I survived living with two boys without developing a farting habit, but when you hang out with people a lot, you tend to talk in a similar fashion. I think it's kind of like picking up an accent when you move down South.

  You can't really help it.

  So I happen to have a pretty colorful repertoire of curse words in my vocabulary. The F-word being the tip of the iceberg really. I have to be very mindful of what I say at work, but around the boys I let loose and talk like them. Lori was my best friend in college. She knows that I cuss. And even though she swears like a sailor, she's officially joined the F-bomb Patrol.

  She told me I couldn't say the F-word in front of the baby.

  And I was about ready to buy her a fucking badge.

  Oh, shit. See. It just comes out.

  And to make it worse, I said shit.

  Damn.

  Oh my. See my point?

  So I realize that if my swearing comes out naturally, maybe Phillip's fart did, in fact, slip out accidentally. But I can't let him get away with it.

  I dive bomb on top of him and say, "MacDaddy is a bad boy."

  He gets a grin on his face, that naughty gleam in his eye, and says, "But, Princess, on the brand new couch?"

  I reconsider that. "Uh, maybe not."

  He rolls us off the couch, causing me to let out a scream and then laugh. Phillip smothers my laughter with his lips and then, well, I let him be a little naughtier.

>   Thank goodness, the F-bomb Patrol is gone, because I'm pretty sure we would have gotten arrested for this.

  January 23rd

  Tiny little F-bomb.

  Lori and Danny, our best friends and neighbors, are over this morning to help us finish unpacking.

  I'm pretty sure Lori must have completed some covert training last night, because she seems to be off basic patrol and is now on the F-Bomb Special Forces.

  I accidentally move the coffee table on my toe while trying to roll a rug out under it and, well, it really hurts. So, maybe I let a tiny little F-bomb fly.

  Quietly.

  Lori glares at me. "Jade, really?"

  "Fine. I hurt my freaking toe."

  She smiles at me.

  But later, when I hammer my finger--rather than a nail--into the wall, I may say the F-word again.

  Because, ouch, it hurts.

  Apparently, I am not skilled at home improvement.

  Lori scowls at me and covers her stomach with her hand. "Seriously? Did we not just talk about this?"

  "Lori, I just hammered my, uh, fricking finger into the wall, and it fricking hurts. Shouldn't you be offering me some fricking sympathy?"

  "Um," she says, "I really don't think fricking is appropriate either. Can you picture sending a child to preschool who's saying fricking?"

  No. I can't really picture that, so I come up with a better idea. "Okay, then. How about I hammered my effing finger into the wall?"

  She scowls at me. "Do you really thing that's better? Effing? Are you kidding me? You can't say that either."

  So I do what any sane person with a hammered finger and a sore toe would do at this point, I become extremely frustrated and throw my hands in the air. "What the fuck am I supposed to say then?"

  She glares at me.

  "What? I can't change the way I talk overnight. I also find it very hard to believe you've stopped Danny from swearing. He's the freaking king of the F-bomb!"

  "Well, I'm working on that," she says with a slightly maniacal grin. "See the rubber band?"

  I glance over and notice a skinny blue rubber band around Danny's wrist. "Uh, yeah?"

  "Every time he cusses, I snap him, and it hurts."

  "Isn't that like husband abuse?"

  She laughs at me.

  "Where's your rubber band?"

  "I don't need it. I can control myself." She digs a rubber band out of her pocket and dangles it in front of me.

  And I'm like, "No."

  And she's like, "Yes."

  "This is bullshit, Lori. Sorry, but it is." I'm gearing up for a big fight, but Danny stands behind her, begging me with his eyes to let her put the rubber band on.

  And I'll be damned if I do it. I must be a really good friend.

  Later he's like, "Jay, come help me figure out where you want this . . . blah, blah."

  I don't even hear what he says. He may have said blah blah, but when we are both upstairs he goes, "Thank you for not arguing with her. After the whole bleeding thing, seriously, Jay, no stress for her, okay? I think she gets some wicked little pleasure out of snapping me with the band. Like I'm in the pregnancy boat with her or something. She has had a time with it. Constantly sick and then the spotting that scared us to death. So just try."

  "Fine," I say, hanging my head in defeat.

  He gets his Devil Danny grin. "Call her every dirty name in the book if you have to, just do it all in your head."

  "Is that how you're surviving this?"

  "Well, that, and I'm being trained."

  "Danny, I'm sorry. I love her, but this is bullshit."

  He leans over and snaps the rubber band on my wrist, hard.

  "Oww! That hurts!"

  He grins at me. "Yeah, I know."

  "Then why did you do it?"

  "Cuz you said bullshit."

  "Oh really? So did you." I snap him back.

  Pretty soon, Danny and I have our rubber bands off and are shooting them at each other, having a rubber band war. I manage to nail his arm just as he's trying to duck behind the kitchen island.

  But then the Fun Nazi comes upstairs. "What the hell are you two doing?"

  Danny and I share a smirk.

  "Um, Lori, do you need a rubber band too?" I giggle.

  "No," she says. "What I need is for you two to grow up."

  Then we all just laugh. This is sort of ridiculous.

  After she goes back downstairs, Danny gets the sneaky look again and pulls a little flask from his hoodie pocket.

  "Oh, you're bad," I say.

  "How do you think I'm surviving this?"

  We do a shot together.

  Lori is downstairs fluffing--whatever that means--my bookshelves.

  Phillip ran to get us some pizza, since we have zero food in the house.

  So instead of Danny helping me maneuver the mattress pad and sheets onto our big new bed, we are back to our rubber band war.

  Every time he hits me, he makes me do a shot. I've gotten hit a couple times, and he's a good friend and has been drinking with me.

  But no food and a few shots is not a good idea.

  When Phillip gets home with the pizza, I quickly scarf some down.

  It tasted great, but now I'm feeling a bit nauseous.

  Next thing I know, I'm throwing it all up, and don't feel well.

  At first, I thought it was from the alcohol, but I'm feeling achy and feverish. I must have the flu.

  January 24th

  And you're puking?

  Next morning, I eat some cereal and toast, and it's the same deal. I'm in the bathroom throwing up. While I'm brushing my teeth, I see my birth control pills lying on the counter. I took one before breakfast.

  Crap, I probably just threw it up.

  Then I look closer at the pills, and two things come to mind.

  One: I should have gotten my period a few days ago.

  And Two: WTF?!

  Where the hell is my period?

  But I try not to freak.

  I know Lori would chew my ass if she heard me thinking this because, yes, I know there are a lot of people who want to get pregnant but can't. I know they try everything and here I am thinking, what the hell, because I am not thrilled with this combination of lateness and puking.

  And, of course, this is the exact moment that Phillip chooses to walk into the bathroom to check on me.

  "Are you okay? I thought I heard you throwing up again."

  "Yeah, I'm not feeling so great."

  He studies the pill package in my hand and stands frozen for a good thirty seconds.

  I'm telling you, I can see the wheels turning in his brain.

  And I don't think I will like the question that he's going to ask next.

  "Oh my god, are you late? And you're puking?"

  "Just a couple days late, and that's not unusual."

  Actually, it is unusual. But, come on! I'm stressed. I've just gone through some major life changes. Planned a wedding. Designed a building. Packed. Got married. Traveled. It's happy stress, but it's still stress. So, it's natural that my body would freak out like my mind did. I mean, they do work in tandem most of the time.

  Phillip gets a big grin on his face and pulls me into his arms. "It would be so awesome if you're pregnant. Do you think you could be?"

  "Phillip, no! It would not be. We're not ready. We just got back from our honeymoon. What would your parents think?"

  He laughs. "My parents got married in August, and Ashley was born in February. Do the math."

  So, I do.

  I count it out on my fingers. "September, October, November, December, January, February--Phillip, that's only six months!"

  He laughs.

  "Your mom was pregnant when they got married!?"

  "Ya think?"

  "Did she trap your dad into marrying her?"

  "I don't think so. They dated for over two years before they got married."

  I get hit with another wave of nausea.

  And I can't
decide what's making me feel sicker, the thought of being pregnant, the flu, or an actual pregnancy.

  It's got to be the flu.

  Please, please, let it be the flu.

  And, um, excuse me, while I go puke again.

  Phillip is a sweetie, of course, and tells me I should lie back down and try to sleep.

  But, HA! You really think I'm going to be able to sleep? Now? At a time like this?

  My body may be shaking and tired, but my mind is on freaking overdrive.

  So, let's be rational and think this through.

  I'm on the pill.

  I take it every day.

  I never miss a day.

  I take it at the same exact time every single day just to be extra cautious.

  But then I remember that I was on antibiotics for a sinus infection, and I very specifically told that boy we should use a condom.

  What did he do?

  He laughed at me and proceeded anyway.

  And I stupidly didn't stop him.

  I have that thing my parents used to say young people have. That stupid thing in the back of their mind that says, it could never happen to me. It's just this one time.

  But, uh, well, it wasn't exactly just once, was it?

  We were not careful all month like we should've been.

  Why did I listen to him?

  Where was my will power?

  I'm really, really not ready for a baby.

  Sure, I want to have kids.

  I really do, but they are still a someday in my mind.

  Not the far off someday that they used to be, but in the foreseeable future someday.

  I can't wait to have kids with Phillip, but I want it to be the right time. We need to be married for a little while. I have so much on my plate. Phillip's temporary office space is complete, but construction on the new building will start soon. And we need to get settled in our new house and our new city.

  Truth be told, if I couldn't drink, I might not be able to get through it all.

  And, no.

  No need to give me the whole alcoholic speech. It's not like that.

  But, I admit, there have been days recently where the only thing that has gotten me through is the thought of being able to come home and soak in a hot bubble bath with a glass of wine and some chocolate.

  I seriously cannot be pregnant right now.

  Please, God, please, don't let me be pregnant. And please don't hold it against me, like in a few years from now, when I want it to happen.

  Apparently, I exhaust my brain with all this thinking, so it shuts up and goes to sleep.

  I wake up feeling chilled and feverish.