The weird thing about finding out that your wife is pregnant is everything. More specifically, I found it very strange that you have this massive, life-altering news and you can’t tell anyone.
Following the pregnancy test, I wanted to shout, “My wife is pregnant! We’re creating life! We’re basically Gods!” to the world from the highest point I could find, which was probably the couch in my living room. But instead, I was instructed to stay off the furniture, and say nothing, sworn to secrecy, almost like it was a relationship trust exercise or something.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not great at shutting my yapper. I mean, I have a fucking blog for Christ’s sake, and my book, Home is Burning, might as well have been called, “Shit People in My Life Don’t Want You to Know About Them.”
So I knew that me saying nothing was going to be a challenge.
But I understood why saying nothing was the right move. A lot can happen in the early stages of pregnancy. Miscarriages are more common than any of us in the non-breeding population seem to realize. I guess people don’t really talk about them because they’re so goddamn sad and tragic—one of the harder things one can go through in life.
Meredith works in finance and knows a lot more about numbers and percentages and EBITDA than most people. Certainly more than I do. So she gave us a rundown of all the miscarriage odds and percentages. Ten-to-fifteen percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage, most of them occurring in the first few weeks. The rate of miscarriage then goes down to two-to-four percent during the second half of the first trimester, then to less than one percent between weeks thirteen and twenty.
Given these general probabilities, we figured that we needed to make it to the twenty-week mark before I could start running my big, fat mouth.
“Let’s wait until the twenty-week appointment before we blast the news out to everyone,” said logical Meredith.
“Okay, cool. I’ll take down all my Tweets and Facebook posts about it.”
“You Tweeted about it?”
“Just goofin’. Little pregnancy goof there,” I goofed.
As the weeks began clicking by and everything appeared to be normal, we eventually started to tell a few family members, but decided that we still wouldn’t tell everyone until we were more certain.
So we entered that phase of pregnancy where we were excited and hopeful and joyous, but also very nervous and cautious and paranoid, hoping that everything was going to go well. We were very careful about how we spoke about the news, even to each other. Anytime either of us would mention the baby, we would tag a, “If everything goes okay,” or a, “Knock on wood,” just to ensure that we weren’t jinxing ourselves, that we weren’t counting our chickens before they hatched and started shitting all over the floor, or however that saying goes.
Luckily, Meredith was feeling pretty good. The only noticeable change was that she was sleeping and eating more. “Well, you’re eating and sleeping for two now, so it makes sense. Eat and sleep all you need, Sweet One!” I said, practically breaking the world record for most supportive partner ever.
She had read somewhere that if she ate every couple of hours, she could hopefully avoid some of the typical feelings of morning sickness and nausea common in the first trimester. So she started snacking a little bit more, which I—being one of the greatest snackers in the history of snacking—was totally cool with.
“Let me know if you want some of my pretzels,” I said, gesturing to my supply, which usually runs in the five-to-ten bag range.
“I legitimately don’t know how anyone consumes as many pretzels as you do, pregnant or not,” she joked.
“I can’t hear you over all this pretzel chewing,” I said.
The biggest issue we were bumping up against wasn’t anything relating to the pregnancy. It was pandemic fatigue. We were now eight months in, and—like most people—were starting to wear down, both mentally and physically. The intensity of the world—all the death, all the in-fighting amongst Americans over stupid shit like masks, all the anxiety anytime you left your house—was just exhausting. Plus, Santa Monica was particularly strict about all the Covid protocols. Restaurants, beaches, movie theaters, gyms, and most stores were closed and even boarded up. They even put a fence around Palisades Park, the park closest to our house, and one of our dog, Maple’s, favorite places to stick her adorable snout in the air and take in all the world’s smells. We were thankful to be living in a place that was taking it seriously, but not leaving our 1,000 square foot condo was starting to break us.
We were all living our own versions of Groundhog Day, except we couldn’t even go to the Punxsutawney Groundhog Festival to see if Phil saw his shadow because we couldn’t gather with other people. Mere and I were just stuck with each other. And our little bundle of secrecy. Groundhog Day with me isn’t as fun as it is with Bill Murray. All the brooding over my scripts and career, the panic attacks and emotional meltdowns during Utah Jazz games, the stuffing my fat face with pretzels, made me into a shitty pandemic partner in crime. The only things we had to look forward to were all the 30 Rock episodes we were consuming at night to try to cleanse our palate of all the suck and shittiness.
We needed a break, especially since our lives were going to get really hectic and exhausting once the baby arrived, if everything went okay.
Meredith and my wedding anniversary is Dec 15. In pre-Covid times, we’d drop Maple off with her parents in New Jersey, then take an end-of-the-year/anniversary trip, and return to New Jersey in time for Christmas. It was our one big splurge of the year. We had gone to Paris one year, St. Lucia another, and had our eyes on Japan or Bermuda eventually.
Given the pandemic, it was trending toward us not taking a trip this year, but as our mental health and fatigue continued to worsen, we started to think that if we didn’t take a break, we might lose our minds.
“I think if I don’t take a trip that I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” Meredith mentioned one night, looking a little like she was about to have a nervous breakdown.
“Well, don’t do that. We have a baby on the way, knock on wood,” I said. “You’d be having a nervous breakdown for two.”
“Can we please just take a trip?” begged Meredith.
I was the one more nervous about traveling. I was a germophobe before the pandemic, so you can only imagine what I was like during the pandemic. But I was also really worried that my wife would have a nervous breakdown and it would affect her health and the pregnancy.
There were ways to safely travel. I had the best N-95 mask money could buy. A doctor friend had remarked that I could walk through a cloud of Covid in it and be fine. Meredith had also gone out to Las Vegas over the summer for a bridal shower and brought back a giant Wynn face shield as a goof, so I could also wear that. Airplanes were now equipped with HEPA air filters. Middle seats were blocked. It was probably safe to go.
“Yeah, okay,” I tentatively said.
So we started looking into destinations. We wanted somewhere near the east coast so we could do the New Jersey-Maple-drop-off thing. We eventually settled on a series of islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean called Turks and Caicos. Pictures made it appear like it was some sort of heaven on earth type of place. And their capital was called Cockburn Town, which I thought was funny.
“Cockburn. That’s funny,” my immature ass said to Meredith.
“You’re going to be a father soon…” said Meredith.
“Knock on wood,” I said.
Plus, the Tucks and Caicos government required that every traveler get a Covid test before they could fly there, them forming a sort of NBA bubble type of situation. So it felt especially safe. I was sold on it.
We booked everything at a resort that required masks in all common areas and only had outdoor dining options.
Meredith flew out to New Jersey a week early so she could get Maple settled, and also so she could be pampered by her big-hearted parents. They’re way better at taking care of her than I am, showering her with breakfast sandwiches, homemade chicken parm, and the best pizza in the world. When she goes home, I’m always reminded of the scene in The Sopranos where Meadow comes back from college and basically treats Carmela like she’s her personal servant, holding up her empty glass of juice for her to refill. That was Meredith at home. A little New Jersey princess.
I got my negative Covid test, then flew out in my Wynn face shield and N-95 mask, my laptop bag bulging with wipes and disinfectant sprays, my hands lathered in enough sanitizer to kill every Covid germ in the world, reapplying it every five minutes or so like it was sunscreen at the beach. I wasn’t as bad as the psychos traveling in Hazmat suits, but I was close.
The flight was mostly fine. Seamless. Safe. But as we were landing, it got turbulent, and this girl sitting across the aisle from me—probably around ten years old—started vomiting. And not into a barf bag, but rather right into the walkway next to me.
“Jesus Christ,” I shouted as I grabbed my laptop bag and picked up my feet to make sure this stranger’s vomit didn’t trickle down the aisle and into me.
It didn’t. But it was easily the grossest thing I’ve seen on an airplane, and it had to happen during a fucking pandemic when I was already freaked out. I was going to bitch this little girl out, but she was young, innocent, clearly embarrassed. She just got a little dizzy. No sense in making her feel worse. So instead, I just shook my head in disbelief, mumbled a couple more “Jesus Christs” and reapplied the hand sanitizer.
But I had survived.
I met up with Meredith, spent a day watching football with her dad—who might be the only person on earth who likes fantasy football more than I do, the perfect father-in-law for me—then we were off to Turks.
When you’ve been sitting inside watching episodes of 30 Rock for eight months, you forget how beautiful the world is, and how amazing it is that we live in a time where it’s relatively easy to explore it. That’s what I thought as we were landing on this sandy island surrounded by turquoise water, thousands of miles away from all the grief and stress we had accumulated in a year full of it.
Once we landed, they took our temperate and squirted some hand sanitizer into my already-lathered palm. I was extremely relieved that they were taking the Covid thing as seriously as I was.
“Pretty great about the hand sanitizer, right?” I said.
“Stop with the hand sanitizer and look around you. This is heaven,” Meredith said, instantly looking refreshed, the rejuvenation process already beginning.
We got to our resort, checked in. As we did, I got an idea. The resort was only at about fifty percent capacity because of Covid. We had booked a standard room, but my guess was that several upgraded rooms were sitting empty. On our honeymoon trip to St. Lucia, I had told the hotel that we were on our honeymoon (which we were) and they had given us an upgrade. Another year, I had mentioned that it was our anniversary. Same thing. Upgraded room.
But what could the occasion be this time?
I looked over at Meredith. By now, she was sporting an ever so slight bump that most people probably assumed was the Quarantine-15. Not very pregnant, but pregnant enough. So I decided to break our little code of secrecy. “Oh, wanted to see about a room upgrade. She’s pregnant, so…” I said.
“Oh, congratulations,” the receptionist said, then started typing away on her little check-in computer.
The next thing we knew, we were standing in a suite bigger than our apartment with views of the pool and ocean—probably the nicest place I’d ever stayed.
“Wow, this is amazing,” said Meredith.
“This pregnancy is already paying off,” I said.
“I’m still not sure we should be telling people about it,” said Meredith.
“We’ll never see these people again,” I said.
“That’s true,” she said. “Let’s just remember to knock on wood.”
“Holy shit, this room has a Jacuzzi tub,” I said.
The resort was absolutely amazing, one of those places where it’s impossible not to relax, let your worries melt away under the sun, take that 500-foot view of your life that puts things in perspective. They served complimentary ice cream on the beach, provided an all-you-can-eat breakfast every morning, and the sand on the beach was the softest I had ever felt.
“The sand’s as smooth as a baby’s butt,” I said.
“Gross! Especially now that we’re having a baby, if everything goes okay,” Meredith said.
“Wasn’t referring to our baby’s butt, just baby butts in general,” I clarified.
“Still gross,” Meredith clarified.
We raised our arms in the air and ran into the bathwater-like Atlantic Ocean, yelling, “Fuck pandemics” as we went, kicking off six days of utter relaxation.
As our stay progressed, we’d occasionally use the pregnancy news to get little, added perks or receive preferential treatment. As we checked in with the hostess at dinner, I said, “Oh, my wife is pregnant, so…” and they’d show us to the best table with the best views of the setting sun. When they were serving us free ice cream on the beach, I’d say, “My wife is pregnant...” and they’d hook us up with an extra scoop. Or when we wanted more beach towels than the two allotted, I’d say, “She’s pregnant...” and they’ll hand us over a pile.
I was also finding that I could use Meredith’s pregnancy to justify not ordering alcoholic drinks at dinner or around the pool. At the time, I was four-and-a-half years sober, but still would occasionally feel like I had to explain why I didn’t drink to strangers so they didn’t think I was some sort of dork or religious zealot who hated fun. “It’s not that I don’t love alcohol. It’s that I love it too much,” I’d usually explain to people so I still looked like a cool badass.
But now that Meredith was pregnant, I had an easy-to-justify excuse for turning down alcohol, making me look like I was abstaining out of solidarity and not because I was a fall-on-my-face drunk!
“Care for a cocktail or some wine with dinner?” they’d ask.
“Oh man, we’d love to usually. Big time badasses over here. But she’s pregnant, so…” I’d explain.
On one of our last days, Meredith and I were wading in the ocean when an especially cool-looking local approached. He asked if I partied, if I needed any weed and/or cocaine.
Instead of just saying, “Nah, I don’t smoke or do cocaine or drink. In fact, I’m four-and-a-half years sober, something that I’m secretly proud of because it was hard to quit since alcohol was such a major part of my identity and life,” I gestured to Meredith, who was a bit further out in the water, and said, “I would usually love some weed or cocaine, but my wife is pregnant, so…”
The guy took one look at beautiful Meredith floating in the water like some sort of relaxed angel, then at my dumpy, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle body, and said, “That’s some great work there, my man.” Then, he gave me a fist bump, my first since the start of the pandemic.
So not only was the pregnancy giving us VIP treatment like we were royalty or The Kardashians, but it was also making my very not cool ass seem cooler.
By the time our six days were up, most of the staff knew that Meredith was pregnant. Here our closest friends didn’t know about our news, and all these strangers on a sandy island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean did.
“Pretty silly that they know and our friends don’t,” said Meredith.
“Yeah totally,” I said. “Let’s get another round of free ice cream.”
The trip was exactly what we needed. Of course, we felt guilty for taking a vacation during a pandemic. But we had had a hard year. Certainly not as hard as others. But the whole thing made us realize that we had a lot to be thankful for, a lot to look forward to. I mean, we were having a fucking kid, knock on wood, a little buddy who we had no choice but to love unconditionally. If the pandemic taught us anything, it’s that adding unconditional love to your life is never a bad thing.
“I’m glad we did this,” I said, as we walked to the plane to fly back to reality, my face covered by the N-95 and Wynn face shield, my hand-sanitizer-lathered hands glistening in the sun.
“So am I,” said Meredith.
One of Meredith’s many superpowers is that she can sleep anywhere, often dozing off in seconds. Once we were in the air, right after our first round of beverages, she was out, sleeping for two. After I downed my ginger ale and bag of mini-pretzels, I flagged the stewardess down.
“Can I get more pretzels?” I asked.
She gave me a take-it-easy-fat-ass look, so I decided to use our pregnancy trick one last time. “My wife is pregnant, so...”
She returned with three bags. We flew home recharged, feeling more ready for all to come.
I'm loving this blog! So talented!!!! So blessed!!!!!
Another great chapter in your journey to parenthood 🥰