Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

Which is why when I’m recording in the kitchen and the wave of nausea that’s been crashing down on me all day turns into a tsunami, I leave the camera running while I dive into the small hallway bathroom. Later, I’ll edit out the sounds of my wrenching heaves that feel like they’re emptying my stomach and my soul. But the before and after, that stays in the video.

Because it’s real.

I step out of the “barfroom” a few minutes later, dabbing at my face with a damp towel. “Sorry about that, Lifers. This kid is killing me. I never had morning sickness with Jaybird. Is this like an omen of things to come—’cause if it is, I’m screwed.”

I posted the pregnancy video announcement last week—the Lifers are all super excited for me. Though I occasionally mention Mr. Hot-Baby-Daddy or Sexy-Drummer-Guy interchangeably, I’ve kept any other details about Dean and his level of involvement purposely vague.

I grab the pencil and notebook that sits on the shiny marble counter top and record the “vomitous” occasion for posterity. Then I hold the notebook up to the camera.

“Did I tell you guys I started a pregnancy journal? It’s for me, mostly, and for the baby when they’re an adult, so I can guilt them into taking care of me when I’m old.”

I hold up a picture of myself taken in the master bath mirror yesterday—topless and turned to the side with my arm across my breasts, to show the weekly progression of my surprisingly expanding stomach. That’s different from Jason too—I’m only about three and a half months and already starting to pop.

“And it’s for Mr. Sexy-Baby-Daddy too, so he won’t miss out on any big moments.” I set the notebook aside. “Anyway, where were we?”

The kitchen is finished. I decorated it in shades of white with wood touches—to go with the overall nautical theme and because it’s super easy to change out accent colors. There are white cabinets for storage below the counter, but on the walls above it, it’s open thick, butcher-block shelving that hold neat rows of white ceramic dishes and glasses. There’s a matching hood above the stainless steel range and an accent wall of distressed horizontal oak planks with a massive five-by-three chalkboard sign hung across the top that reads LAKE.

I installed the two-inch tile backsplash myself—on camera. It was painstaking work—but also meditative. Listening to music helped pass the time as well as romance audiobooks—a suggestion from one of my followers.

Finally, the sculpted glass chandelier that hangs over the shiny, white, marble-topped island gives the whole room a real touch of sophistication.

I pick up the empty spray bottle on the counter and pour each ingredient in. “We mix together one cup of hydrogen peroxide, two teaspoons of baking soda, a drop of dish soap and a squeeze of lemon—and voila! We have an effective, lemony-smelling carpet and fabric cleaner that’s safe for babies, pregnant ladies, animals and plants—that you can make yourself for pennies.”

It’s baking soda day. I’ve shown them how to make homemade teeth-whitening trays, toothpaste, insect bite cream, heartburn remedies and now carpet cleaner.

Baking soda is a miraculous substance—you can use it for everything.

I spray the bottled solution into the air. “And that’s it for now. All our recipes are in the comments below this video and I will see you tomorrow when we’ll continue working on decorating the living room. Bye, Lifers!”

I press the end record button and plop my tired self down in a chair—my stomach still feeling moody. Jason walks into the kitchen a little while later. There’s an infinitesimal pause before he sets his bag on one of the white wicker island stools—and I know he’s noticing my pale cheeks and the pink burst-blood vessels in my eyes.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, honey. How was school?”

“It was good.”

Jason fills up a glass of water at the sink and passes it to me.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“How are you and the bump doing? Did you get sick again?”

“Yeah, I did. It’s probably going to be a regular thing for a while so I don’t want you to worry.”

“Okay.”

And then he looks at me—worrying. With those young old-man eyes.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Then he moves to the garbage can, tying up the bag to take it out, without being asked. His phone pings on the counter with a few incoming texts.

I sip my water. “What’s that about?”

My son shrugs. “A few of us were going to go to the football game tonight.”

Jason has friends. It started the first day of school and in the six weeks we’ve lived here, his place in the little band of misfit kids has solidified. They’re a nice group—polite, smart, a little hyper, a little odd. They’ve even taken it upon themselves to decorate the attic with dozens of dangling Blair Witch Project-like talismans, because apparently the house is teeming with ghosts. But they make Jason happy—they make him smile easier and more often than I’ve ever seen, so unless they start talking animal sacrifice or building an altar to Satan, I don’t mind.