Twelve Pounds, Three Days

As gracefully as we could, my sister and I tried to ease ourselves onto the couch. The baby moved, causing my already unstable center of gravity to shift and my butt to hit the cushion with more force than I had planned. Mom's filthy ginger cat, Tigger, hopped up, hoping for some attention. My sister smirked, having achieved her own descent with aplomb.

“Hope you fart next time,” I hissed as I pushed the cat's tail from my face.

“Hope your hemorrhoids act up,” Marie hissed right back.

“Girls!” Mom snapped as she set another plate of food on the coffee table in front of me. “Do I need to remind you two to start acting your ages? I mean, really! You're both about to be mothers yourselves!”

Marie and I mumbled insincere apologies. Being pregnant at the same time had reverted us to our adolescent years. I blamed the hormones. Marie blamed me.

Dad limped to his chair. He gave our growing bellies a sideways glance as he took his turn to ease himself into his recliner. Mom had mentioned on the phone that his arthritis was acting up.

Mom clucked around the room, handing Dad the remote, shooing the cat as he reached for the food, tossing a pillow so Marie could put up her swollen ankles. She pointedly looked at the plate, then at me.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, rubbing the swirling mass under my skin. “In a minute.”

“You need to gain some more,” she scolded. “All those months of throwing up left you a little on the thin side.”

Marie smirked at me again. Morning sickness lingered into my last trimester. Just the thought of certain foods still had me waddling to the nearest toilet. Glowing, I was not. My darling, perfect sister had thrown up five times her entire six months – the same number of times I puked every day before noon.

Dad sighed, his signal to change the subject. His delicate stomach was the stuff of legend. He looked at us, his only children, with a mixture of resignation and bewilderment.

Poor guy. He just finished burying his mother the previous July when I called to let him know he was going to be a grandfather for the first time. And, almost exactly a month later, a similar phone call came from my sister. Between my constant barfing and Marie's move, he had not seen either of us since before we starting showing. Now both our swollen bodies were constantly in his line of sight. Add to that the snipping and sarcasm, it was a wonder he hadn't yet retreated to the garage for the rest of the visit.

“So,” my mother began, finally taking to her own chair, “have either of you started Lamaze?”

My sister perked up. “Oh, yes, we have,” she gushed. “Robert and I have the most wonderful instructor. We feel so close to the process already.”

“There was no such thing as Lamaze when I was born,” Dad mused.

“Oh?” Marie asked. “What did Grandma do? I heard they used to put women under anesthesia back in the day.”

Dad shook his head. “The way your grandmother and great-grandma hated doctors? Nah, she refused to go anywhere near a hospital.”

“So Grandma opted for natural childbirth,” Marie said.

“There wasn't any such thing back then,” Dad stated. “It was just having a baby. She gave birth to me in the same bed she had been born in, only it had moved from Oakland to Fresno by then.”

“Wait, you were born in Fresno, in July?” I sat up. “That had to be miserably hot.”

“According to my grandmother, they had to change the sheets twice a day from all the sweat,” he said.

“Twice a day?” Marie furled her brow. “As in more than one day?”

Dad shrugged. “Well, she was in labor for three, maybe four days.”

“Three days?” I gulped.

Dad shrugged again. “Didn't your grandmother ever tell you that story?” He sighed and looked at the ceiling. “She was staying with her parents when she started labor. My grandmother was already doing the Christian Scientist bit, so she refused to call a doctor. Not that would have mattered back in 1920. I mean, what could they have done with a twelve pound baby?”

“Wait, what?” This time, Marie sat up. “Twelve pounds? Pounds! Are you sure?”

“What's the big deal?” Dad asked. “I weighed twelve pounds. So what?”

I closed my eyes, seeing my bird-like grandmother in my thoughts. “But Grandma weighed maybe ninety pounds, dripping wet,” I said.

“And she was so tiny,” Marie added. “She didn't reach my shoulder!”

Dad shrugged again. “Didn't you ever wonder why I was an only child?” he asked.

“Oh, please,” Mom huffed. “Marshall, stop frightening the girls. And you two, stop panicking. Just because your father was a huge baby doesn't mean that either of you will have the same.”

I laid a hand over my stomach, remembering what my doctor had said just that week about how my parents' birth weights could be factors in my baby's size. From Marie's state, I could tell she'd had the same conversation with her doctor, too.

We did not talk about pregnancies for rest of that evening. Marie and I silently got ready for bed in our childhood room, her pictures of Shaun Cassidy fading on her side, my Duran Duran posters gathering dust on mine. As I struggled into my old twin bed, Marie switched off the light. I heard her settle in and sigh.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” she asked.

“I think so,” I answered.

In unison, we both cried out, “C-section!” before collapsing into giggles.

Word count: 972