She Never Expected To Be Expecting Again

A few weeks ago at my doctor's office, the nurse asked, "When are you going to tell your readers about the baby? Don't you think they'll wonder if suddenly in August you add another name to the cast of characters in your column?"
I decided Nurse June was probably right - I should make you aware of my delicate condition. Cavanaugh Baby No. 8 is expected in mid-August. Although we thought seven was a lucky number for a family and planned to leave it at that, we discovered last winter that our luck was increasing.
Once we medically established that another Cavanaugh had germinated, John and I kept the news to ourselves until my fine tuned body began slipping into the shape in which it hums best. This required a change in wardrobe.
Ordinarily that means a trip to the spare closet where my maternity clothes hang, having their biennial rest. But you may recall that last summer I gave the clothes to my two expectant sisters, because I never expected to be expecting again. I planned that all the clothes I would buy from then on would have waistlines. I planned wrong. Or maybe it's that I never planned at all.
So what's a girl to do? Well, I went out and bought a bunch of new clothes. I suppose you're thinking, "that doesn't make sense, to spend money on clothes she'll only wear a few months." That may be the case, but having eight children already proves I don't have a lot of sense, so I may as well enjoy my delirium fashionably.
Luckily, since I've been through this before, being pregnant is not difficult. What really gets on my nerves is the weight.
You haven't experienced humility until you've suffered through a nine-month battle with the scale in your doctor's office.
I would never consider announcing my weight in public, even if I wasn't pregnant, even if I had just returned from a 40-day fast in the desert. So you can imagine how I dread hoisting myself monthly, and then weekly, onto a doctor's scale.
Some days, I convince myself that each day I am temperate in my calorie consumption is one fewer day I'll have to deprive myself to get back my sexy shape (such as it was) after the baby is born. That good-sense approach usually lasts until about 4 p.m.
Some days, my good intentions never have a chance. I call these chocolate chip cookie or doughnut days.
This over-indulgence is justified if it happens after a doctor's appointment. Such a bender is necessary to lift my spirits when I've conscientiously been counting calories (and some days the count is high) and I still gain 3 pounds.
Health experts, I'm sure, are shaking their heads in dismay at my approach to nutrition. They are always telling pregnant women to eat from the four food groups - meals such as green vegetable sandwiches made with whole-grain bread. This would suit me fine if one more food group could be added: junk.
Instead of concerning myself with what I can or cannot eat, as opposed to what I want to eat, I should be choosing a name for the little one.
But as I sit here chewing on the ice cubes in my glass of water, the only names that come to mind are Fudge Sauce for a girl and Banana Split for a boy.

July 9, 1986