“I just want to remind you,” he says, “that this is real. If we make this mistake, we’re going to have to live with it.”
“Is that what our child is? A mistake?”
He puts a hand on my knee. I want to knock it off and spit in his face, but I restrain myself. “Look,” he says, “I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to. I’m not saying mistake. I’m not saying I definitely don’t want to do it. What I’m saying is that this is a commitment. And you’re not – well –”
I’m not what?
“You like to live in the moment,” he says. “And that’s great, except when it comes to things like paying bills and doing dishes. That’s stuff that can sometimes wait. What can’t wait is a hungry kid who needs his dirty diaper changed. A kid who’s screaming his fucking head off at three in the morning. How are you going to feel when you have to shove your dreams aside to deal with that?”
And that’s where I lose it. Of course, I’m tightassed in my own way, so my version of losing it is taking off my sunglasses and hissing in his face, not knocking over his beer and screaming or anything. “Why is it my dreams that have to get shoved aside? We’re in this together, aren’t we?”
“That’s the point, babe. Both of us will be shoving things aside. You’ve got to make room, you know?”
Of course he’s right. That process starts before the kid is even born. Your organs rearrange. Your pelvis stretches. Everything yawns and expands, preparing.
“Shit,” I say, and start to cry.