I’m sure I’m pregnant. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Oh God. I don’t know if it’s Eddie’s baby or Roger’s! And I’m frantically trying to remember what I’ve put into my body in the last few weeks. When I was pregnant with Pete—even before I got pregnant—I was neurotically careful. I didn’t take aspirin or cough medicine. I stopped spraying the rose bushes, stopped painting my nails, stopped tinting my hair. I stood twelve feet from the microwave, never used an electric heating pad, stopped going to the dry cleaners, steered clear of cigarette smoke, hired someone to paint the nursery, and took a hotel room overnight to avoid the fumes. But now I’m just living life, exposing myself to all the usual hazards. And I’ve been drinking. Oh God, what have I done? What if this baby is born with a tail, or some other hideous reminder of my negligence? I have to go throw up now. ’Til next time, June 12 It is 1:15 in the morning and I’m in the grip of another panic attack.
