For several months I avoided telling the world I was pregnant, but after gaining about thirty pounds in the first trimester, people who knew me were starting to do double takes.
But what was the right way to tell people that I was following in January Jones and Scary Spice’s footsteps and carrying a “bastard baby” (a term I had heartlessly used several times in recent years) without having to rehash the brutal and gory details of the Jason drama?
“Just be confident and tell people that you are pregnant and the father isn’t in the picture and you are going to be a single mom,” one of my friends suggested. “No one is going to pry.”
That was like saying the tabloids didn’t care about Kim Kardashian’s pregnancy weight. This was Los Angeles, where everyone made it a point to know everyone else’s business and this wasn’t exactly one of those tidbits of news that was going to fly under the radar.
One day I decided to squeeze into my Rag & Bone skinny jeans (which I now had to wear unzipped) and emerge from the cave of my apartment where I had been hiding in for months watching back-to-back episodes of Pretty Little Liars and gorging on excessive amounts of carbs and sugars. Strolling down the trendy street I lived on, I ran into one of my neighborhood friends, Anthony, who asked me what was “new.”
“Work is okay, just got back from Hawaii, and I’m pregnant,” I answered, hoping that somehow if I didn’t make a big deal out of it, he wouldn’t either.
“Are you serious?” he finally spurt out after about thirty seconds of staring at me through skeptical eyes, waiting for the punch line. “I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”
“And here you probably just thought I was getting fat,” I joked, because I didn’t really know what else to say. Reactions to my impending motherhood ranged depending on the person, but the general consensus from the people in my life was shock and then awkwardness – because asking about the paternity of my child-to-be took a little more than social couth.
“Are you so excited?” was another response that I would get, and also come to dread, because I absolutely wasn’t but I couldn’t exactly give an honest answer.
“Am I excited to be a single mother of a baby whose father wanted me to abort him and have to financially support a child on my own, full-time, without any help? Not so much,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I lied. I said what everyone wanted to hear and pretended to be the strong and independent woman they thought I was.