Bunny Tests
August 7
Maybe I ought to have one of those bunny tests.
Nothing seems to be happening to me. Time flows over me like a river, but it leaves no bruises, no abrasions, no swelling, no bulges. And, most important, no morning sickness! These calculations must be screwy. I’ve taken my measurements religiously every morning but they’re still identically the same. Twenty times a day I’ve climbed up on a chair to examine my figure in the dressing-table mirror, and it looks just the way it always did.
To be on the safe side I’ve been walking miles!
August sun and all. I’ve even given up swimming. And I’ve drunk quarts of orange juice. (I hope it’s orange juice that has calcium in it. I remember reading somewhere, “For every child a tooth,” and I’d like to keep all of mine.) I can’t think of anything else to do. But I just have to start out right, for this is going to be the most perfect, the most scientific, the most carefully scheduled, the most medically approved baby ever born …. I wish something would happen to convince me!
Pat is a disappointment. Instead of bringing me violets, or breakfast in bed, or at least a little awe watered with sympathy, all he does is call up now and then to say, “Hey, is everything Jake?”
August 8
Last night Patrick carne horne with this, undoubtedly culled from confirmed fathers at work:
“No more cocktails for you. From now on you’ll just have to sit in the corner and think pleasant thoughts. No more driving, either!”
But a neat saving on gasoline, when you consider us three million nearly mothers.