6th Aprm

September 1

Labor Day, so they tell me, but my “morning sickness” seems to have vanished and I woke full of vim, vigor, and vitamins. Pat had to work and, I decided, so did 1. So I called Gladdie, down the road, and borrowed the use of her washing machine. She gave me the usual business about not “overdoing”, but I felt so strong and healthy I’d have none of it. And, anyway, with a child in the offing and the Army around the corner, I’ve got to begin saving money, so why not start with the laundry bill? I swore Gladdie to secrecy and tore down to her house with two mattress pads and a beach robe.

I did the washing with great aplomb, yanked out the washing machine, brushed away Gladdie’s aid, and wrung out and hung up the pads and then sat back to watch my handiwork dry in the sun. By the time I got home I felt rather weary and decided to rest a mite before picking up Patrick at Jones’ Corners, where one of the men in his car pool drops him.
At 6 P.M. I got up to powder my nose and lo-a danger signal!

Lordy, thought I, I am a fool. I just miscalculated and I’m not going to have a baby at all. Even the doctor said he couldn’t be sure. That’s why 1 haven’t been sick in the morning and why my stomach looks just the same. Pat’s right! Being sick was all mental and now the whole damn town will roar with laughter!

I grabbed “Prenatal Care” and discovered that if, on the other hand, it was the sign of a threatened miscarriage I ought to go to bed fast.

But there was Pat waiting at a roadside five miles from home, so I backed the car gingerly out of the garage and drove at a snail’s pace for the meeting place. I greeted him in a flood of tears. “It’s not true! Jake’s only mental. I mean he ain’t, and he was such a cute redhead!”

Pat, who takes to an emergency like Michael to a bone, rushed me home and tucked me in bed. Despite his urging and warning and cajoling, however, I wouldn’t call the doctor that night. I didn’t want him laughing at me.

September 2

This morning there was another flag of warning and Doc growled over the phone, “What have you been doing? Washing! Well, what did you expect?”
“Nothing particular,” I said.

“Get in bed and stay there for at least five days,” he ordered. “You’re probably just off schedule and these are those five days I told you to watch particularly. Now-get to bed!”

September 3

In bed, and if there’s anything to prenatal influence Jake will grow up to be a card shark. From dawn till dark I’ve been cheating myself at solitaire.
But, between hands-what am I going to do about Lucretia? I’ve been feigning a cold, but my rasping coughs up here are duelling with Lucretia’s muttering down in the kitchen. Every now and then, between the shuffling sounds I know so well, I can hear her voice: “Sornethin’ funny goin’ on ’round here …. Somethin’ funny goin’ on.” The noises fascinate me. Shuffle-shuffle, mutter-mutter. “Don’t mind reg’lar family work, but this here traipsin’ up an’ down them stairs …. Nothin’ wrong with her as I can see. . . . In bed, an’ me traipsin’ up them stairs… ”

And what the devil am I going to do about moving? That gorgeous house sitting there and how, I’d like to know, am I going to get moved into it if this is what happens every time I do more than twiddle a finger? And how can I risk a trip back to Chicago if I end up in bed after every little thing? Children certainly do add to one’s difficulties.