That Baby
Copyright 2015 by Jillian Dodd
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, brands, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jillian Dodd Inc.
Saint Petersburg, FL
ISBN: 978-1-940652-25-2
I know that the wait for this book has been long.
But when you write a book, you put pieces of yourself into it.
And, quite honestly, I wasn’t ready for that.
Every time I sat down and tried to write it, I couldn’t.
Because sometimes life doesn’t go the way you planned.
And, as a warning, this book may not go the way you imagined it should.
But it’s like life.
Tragedy can strike when you least expect it.
This book is dedicated to all the women who have lost a baby,
suffered a miscarriage, or struggled with infertility—
and felt like they lost pieces of themselves in the process.
I know how you feel.
January 22nd
Your MacDaddy
I am Mrs. Phillip Mackenzie.
Jadyn James Mackenzie.
Gosh, I love the way that sounds.
We’re back from our amazing honeymoon and are ready to move into our dream house.
Phillip unlocked the door and carried me over the threshold then we started unpacking.
We’ve been unpacking all day and are tired, but I’m down in the basement excitedly pulling the plastic off our gorgeous new sectional sofa. I’m practically in tears over how amazing it looks in the fabric I chose.
You know men.
They prefer function over form, and women typically will give up comfort for fashion. I mean, look at the way we contort our feet into fabulous shoes. Neither one of us had to compromise on this couch. It’s the perfect combination of style and comfort. I ordered it in the softest ultra suede, and it’s like lying on melted butter.
“I’m tired,” Phillip says, sliding down onto the new couch. “Moving is a lot of work.”
So what is the very first thing Phillip decides to do on our couch?
Does he go over, lie down, look at me all sexy, and say, baby, come see your MacDaddy, so we can properly break it in?
No.
Does he run his hand across the gorgeous fabric and say, wow, this is amazing?
No.
Does he comment on how cool it looks and what a statement it makes in the room?
No.
He flops on it with his shoes on, turns on the TV, and proceeds to fart on the new couch.
Yes, you heard me right.
He
farted
on
my
new gorgeous suede sofa!
Seriously, who does that?
Who spends good money on something and then farts on it?
Who does that?
“PHILLIP!? What the hell? Why did you just do that?”
“It must have slipped out,” he tells me with a little giggle.
“Phillip Mackenzie, that is our brand new couch!”
He dismisses my horror. “Chill, it’s not going to hurt it.”
“It’s a
brand new
couch!” I say again.
“And it was one stupid fart.”
“Well, it’s the couch's first day here. If it has feelings, it will be terribly offended.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
I change course because I can see I need to speak in terms he can understand. “Phillip, are you telling me if a skunk sprayed your car it wouldn’t hurt it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt it, no, it would just smell horrible.”
“Exactly my point! The fabrics in your car are permeable. They hold in scents. Just like our new couch. One of the reasons you liked it is it reminded you of a sports car, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“So do you want people to come sit on our gorgeous new couch in our brand new house and have it smell like skunks live here?”
“Jadyn, it didn’t even smell, it was just air.”
“No farting on the furniture, Phillip.”
He stares at me.
So I say, “I’m serious. I’m adding it to our vows.”
He rolls his eyes at me, but says, “Fine. I won’t fart on the couch.”
“Good.”
As I turn around to start putting wine glasses in the bar, I hear him mumble, “In front of you.”
Okay, so I get farts.
I understand that our bodies were designed to do this as a way to let air escape when it needs to.
And I lived with two boys. I get that boys fart. I get that boys think farts are always hilariously funny.
But I thought maybe this was something they just did in a group. Like when you fart alone, it’s not as funny. I seriously cannot think of a time that Phillip has ever farted in front of me when we’ve been alone.
And he chooses this as the way to start off in our new home?
Is this what happens after you get married? The magic is gone?
It’s stressful enough trying to get everything unpacked.
And to make matters worse, my pregnant best friend, Lori, decided—today of all days— that the baby in her belly can hear us, and she was encouraging—snarling/bitching at—us to watch our language all day.
I survived living with two boys without developing a farting habit, but when you hang out with people a lot, you tend to talk in a similar fashion. I think it’s kind of like picking up an accent when you move down South.
You can’t really help it.
So I happen to have a pretty colorful repertoire of curse words in my vocabulary. The F-word being the tip of the iceberg really. I have to be very mindful of what I say at work, but around the boys I let loose and talk like them. Lori was my best friend in college. She knows that I cuss. And even though she swears like a sailor, she’s officially joined the F-bomb Patrol.
She told me I couldn’t say the F-word in front of the baby.
And I was about ready to buy her a fucking badge.
Oh, shit. See. It just comes out.
And to make it worse, I said
shit.
Damn.
Oh my. See my point?
So I realize that if my swearing comes out naturally, maybe Phillip’s fart did, in fact, slip out accidentally. But I can’t let him get away with it.
I dive bomb on top of him and say, “MacDaddy is a bad boy.”
He gets a grin on his face, that naughty gleam in his eye, and says, “But, Princess, on the brand new couch?”
I reconsider that. “Uh, maybe not.”
He rolls us off the couch, causing me to let out a scream and then laugh. Phillip smothers my laughter with his lips and then, well, I let him be a little naughtier.
Thank goodness, the F-bomb Patrol is gone, because I’m pretty sure we would have gotten arrested for this.
January 23rd
Tiny little F-bomb.
Lori and Danny, our best friends and neighbors, are over this morning to help us finish unpacking.
I’m pretty sure Lori must have completed some covert training last night, because she seems to be off basic patrol and is now on the F-Bomb Special Forces.
I accidentally move the coffee table on my toe while trying to roll a rug out under it and, well, it really hurts. So, maybe I let a tiny little F-bomb fly.
Quietly.
Lori glares at me. “Jade, really?”
“Fine. I hurt my
freaking
toe.”
She smiles at me.
But later, when I hammer my finger—rather than a nail—into the wall, I may say the F-word again.
Because, ouch, it hurts.
Apparently, I am not skilled at home improvement.
Lori scowls at me and covers her stomach with her hand. “Seriously? Did we not just talk about this?”
“Lori, I just hammered my, uh,
fricking
finger into the wall, and it
fricking
hurts. Shouldn’t you be offering me some
fricking
sympathy?”
“Um,” she says, “I really don’t think fricking is appropriate either. Can you picture sending a child to preschool who’s saying fricking?”
No. I can’t really picture that, so I come up with a better idea. “Okay, then. How about I hammered my
effing
finger into the wall?”