Page 51 of Pregnant By the Playboy
“It was actually a brachiosaurus,” Julian clarifies, “but he insisted it was a bloopisaurus, and every time, I would correct him.”
“You were so annoying,” I mutter.
“Unfortunately,” Dad says, “General Bloopy got left out on the lawn one day, and when the kid across the street came over to mow the grass, he mowed right over General Bloopy.”
Wait a second. I haven’t heard this part of the story before.
“I told Vince that General Bloopy went to the spa for a week,” Mom says, “because it was very important for dinosaur health. But really, I was running around to toy stores across the city, trying to find the exact stuffed dinosaur. When I finally did, I almost wept with joy.”
My mind has been blown. I sit there slack-jawed.
“Oh, shit.” Cedric laughs. “He didn’t know.”
“Uh, of course I knew,” I say. “I figured it out. I was a smart kid.”
“You sure ate a lot of Play-Doh for a smart kid.”
“Remember when he ate the mushroom in the backyard?” Dad asks. “We had to call poison control.”
“Alright, everyone.” I hold up my hands. “I get it. I was a terror as a child—”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Mom says.
“It could have been worse,” Dad adds.
“—but I’ve heard enough stories for tonight,” I say.
“He’s struggling to get over the true story of General Bloopy.” Julian smirks.
Dammit, it’s my job to piss him off, not the other way around.
“Anyway,” Mom says, “I’m sure your child will be a perfectly-behaved angel...” She can’t finish her sentence. She’s already cracking up with laughter.
You know, I’m looking forward to thirty years from now, when I’ll be able to bug my own son or daughter about their childhood antics.
And I can’t help hoping Marissa will be there beside me.
Chapter 16
Marissa
My morning sickness has improved, but I still have cravings that come out of nowhere.
Today, I have a new craving: Italian sausages and bakeapple jam.
I know, I know, it’s a weird craving. They’re not things I’ve ever had in combination.
Bakeapples aren’t actually apples, but a kind of berry, also known as cloudberries. Pearl brought me some bakeapple jam after her trip to Newfoundland, and I really loved it. When I finished the jar, I found a specialty food store in Toronto where I could purchase it, and I pick some up about once a year.
I don’t have any at home right now, however.
And that specialty food store just so happens to be downtown, maybe a fifteen-minute walk from where Vince lives.
Funny coincidence, isn’t it?
It’s a Sunday morning, so I’m home. I text him, asking if he’ll get sausages and bakeapple jam for me.
Not even a minute later, he replies, saying he’ll be over in an hour.
