Love, Honor, and Obey by Elizabeth Bastos

by Elizabeth Bastos

Snowbound

The “Blizzard of 2005” dumped 28 inches of snow on my font stairs. It was like that up and down the street, people shoveling their way out of their houses, shoving the snow off their completely covered cars, busy as ants. Along came a fire truck and out came a dozen strong men to uncover the hydrants. Happy dogs barked and bit at the snowdrifts.

  I pulled on my snow pants and hat.
  “No,” Javier said, blocking the door. “The pregnant do not have to shovel. The pregnant will go upstairs and roost on the couch and watch television.”
  “You need my help,” I said, peering down the street. “Look at all this. The firemen are out.”

Once I decide that my help is required there is no use dissuading me. Never mind I’m tired. I’m eight months pregnant and out of breath, but never mind. Duty calls. I’m needed. So I picked up a shovel, waddled down the icy stairs, and proceeded to “help”—shoveling wimpily, barely scraping the surface snow, but feeling useful, like I was making a contribution by trying.

  Well of course, I slipped and fell on my back. The sky was gray; the blah color of my office computer and it had begun to snow again. Javier’s concerned face came immediately into view. “Are you alright?” He said. “Can you get up?”
  “No.”
  “Let me help you.”
  “No!” I shrieked, struggling, whale-like, and with each movement beaching myself more desperately into the snow bank. Javier watched calmly. “Are you digging a hole?”

Pregnancy is a vulnerable time. You’re big, ungainly, you don’t have a waistline and when you fall, you roll around on the ground like a turtle. You cry a lot. You realize you really aren’t an island, an independent woman who can do as she damn well pleases. You’re a pod, full of water and life and it’s a big job, bringing another being into the world. You need other people’s help. I reluctantly put out my flipper and Javier pulled me up. “I’m going to eat Cheese Doodles and cry on the couch,” I said, brushing the snow off my expanded butt.
“Honey, that sounds great.” He said. “You go do that.”

What’s in a Name?

Maybe you think giving a baby a name is no big deal, as I did when friends of mine who were pregnant stayed up late, sweated, and argued with their mothers over the spelling of Benjamin. The Hebrew way: Binyamin? Maybe update it? Was Benjahmyn too funky? Who cares, I said. Please! A name is a name! Just pick one.

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Bastos Bio:

Elizabeth Miller Bastos, a displaced Pittsburgher, currently lives in Cambridge, MA with her husband Javier and an assortment of fish and plants. She daylights as a mid-level fundraising executive and moonlights as a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's, The Appalachian Mountain Club Magazine, JewishHistory.com, Poetism.com and in Inkwell Magazine. She can be reached at seapup_3 [at] juno [dot]com.