Hands on my hips, I give my mischievous cat a stern look. “Beaver, I’m not kidding. I’m not doing one of those ‘meet the inmate’ interviews from behind bars. Now, give it back.”
It takes some minor wrestling, along with him trying to make another run for it, before I finally manage to scoop him against my belly and gently tug the watch out of his mouth. He exits my suite, meowing sadly and giving me the kind of wounded look Shakespeare wrote about.
Great. I know I’ll be paying for this with extra cuddles and treats for the next week.
“What did he steal this time?” Sarina’s voice carries from down the hall, her footsteps approaching. She must have heard me talking to my pickpocket cat.
“Oh, only a watch that costs more than my car.”
I rub the side of my belly, feeling a tightness there. Last week I experienced what are known as Braxton Hicks contractions, or “practice contractions”. For a while, I thought I was going into labor, but after I drank something and walked around, they eased on their own.
This feeling, like my uterus is twisting, sort of feels the same, maybe slightly sharper, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I brush my hand over my belly, taking in a long breath. I have another week left; I can’t jump to the conclusion that I’m going into labor every time I feel a stitch.
Both Sarina and Piper appear at my door, taking in the scene of me holding the expensive timepiece while trying not to topple over.
“Jesus,” Piper says, shaking her head before reaching for the watch. “I think that’s the watch my last client was wearing. At this point, that cat of yours should have a criminal record and a dedicated parole officer.”
Sarina winces. “How the hell did that menace take it off him?”
“God only knows,” I say dryly, handing the watch to Piper. “I should have named him David Blaine or Houdini; his talents defy explanation.”
The tightness in my belly catches me off-guard again. It’s more insistent this time, and I inhale another sharp breath, fisting the back of the salon chair.Okay, that felt a lot stronger than the Braxton Hicks from last week. Or maybe it’s the same, and I’m not remembering correctly?
“Neesh,” Sarina gasps, placing a hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off. “Probably another Braxton Hicks. That, or all the stress from running this criminal feline empire.”
“Maybe sit down,” Piper says, eyeing my belly with concern. “You’re close enough to the due date that it could be a real contraction.”
“I doubt it,” I argue. “The doctor said I wasn’t dilated at all when Patton and I went for my checkup two days ago. It’s my last day before maternity leave; I’ll be out of here in a few hours, anyway.”
“Still—”
But Piper is cut off when Joshua knocks on my door. “Hey, Nisha. Your next appointment is here. Want me to bring him back?”
“Yup, I’m all ready for him,” I answer, getting the last of my tools arranged in size order.
Okay, so maybe I’ve also fluffed my throw pillows a few times over the past week and rearranged the magazines on the coffee table every time I’ve passed them. But at least I haven’t cleaned every cupboard or rewashed baby clothes for thethirdtime like I’ve wanted to.
Though, I did arrange them by color, size, and cuteness factor . . .
I can see the old obsessive, control-driven version of myself that I’d tamed over the past few months trying to poke her head through. And I’m proud to say, aside from letting her slip in here and there, akin to letting a little air out of an over-inflated tire, I have kept her mostly at bay.
So what’s the reason she’s even trying to claw back in?
Because I’m terrified.
Terrified of giving birth, terrified of becoming a mother, and terrified that I’ll screw it all up. Fear has always had a way of amplifying my normally manageable quirks into full-blown, color-coded and alphabetized antics. And right now, that fear of the unknown is as loud as a bullhorn inside a quiet church.
But I keep telling myself the same thing—once our little starlight is here, once we get to know each other and have a routine, those fears will subside. At least that’s what I’ve been told through all the books and online forums I’ve read.
“Nisha?” The worry in Sarina’s voice has me glancing over while Joshua goes to fetch my next client. “Want me to call Patton?”
“And tell him what? That I’m having cramps? If they turn into full contractions, which they likely won’t, I’ll call him. I’ll be fine enough to get through one appointment, I promise.”
My sister and best friend look at each other, wondering if they should argue, before they reluctantly leave my suite.
It’ll be okay. These cramps are just a way of preparing my body for the real thing. I just need to breathe.
