I'm relaxing on the couch watching Josh rant about the Mets to the bear. He's sitting on the floor next to me, massaging my feet and ankles.
I shake my head at him. You're truly pathetic, you know that?
I am not!
My grandmother always said, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck. You, Joshua Lyman, are a sappy and pathetic duck. I shift a bit to alleviate some of the pressure on my lower back.
Will the quoting of ancient Wisconsin proverbs increase over the next 10 weeks? The teasing note in his voice mitigates his groan.
If you want the sex to continue for the next 10 weeks, you'll stop mocking the wisdom of the women in my family, Duck-Boy. I tell him, luxuriating in his skilled fingers. It's nice to be home at a decent hour.
If you consider 11 p.m. to be a decent hour when you went to work at 7 a.m.
I'm not going to be able to do these 15 and 16-hour days much longer.
Tell me about it. I've barely had the energy to get up and run in the mornings.
Josh's dedication to crawling out of bed thirty minutes early to go jogging astounds me. But as long as he's doing something to keep his blood pressure under control, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sex constitutes exercise, right? Josh has ceased massaging my feet and moved closer to my face.
What? You don't want to get up in the morning? My hand drifts up his un-tucked shirt.
Dr. Williams told me it's supportive to exercise with your partner, he murmurs, drifting in to press a kiss to my lips.
You're very supportive, Joshua.
***
He's sprawled out on his stomach, drooling on the sheets. Normally, he'd be doing it on his pillow, but I appropriated it.
We finished watching Letterman after our little workout and then came to bed.
Thirty minutes of tossing and turning later, I have failed to find a remotely comfortable position.
If I'm going to suffer, Josh is going to suffer right along with me.
I still consider this his fault.
I whine louder this time and poke him in the shoulder.
Will you get the pillow?
Whatever snarky comeback he was going to utter dies when I give him the suffering pregnant woman' face.
Wordlessly, he clambers out from under the comforter and gets the pillow out of the closet.
Can we just keep it on the bed at this point? he asks, retaliating with his puppy dog' look. Or can I just shut up and rub your back?
I roll onto my side so Josh can stuff the corn-filled pillow under my belly for support. He then gets back into bed and starts kneading my lower back.
he murmurs into my ear.
I yawn. Thank you.
***
It took me three rings to differentiate the phone from the alarm clock.
Geoffrey Smith had a heart attack two hours ago.
I sit straight up in bed, all vestiges of sleeping vanishing. Supreme Court Justice Geoffrey Smith is an exercise fiend. The only thing he hates more than missing a workout is liberalism.
Get your ass in here, Josh.
I stare at the handset in shock then glance at the clock. Big, red numbers shine 4:30 a.m. back at me.
Looking at Donna's snoring form, I decide to leave her a note and let her get a couple more hours of sleep. It was 2:30 before she conked out; one of us should have more than two hours of rest.
Smith is dead before I get to the West Wing to confer with Leo and the President in the Oval Office.
Aside from the three of us, the building is eerily quiet.
What does the short list look like? Leo asks the instant I enter the office.
I wordless hand the list I hastily scribbled down to Bartlet.
This is what you've got? Leo takes the list from the President. Is this shaving cream?
Give me an hour and I can get you a more complete list.
You came up with six while you were shaving? Leo gawks at me. You can have the rest of the day to flesh out the list. Include your dream candidates, brief backgrounds, major problems the Senate is going to have You know the drill. Pull Donna off of whatever she's working on, have her help you.
Yes, sir. I stand and look at the President.
He nods at me and I head for my office to get started.
Bartlet calls as I reach the door.
I finished going over your reorganization plan for the Homeland Security Office. Excellent work. When this is over, you and I need to sit down and talk about some things.
Thank you, sir.
I turned in the HSO plan over a month ago. It was over 500 pages long and took Debbie a solid week to type and proof. Which is probably why it took the President a month to read it.
I'm finally feeling confident on National Security issues. Nancy McNally and the guys at NSA and CIA have been very patient getting me up to speed over the past eight weeks.
***
This is going to be one of those days.
How do I know?
Primary indicator: when Josh's bear doing a tap dance on my bladder got me up at 5:45, I found the I got called in' note taped to the mirror in the bathroom.
Secondary indicator: when I get to work the dregs in the coffeepot are warm. Josh has been through at least a pot already and it's only 6:30.
Flashing red beacon: the door to Josh's office is shut.
I pick the schedules off our assistants' desks. I still go over Josh's with him to keep myself in the loop.
My day is supposed to be spent researching the impact of the Clean Air Act on the rate of asthma in Los Angeles. Josh's day includes meetings with the Senate Foreign Relations chairman and the House Intelligence Committee leadership and
Oh, great.
He has a one o'clock appointment with his cardiologist. And a physical.
He's supposed to go twice a year, once in January and again in June. This is the January appointment he's been ducking for months.
I'm going to need reinforcements on this, I can tell already.
Picking up my phone, I leave a message on Lily's voicemail for the First Lady.
Back-up taken care of, I knock twice on our adjoining door and open it.
Good God!
Josh's office is a disaster area.
More so than normal.
Justice Smith had a massive myocardial infarction and died at 5 o'clock this morning. Josh doesn't even look up from the book his nose is buried in.
Who's on the short list? I close the door and relocate a stack of crap so I can sit down.
He reaches over and nudges a legal pad towards me.
These are judges I've never even heard of. I survey the list, trying to remember who was in the last group of candidates.
Get familiar with them. The President wants you and I to do the legwork.
What about Debbie? Josh's new assistant, Chris is a lawyer, obviously Josh will bring him in, but Debbie is another story. And the two of them hate each other.
It's fun to watch and even more fun when Josh has to referee.
Well, fun in a watch Josh learn to deal with sibling rivalry' kind of way.
The only thing our two assistants have in common is they're terrified of Josh.
Bring her in to help on the bio research. She and Chris are just going to have to get over each other.
You have a doctor's appointment today, too. Stress test, physical, the whole nine-yards, I remind him.
Have Chris reschedule it.
He looks at me like I've grown a second head.
Two reasons, I stand up and plant myself in front of his desk. First, you've been avoiding this since January. You avoid it any more and it'll be time for your June visit. Second, what would you say if I told you I wasn't going to my OB appointment tomorrow?
The closer I get to having this kid, the better I can bring the guilt.
I'd say I haven't been avoiding it. I missed it once, in January, because the President sent me to London. Between the doc's schedule and mine, this was the first date we could reschedule. Then I'd say everything is fine, I'm alive aren't I?
I don't get to respond because the office door flies open and my back-up appears like an avenging Valkyrie.
Joshua Lyman, explain to me how Geoffrey Smith died this morning?
I hear Josh gulp. Okay, okay. I'll go.
Dr. Bartlet continues to stand in the doorway with her arms crossed.
If he think my blood pressure is out of line, I'll talk to him about medication for it, Josh concedes.
The argument over his blood pressure has been raging for years. I try to stay out of it, aside from making sure he goes to his appointments, but I do keep tabs on it. He doesn't know I know the First Lady browbeat him into starting an aspirin regimen after he broke his leg last year.
You'll do more than talk, Abbey steps into the office and slams the door shut.
It isn't just borderline high blood pressure, Josh, she lowers her voice. You're at risk forÉ
Pulmonary hypertension. I know, Josh finishes bitterly, looking Mrs. B. in the eye.
She nods and leaves without saying another word.
Why is this the first I'm hearing about pulmonary hypertension? I'm not even sure exactly what it is, but I don't remember it ever coming up before and it sounds ominous.
***
Because I don't have it, I reply gently, trying to calm my wife down before she can get worked up.
It sounds like Dr. Bartlet thinks you might. Donna looks like she might start crying.
I'm at risk for it. Because of the I gesture to my chest.
I'm going along, she says empathetically.
Will you do my prostate exam? I joke, trying to take her mind off the doom and gloom possibilities.
Shaking her head, Donna gets out of her chair and smacks me with a stack of files.
Another knock on my door ends the spousal abuse.
Mr. Lyman? Debbie opens the door a crack. Chris is here.
I left a note I needed to speak to both of them, together.
Why is she scared of me? I mutter, pulling myself out of the chair.
Election night.
Election night?
Donna shrugs. I'm not completely sure which particular incident it was, but it might have been when you threatened to disembowel Doug with a straw.
***
At 9:30 I shove a bagel under Josh's nose. Eat. Now.
Not hungry.
5 years of dealing with my husband's juvenile behavior is the best preparation for motherhood I could dream of.
You can't have anything for three hours before your stress test. Eat the bagel, I order.
Leaving Josh to his research, I head to the bullpen and find our two assistants glaring at one another.
Not bothering to contemplate what could have happened between them in the sixty seconds I was in Josh's office, I corner them both and reiterate the smack-down Josh laid down earlier.
I have no idea what going on here. Under any other circumstances, I'd bother to care. You are both about to discover the nomination process is a long and painful road to travel. You both need to on board.
The young woman flinches when Josh bellows her name.
***
Okay, Debbie and Chris are setting up a room in the basement. Either we'll have a workspace when we get back or two dead assistants. Let's go, Donna breezes into my office.
Evidently, it's time to leave for my doctor's appointment.
If we find out I'm going to live, we're locking the doors when we get back and having celebratory sex on the desk, I grumble, taking my overcoat from Donna.
If we find out your blood pressure is normal, she qualifies, looping her arm through mine.
***
Josh's cardiologist, Dr. Bryan Mitchell, is a former colleague of the First Lady's. He makes a special exception and functions as Josh's regular doctor as well.
I hover while the technicians and nurses put Josh through his paces.
They do the prostate and testicular exams last.
I step out of the room for those.
Spongebob, Gary and Patrick and I share a special relationship. Seeing them manhandled by a stranger doesn't appeal to me at all.
When I go back in, Josh looks decidedly uncomfortable, but he's dressed.
What's the verdict? he asks.
Dr. Mitchell flips through the paperwork they've amassed today.
Everything looks pretty good. Your labs will be back in a week or so, but I don't see anything to be concerned about. You've lost five pounds since last June, your muscle tone looks great, the EKG is normal, he pauses and smiles at me. I get the impression you aren't having any sexual problems.
Blood pressure? Josh smirks.
127 over 78. Which is down from 136 over 82 in June. Whatever you've been doing, keep it up.
The smirk widens. Lots of exercise.
I know you took up running a couple of years ago. What else are you doing? the doctor asks casually.
Sex. Lots of sex, Josh states emphatically, shining smirk in my direction.
Get out of here and stop embarrassing your wife, Dr. Mitchell laughs.
***
I prompt once we're in the Mustang heading back to work.
Donna gives me an innocent look.
My reward? Your office or mine?
We are not going back to the office and exercising, Donna shoots me down. You promised Leo no sex in the White House, remember?
Damn, of all the times for her to remember that.
Wanna go home for a quickie? I offer.
Nope. You, pathetic Duck-Boy, are just going to have to spend the rest of the day at work fantasizing about doing your pregnant wife on your desk.
But, we need to keep in shape and we need to keep practicing. You know, because we promised the bear a cub.
For a guy with only a passing familiarity with wildlife, I'm growing concerned with your tendency to refer to our unborn as baby animals, Donna chuckles. And can I have this one before you start planning for the next one?
***
What are you guys doing this weekend? Sam is stalking me in the lobby.
I have no desire to reveal my weekend plans to anyone in this building who might spread the rumor I'm a sap. It took way too much time and energy to teach CJ and Sam a lesson.
Not that it wasn't worth it.
They've both avoided me like the plague for almost a month. The ass-chewing I got from the President about the misappropriation of government resources' was more humorous than it was intimidating.
I ask suspiciously, ushering him past the cowering pair of assistants into my office.
Sam drops onto the sofa. I liberated it from CJ right after the payback incident, so Donna would have a place to lie down if she was tired. Leo sent me to remind you what this weekend is.
Yes, I sent my mother AND Donna's mother cards already, I lean back in my chair.
I got the impression those weren't the mothers he was reminding you about.
Leo actually thought I'd forget to do something for Donna? I ask incredulously.
Well, we sort of took a vote and we all thought you'd forget. Leo just agreed to take the fall, Sam admits.
I raise my eyebrows at him. Do I need to call the kids over at CIA?
My best friend is suddenly very defensive. You aren't the most perceptive guy in the world, Josh. It's a valid concern given your track record.
I'm taking her paint shopping, I reply proudly.
I've given this a lot of thought and decided the best Mothers' Day gift I can give my 7-months pregnant wife is to start getting the nursery ready.
Step one is going to be painting the spare bedroom for the second time in a year. Steel gray just isn't an infant friendly color.
Saturday morning will be a trip to wherever Donna wants to buy paint. Paint I will apply on Saturday afternoon. After the fine folks from Two Men and a Truck come get the stuff currently in the room and relocate it to a storage facility I rented last week.
Since Donna can't be around paint fumes, I've arranged for her to go baby furniture shopping with Abbey Bartlet.
Sunday, I'm making breakfast and then we can go buy whatever she picked out on Saturday.
Sam doesn't think much of my plan.
Paint shopping? he asks skeptically, Are you nuts?
Get out, I laugh, waving him out of my office. You can report back to the group I have it covered. If they don't believe you, refer them to the First Lady.
You want help? he offers. I'm not doing anything tomorrow and I think CJ and Donna would feel better if you had proper supervision.
Shouldn't you be doing something with Rachelle?
Try as Toby and I might, we have been unsuccessful in ridding him of that unfortunate appendage.
We broke up, Sam admits. She fell for the new personal trainer at the gym where she teaches aerobics.
Great, half the job took care of itself. Now all we need is to find him someone the rest of us like.
***
I purr, kissing his bare shoulder in an attempt to wake him up.
He kicked me out of the West Wing at 8 o'clock last night, telling me I should get some sleep since I have an OB appointment in the morning.
I was asleep by the time he got home.
I'm not asleep now.
Mostly because it's 5 a.m. and his alarm clock just went off.
he mutters sleepily into the mattress.
I kiss another spot on his shoulder. It's time for your morning workout.
Josh rolls onto his back and opens his eyes in confusion.
I end that by lowering my head and giving Spongebob a kiss good morning.
He groans in pleasure and runs his hand up my body to my breast. Squeezing it firmly, he draws a gasp from my throat.
What day is it? Josh asks, moving his other hand to my unattended breast.
I reply, straddling his body and trying in vain lean down and kiss the base of his throat.
Something I was fully capable of doing two days ago.
***
Even half-asleep, I notice Donna is unable to reach what she wants in her current position.
Evidently, something shifted overnight, because I don't remember her being well whale-like, yesterday.
I try sitting up, but this isn't going to work either. Her stomach is just too awkward between us.
Good, maybe she's gained some damn weight.
Before she can let the hormones take over, I slip my fingers between us. Lie on your side, I suggest, stroking her clit slowly.
We curl our bodies together and I reach my hand over her hip, continuing to stroke her.
Donna's not incredibly fond of this position because she can't touch me.
I find her free hand with mine and guide it to her breasts and together we massage their fullness. Her other hand joins the one I've dedicated to her climax and I feel both of them clench in time to her cries.
Squarepants is wet and inviting from Donna's orgasm. Raising her leg, I penetrate deeply and achieve my own orgasm within moments.
***
Josh regains his breath and pulls himself from my body.
I'm going to go run, he says, kissing my belly button when I roll onto my back. You can have the bathroom first, since you're awake.
You're going to help me up, right?
I seem to have the grace of a beached whale this morning.
He pulls me out of bed and heads outside.
I spend fifteen minutes in front of the bathroom mirror examining the new shape of my body.
I really can't complain. Jennifer, one of the administrative assistants in the East Wing, was this size in her fifth month.
I've only got ten weeks to go.
I also haven't had bad skin or spotting or severe cravings; my husband still thinks I'm sexy; I've only gained 12 poundsÉ I'm just the size of a whale this morning.
Explain this to me, because I don't understand how 12 pounds translates into whale proportions.
***
Good morning, Dr. Williams doesn't look happy.
We both look like we've been sent to the principal's office: Donna is sitting on the exam table, examining the front closure tie of her paper gown and I'm suddenly fascinated by the fetal growth chart on the wall.
Josh, didn't I put you in charge of making sure Donna eats?
I do, I protest. I make sure the woman eats five times a day at least.
And good, healthy food, too.
He does, Donna nods her agreement.
Help me understand how you've lost a pound in the past two weeks?
She lost a pound?
Dr. Williams sighs at the looks of confusion Donna and I are both sporting. How many hours are you working?
Donna shrugs. 15 or so. I go home when I'm tired and I take a nap every day. Josh got me a couch.
I stole it from CJ, I nod proudly.
8 hours a day, the doctor orders, sternly. And the nap.
My wife looks horrified at the prospect of only working 8 hours a day.
The baby seems to be growing normally. Estimated fetal weight right now is 3 pounds, which is low, but developmentally I think we're okay. Up your caloric intake and decrease your stress levels, Donna.
***
Saturday morning, after two days of working 9 to 5, I wake up refreshed and hungry to the smell ofÉ
Blueberry pancakes?
Josh has turned into the Iron Chef. He made apple cinnamon muffins yesterday morning, packed my lunch and left me dinner in the fridge.
The night before he made some sort of baked chicken thing.
He's taking the food and rest issues very seriously.
Fortunately, he can work from home right now, so I'm not lonely at night.
I'm unable to get out of bed by myself anymore and I can no longer reach my feet.
He stands in the doorway to the bedroom and smirks. Problems, Donnatella?
You did this to me, I accuse, holding my arms up for him.
You were the instigator, he points out, prying me into a sitting position then kneeling between my knees.
He presses a kiss to my stomach, resting his hands on either side. Good morning, little bear. How do blueberry pancakes sound this morning?
I'm rewarded with a series of fetal kicks to my bladder.
Must pee! Now! I say, standing up quickly and bolting into the bathroom.
***
the kid at the paint counter at Lowe's gawks at the paint chip Donna picked out before she dashed off to the bathroom for the fourth time today.
It isn't a subtle, creamy yellow either. It's a bright, sunshine yellow. Call it a Big-Bird sort of yellow.
I shrug. I didn't get an actual say, I'm just the manual labor. I need two gallons in the glossiest, most child-friendly stuff you've got.
***
Dr. Bartlet arrives promptly at eleven to pick me up.
Don't let her get too far from a bathroom, Josh admonishes, walking us down to the street.
10 more weeks of constant peeing is going to get old.
It isn't even like I have to go, I just feel like I do.
How does antique shopping sound? the First Lady asks after we climb into the SUV.
I haven't given a great deal of thought to baby furniture, to be perfectly honest. Josh sprung this whole thing on me last night. I had decided the color and motif I want for the nursery, but furniture slipped my mind.
It sounds fine, ma'am, I agree.
Donna, it's going to be a long afternoon if you insist on calling me ma'am.
There's just a part of my brain that refuses to call the First Lady by her name. I'll try, ma'am.
You'll understand soon enough, Mrs. Lyman, I promise, Abbey tells me cryptically. For now, however, are you tired of being pregnant, yet?
I chuckle a bit. Believe it or not, no. Outside of the near constant need to use the restroom, I'm actually enjoying it. Don't tell Josh, though.
Really? By the time I was seven month's pregnant with my first, I was swearing Elizabeth was going to be an only child.
Give me a week or two, I might change my mind. I answer, after a particularly painful poke in the ribs.
***
We should tape the baseboards. Sam and I are standing in the middle of the empty spare bedroom, now nursery.
What about the floor? I look up at the ceiling, it needs to be painted as well.
Drop cloths.
***
Oh, Donna, come here! Abbey calls from the other side of the third antique store we've stopped at.
Nothing I've seen has even piqued my interest.
Dr. Bartlet is standing next to an obviously handmade, rosewood cradle that must be 200 years old. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It's perfect, I gush, picking up the tag to check the price. Gushing becomes gulping. It's staying.
It wouldn't be practical, I decide reluctantly. The baby will grow out of it in six months and then we'll still need a crib.
Donna, these are the kind of things that become family heirlooms. Your great-great-great grandchildren will be using it for their children.
Josh will freak. We just bought a new car and the farm in Wisconsin
The combination of which put a serious dent in his long-term financial planning. Last month, he not so subtly informed me we're back to living on our government salaries.
Abbey snorts. Then consider it a gift from Jed and I.
Dr. Bartlet, I start to object but she cuts me off.
No arguments.
***
Not bad, Sam is turning circles in the middle of the room trying to decide if we missed any thing. What is she going to do on the walls?
I have no idea, I hand him a beer and open the window to let the paint fumes dissipate. Can you believe this?
I'm having a kid. It's almost like it hits me for the first time.
I'm going to be somebody's dad.
Oh, God.
I can't do this.
Sam has a funny look on his face.
You're going to be a great dad, he tells me earnestly.
You think? I'm not so sure. Patience and unselfishness are not my strongest personality traits.
***
The store's owner shows us a crib and rocking chair to go with the cradle. They aren't nearly as old, but were handcrafted to match it.
My husband is a carpenter, she mentions. He'd probably be willing to build any other accessories you would need.
In the end, we take the cradle and I promise to bring Josh back tomorrow to look at the other pieces. They aren't nearly as expensive, but I want to let him have a say.
***
Sam and I are watching baseball on TV when Donna and Dr. Bartlet get back. Two Secret Service agents follow them in carrying a cradle.
Whoa, back the truck up.
She was supposed to go look today.
Not buy.
There was to be no buying today.
I get off the sofa and straggle into the nursery behind them.
It's an antique and it is beautiful. It even fits in the room like it was meant to be, butÉ
Close your mouth, Joshua. It's a gift. Dr. Bartlet shares a laughing look with Donna.
A gift? I'm confused.
From Jed and I. For everything you and Donna have given up for us. She pats my arm and smiles at me.
It must have cost a fortune.
Ma'am, this is too much. I appreciate it, without question, but you didn't have to
Donna gives me the shut up now' look.
Thank you very much, I finish.
***
Standing in the nursery, gently rocking the cradle back and forth, I can't help but envision what life is going to be like in a couple of months, when I'm standing here rocking my baby to sleep.
I wasn't lying when I told the First Lady I was enjoying pregnancy. I have mixed emotions right now though. On one hand, I can't wait to hold this child in my arms and on the other the thought of giving birth leaves me feeling a bit empty inside.
Hey, babe? Josh calls from the living room. The show is on!
One of the bonuses to not working ninety hours a week is I can actually watch television once in a while. I found this great show to help educate Josh on the realities of birth.
A Baby Story on The Learning Channel.
They're running a Mother's Day marathon starting tonight.
Okay, so we really just watch it to mock people who are willing to put the birth of their child on television, but we're hopelessly addicted.
Josh is stretched out on the couch with the corn pillow already waiting for me. I lie down next to him and get comfortable. He automatically reaches around to gently massage my stomach.
Okay, that woman is huge. And I mean she was large before she was pregnant with twins.
Yeah, she does sort of waddle, doesn't she? Josh snickers.
I ask innocently. Sometimes, you've just got to keep your man on his toes.
Do I waddle?
Absolutely not, he replies without hesitation.
I smile at his thoughtfulness.
You're way past waddling.