Hot Peppers

This is a funny, cute story about having Liesel. It's fictionalized, as you will be able to tell, but it's basically what happened. Here is the first part!

 Marit loved to climb, just like this little girl

“Mom, where’s my blue shirt?” Daniel calls.

“Bye, Honey,” my husband, Gary, says and kisses me on the cheek on his way out to work.

I hardly notice. I grab Marit from the counter and place her onto her sturdy two-year-old feet, then hurry to the laundry room, where I had seen Daniel’s shirt in the pile of clean clothes waiting to be folded. I fish it out from under heaps of blue jeans and yell, “It’s right here!”

“Mom, I’ll be late,” Marja complains.

“Let’s go then,” I say. “Daniel, take care of Marit until I get back.”

“Okay Mom,” Daniel says and pours Cheerios into a bowl to keep Marit busy. I wrap my coat around my pregnant belly and leave to start the car.

When I get back from dropping Marja off at the middle school, Daniel is ready to go. 

“Bye, Mom,” he says and leaves for the nearby elementary school.

Marit sits on the kitchen table, surrounded by Cheerios. I put her back into her high chair, and that is when it happens.

A warm gush runs down my legs. Definitely not a normal feeling when you’re five months pregnant. My heart jumps like a startled frog, and my stomach flips. This doesn’t bode well.

Marit is well ensconced in her chair, stuffing Cheerios into her mouth with her pudgy fists. I hurry to the bathroom. When I inspect my panties, I feel faint. A large red stain announces another impending miscarriage. 

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, holding back tears. I don’t want to go through this again. This child is alive and kicking, and we already have a relationship. She, or he, agreeable to my lifestyle, exercises in the early mornings, and at night we both sleep. I love this child already. I can’t give it up, too.

I pull myself together, put on fresh underwear, and insert a pad. Then I go to the living room and turn on the TV. 

Marit bangs on her tray with her bowl, calling, “Mommy, mommy.”

I gather her from her chair. “Let’s watch Sesame Street,” I suggest.

“Sesame teet,” she says and toddles into the living room.

I take one look at the messy kitchen table, shake my head, and leave the mess to itself. It can wait. My traitorous body is more important right now.

I lower myself onto the sofa. Marit hunkers on the floor in front of the TV. I close my eyes. Maybe the bleeding will go away again. In the meantime, though, I need bed rest, and that seems impossible. I sigh. At least for now I’m not going to move, at all. I grab the phone from the side table, consider calling the doctor, but instead decide on Sylvia. Luckily she is home.

”Could you do me a really big favor?” I ask. “Could you come and get Marit until Daniel comes home from school?”

“Sure. What’s the matter?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.” 

“Be right there.” 

Ten minutes later she knocks on my door. 

“Come in,” I yell from the sofa. 

Sesame Street is over and Marit, looking for something else to do, pulls herself onto the living room table. I sigh. That child hates to be on the floor. She always has to be up high somewhere. At least she hadn’t chosen the messy kitchen table.

Sylvia comes into the living room, her own two-year-old hoisted on her hip.

She plops little Mike on the floor, and scoops Marit from the table. “What is the matter, Sonja?”  

“I’m bleeding again. Seems like I’m not meant to have another baby.” 

The unborn child chooses that moment to give me a reassuring kick in the bladder. I gasp.

“It’s that bad?” Sylvia says, alarm widening her eyes.

I manage a weak smile. “That wasn’t a pain. The baby kicked me in the bladder, and I have to pee.”

“What symptoms do you have?”

“I started bleeding again. Just like last year. I’m so tired of miscarrying. If I could keep this one, I’d be so happy. Maybe I’d forget last year and the two miscarriages between Daniel and Marit.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” Sylvia says and shakes her head.

“I like being a mom. I always wanted lots of kids.” I sigh. “I guess it’s just not meant to be.”

“Stay on the sofa,” Sylvia says. “I’ll clean up your breakfast dishes. If you need anything, yell.” She turns toward the kitchen, hesitates, and turns back. “And, for your baby’s sake, don’t get up. If these two need anything, let me know, hear?”

“Okay,” I answer meekly. “Can you pull out the toy box from behind the TV? The least I can do is watch them play.”

By now Mike is chasing Marit around the table. Both kids are squealing with delight.

“Good idea,” Sylvia says, and pulls it out.

Mike drops onto his diaper in front of the box, but Marit, trying to climb on top, pulls it over. Toys scatter all over the carpet and a red ball rolls in front of the TV. Mike scrambles after it, and Marit, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls the rest of the toys out of the box, turns it upside down, and finally succeeds in climbing on top.