Knocked Up: Confessions of an Unlikely Mother-to-be

Overview

Rebecca Eckler is a popular newspaper columnist who lives the fabulous life and gets paid to write about it. So when a tipsy romp with her fiancé on the night of their lavish engagement party leaves her unexpectedly expecting, she is utterly at a loss. How will a woman who loves nothing more than a night out on the town sipping cocktails with her fellow party girls survive the pregnant life?

Knocked Up is the witty, engaging and refreshingly frank chronicle of a modern woman’s ...

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2004 Paperback New Has remainder mark. () Knocked Up may be a pregnancy journal, but the body part deemed most important by author Rebecca Eckler is certainly not the uterus. ... All orders are shipped by kbooks every business day. Read more Show Less

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Overview

Rebecca Eckler is a popular newspaper columnist who lives the fabulous life and gets paid to write about it. So when a tipsy romp with her fiancé on the night of their lavish engagement party leaves her unexpectedly expecting, she is utterly at a loss. How will a woman who loves nothing more than a night out on the town sipping cocktails with her fellow party girls survive the pregnant life?

Knocked Up is the witty, engaging and refreshingly frank chronicle of a modern woman’s journey into motherhood. We follow Eckler from the first trimester (a.k.a. the longest three months of her life), through the “fat months” of the second trimester, on to the "even fatter months" of the third. Flipping the pages of this Bridget-Jones-style diary, we share in Eckler’ s discovery of prenatal vitamins and nursing bras, ultrasounds and obstetricians. And we experience her growing horror at the physical symptoms of pregnancy: all-day “morning” sickness, fatigue, varicose veins, and cravings. And the weight gain, oh the weight gain. Who knew the day would come when she could no longer put on her own socks?

Along for the ride is a cast of characters as comical as any met in fiction. There’s the Sexy Young Intern, a Sophia Loren look-a-like with her skinny eyes set on Eckler’s job; the glamorous friends who continue to drink Manhattans, while Eckler sips Perrier; and the Cute Single Man who knows just when she needs a carton of ice cream or a game of Scrabble. And then there’s the fiancé, living in another city, who, thanks to the miracle of long-distance phone lines, appreciates better than anybody the highs and lows of the hormonal rollercoaster pregnant Eckler is on.

Lighthearted, intimate, and very funny, Knocked Up is the diary of a modern mother-to-be determined not to let pregnancy and motherhood change her life. Not. One. Little. Bit.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385660372
  • Publisher: Doubleday Canada
  • Publication date: 5/4/2004
  • Pages: 304
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.10 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Rebecca Eckler is one of Canada's most well-known journalists. She has been a columnist with the National Post, Canada's national newspaper, for five years, including a stint as a New York-based columnist and feature writer. Her work has also appeared in such publications as Elle, Fashion, Lifestyles, Canadian House and Home and Mademoiselle. She was the host of the television show Modern Manners, and has appeared on CTV and CBC television, and on Global television as a reporter, along with numerous stints on radio shows across Canada and the United States.
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Read an Excerpt

The First Trimester

(a.k.a. The Longest Three Months of My Life)

Sunday, January 26

6:45 a.m.
OH SHIT!

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?

6:46 a.m.
I’m awake, right? I’m conscious, right? I don’t feel like myself. Something has changed.

6:47 a.m.
OH MY GOD! The elastic waistband of these boxer shorts can’t already be tighter. This cannot be happening. To me. Of all people. Oh God . . . I just felt something moving.

6:59 a.m.
Oh God, I HAVE THE FEAR!

I can’t believe that I . . . that we . . . that he . . . in me.

We did, right?

SHIT!

7:00 a.m.
It’s way too early to be so awake on a Sunday. I’m going to sneak out of bed and quietly go to the kitchen and reheat what’s left of yesterday’s midafternoon Starbucks non-fat vanilla latte in the microwave. I need caffeine. There’s no way I can fall back to sleep now. I need to make the Fear Phone Call right away. I desperately need to talk to Lena. But the fiancé is still sleeping, or pretending to still be asleep. How can he possibly be sleeping at a time like this? Man, it must be nice to be a man. Men can sleep through anything. It’s freaking annoying. I can’t let the fiancé know that I’m f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out. The fiancé can’t – under any circumstances – overhear the Fear Conversation I need to have with Lena, as soon as possible. I mean immediately. If the fiancé knew what Lena and I really talk about, he would never want anything to do with me – or any other woman – ever again. There is already a good chance that the fiancé already wants nothing to do with me after last night, and I’ve probably turned him off women forever.

If I were a good person, I would go out and buy the fiancé bagels or something. I am a bad, bad person. Even if the fiancé wasn’t here, it’s too early to call Lena anyway. When I last remember seeing her, it was two in the morning and she was breakdancing on the dance floor, thrusting her pelvis up toward the ceiling. She didn’t look bad either, considering she was a thirty-eight-year-old drunken white girl dancing to Eminem. She, too, will have The Fear this morning and will be sleeping off her hangover until at least noon. Which is what I’d be doing too if The Fear wasn’t so devastating and hadn’t woken me up like a slap in the face so freaking early. I think I’m hyperventilating.

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?
Shit, shit, shit . . .

The Fear is what happens when vague memories of drunken stupidity instantly become clear as crystal. The only thing to do when the sheer terror of The Fear hits is to go back to bed, bury your head under the comforter, and never, ever leave your house again. Either that or make the Fear Call to your closest girlfriend to try to piece together the puzzle of fogginess by detailing what little you both can remember from the previous night. You can really only stay in bed for so long, no matter how mortified you are.

The Fear Phone Call, the morning after a night of way too much drinking, can last hours. The Fear Phone Call always, always begins with “Oh God, I have The Fear” and carries on with much laughter, gossip, and good-natured (and a lot of not-so-good-natured) bitchiness. It always ends with promises to “never, ever drink that much again.”

If this was a typical morning after with The Fear and the fiancé wasn’t asleep – or pretending to still be asleep – in the next room, I would tell Lena how I flirted with my boss, that one of my married colleagues came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and whispered in my ear, “Just because you’re engaged now doesn’t mean we can’t get together, right?” I would tell Lena how I think I remember yelling at a drunken, sloppy guest for spilling her entire drink down the back of my $900 dress so that the material clung to my skin, like a bad date you’re trying to lose in a crowd. Or was that me who spilled my drink? In any case, all of that did happen at the party last night. But all of that seems kind of innocuous, considering what happened after the fiancé and I somehow managed to make it back to my apartment. How did we get back?

Did I . . . did we . . . did he . . . in me?

Lena would tell me how she kissed a man whose name she never knew, and that she doesn’t remember how or what time she got home – which is always what happens when Lena drinks too much. We’d laugh until we wept, and we’d groan about our foolishness until our stomachs hurt. We’d reassure each other that what happened in our intoxicated state wasn’t so bad. Surely everyone else was too drunk to even notice our bad behaviour. Truth is, I look forward to the Fear Phone Call. Actually, I adore the Fear Phone Call. Because if you’ve made the Fear Phone Call, it usually means you’ve had an incredible night. The longer the Fear Phone Call lasts, the better and more memorable the night.

But this is not a typical morning with The Fear. I have super freakin’ crazy fear. I got into bed last night drunk on alcohol and high on exhilaration, snuggling in with my drunken fiancé, thinking how wonderful my life will be with this man, how much I love him, and how lucky I am that he loves me. I didn’t even brush my teeth before pulling him down on top of me. Now I’m anxious and guilt-ridden and sober as a nun. There’s a good chance the fiancé will dump me after what happened, after what I begged him to do. It was entirely my fault. Sort of.

The fiancé and I celebrated our engagement last night at a party we threw for 150 of our closest friends. The party was also my fault. Everything that happens in a relationship can be blamed on someone, after all. It was my “brilliant idea” to celebrate our engagement. What was I thinking?

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