Knocked Up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-be

Knocked Up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-be

3.7 21
by Rebecca Eckler

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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

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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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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Canadian journalist Eckler was a young hipster covering club openings, trends and the minutiae of yuppie life for a newspaper when a "whoopsie" moment after her engagement party (later dubbed the Conception Party) left her pregnant. The 29-year-old author and her fianc , who lived far away and whom she planned to marry and move in with at some point, were initially shocked but later accepting. This wasn't exactly in Eckler's plan (though what was in the plan isn't quite clear, either). She becomes cautiously excited about her vague perception of parenthood, but repeatedly horrified by what pregnancy brings: weight gain, a ban on alcohol, stretch marks. Eckler writes, diary-like, about each of these revelations as well as more than anyone would want to know about both her weight and her daily trips to McDonald's. Eventually, she and her fianc move in together and seem genuinely excited about the baby's arrival, which may comfort readers unimpressed with some of Eckler's other decisions (she doesn't completely stop smoking; she schedules a C-section for nonmedical reasons). Sometimes this mommy memoir feels like a humorous crash course in maturity, though at other points the author's attitude comes dangerously close to that of one who has a baby as a chic accessory. Agent, Denise Bukowski. (Apr. 5) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
This is the type of book that Bridget Jones would write if she suddenly discovered that Mark Darcy had gotten her pregnant. Whether it succeeds wholly depends on the reader's tolerance for self-absorbed neurosis as occasion for humor. At 29, Eckler, a columnist for Canada's National Post, and her fianc unexpectedly conceived their daughter, Rowan, and this diary-style memoir details the author's thoughts and feelings as she changes from boozing, big-city scribe to mother of an infant. While she fortunately avoids the usual clich s of discovering the "real" meaning of life, her aforementioned self-absorption can be tedious rather than hilarious. This could hit the mark among twenty- and thirtysomething mothers; for larger memoir collections in urban areas. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The art of navel-gazing carried to a new high (or low) in a sometimes whiny and exasperating, yet very funny diary of a pregnancy from six hours after conception to two weeks after C-section. Eckler, a lifestyle columnist for Canada's National Post, a job that involves interviewing celebrities and covering film and bar openings, is sure she's pregnant when she wakes up the morning after her engagement party. A couple of weeks later, she confirms it with no fewer than four home pregnancy tests. When she proposes writing about it for the National Post, her boss agrees and gives the story a front-page headline. A minor celebrity in her own right, and an unabashed fan of celebrities ("Kate Hudson is pregnant! I'm so excited. It's so much better when you live your life alongside a celebrity's. It makes what you're going through all the more relevant"), Eckler is determined that pregnancy and motherhood won't change her glamorous, party-girl life. She divides her diary, based on her columns in the Post, into trimesters, "The Longest Three Months of My Life," "The Fat Months" and "The Even Fatter Months." Appearance is clearly paramount. While pleased when her breasts grow fuller, she is appalled when her eating-for-two diet of Big Macs and fries shows up on her hips. "Is my ass fat?" she asks again and again and again of the nameless father-to-be, referred to throughout as simply "the fiance." Meanwhile, she worries that a certain "Sexy Young Intern" is after her job, acquires an attentive new friend, "Cute Single Man," and struggles to keep up with her single, designer-clad, still slim, barhopping girlfriends. Not to be mistaken for a pregnancy guide, Eckler's chronicle offers little advice,unless you count the recommendation to get a bikini wax and a pedicure before going to the hospital. The self-absorption can be off-putting, but the frankness, quirky style and light touch are a winning combination even so.

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Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
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Product dimensions:
5.25(w) x 7.92(h) x 0.85(d)

Read an Excerpt

The First Trimester

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

Sunday, January 26

6:45 a.m.

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.

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

We did, right?


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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