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The Baby Plan: A Novel

The Baby Plan: A Novel

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The Baby Plan: A Novel

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Mar 20, 2018


“Smart and funny, The Baby Plan is irresistible! A winner.” -Susan Mallery, #1 New York Times bestselling author

In The Lizzie Bennet Diaries creator Kate Rorick’s first adult fiction novel, we enter the wild, bewildering world of modern pregnancies. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll shake your head as you wonder where everyone’s sanity went...

Meet the mothers…

Nathalie Kneller: Nathalie’s plan: to announce her pregnancy now that she’s finally made it past twelve weeks! But just as she’s about to deliver (so to speak) the big news to her family, her scene-stealing sister barfs all over the Thanksgiving centerpiece. Yup, Lyndi’s pregnant too, swiping the spotlight once more…  

Lyndi Kneller:  Lyndi’s plan: finally get her life together! She’s got a new apartment, new promotion, new boyfriend. What she didn’t count on—a new baby! She can barely afford her rent, much less a state-of-the-art stroller…

Sophia Nunez: Sophia’s plan: Once she gets her daughter Maisey off to college, she’ll finally be able to enjoy life as make-up artist to one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, and girlfriend to one of rock’s hottest musicians. But after 18 years she discovers the stork is once again on its way…

Now these women are about to jump headlong into the world of modern day pregnancy. It’s a world of over the top gender reveal parties (with tacky cakes and fireworks); where every morsel you eat is scrutinized and discussed; where baby names are crowd-sourced and sonograms are Facebook-shared. And where nothing goes as planned...



Mar 20, 2018

Sobre el autor

Emmy Award-winning writer Kate Rorick is the author of novels about modern motherhood.  She is also a television writer and producer, most recently for The Librarians and Marvel’s Cloak and Dagger.  She is one of the writers behind the runaway YouTube sensation The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and authored its two tie-in novels.  In her vast spare time she is a bestselling author of historical romance, under the name Kate Noble. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.

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The Baby Plan - Kate Rorick

Chapter 1


The damned holiday mashed potatoes, made with nearly a pound of butter and cream cheese and onions and pepper and salt—and the occasional potato—that ruined Nathalie Kneller’s announcement, three years in the making.

And worse, she had been the one to make the potatoes. So really it was her own fault.

Usually, the family didn’t get together for Thanksgiving. Christmas was their big holiday. Ever since her dad retired and traded the house they grew up in for a condo with a parking space big enough for an RV, he’d spent more time exploring the great American roadways than not. But he would always be back in Santa Barbara for Christmas, and Nathalie and her sister would joyfully make the drive up from Los Angeles to gleefully welcome him home, and dutifully receive the gifts he’d picked up in his travels.

Never mind that Nathalie was not in need of any more turquoise jewelry, or tumbled rocks taken straight out of Carlsbad Caverns. Her dad had given her a rock tumbler when she was nine, and she’d loved it. But sometimes it seemed like she was stuck at that age, as that person, in his mind.

But this year Nathalie begged her father to be back by Thanksgiving. He had to be. Timing was everything.

I don’t know, kiddo, her father had hemmed on the phone. She could hear the radio playing in the background. ". . . Listening to 104.3 KBEQ Kansas City! Stay tuned for Blake Shelton, Faith Hill, and Dierks Bentley!"

"Kathy really wanted to go to Branson this trip, see the sights . . ."

Nathalie had to bite her tongue to keep her annoyance at her stepmother’s love of anything country in check.

Please? she’d said on the phone. I’ll even host! Considering the postage-stamp size of the two-bedroom house she and David had just spent their life savings on, this was a card she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to play. But she had to pull out all the stops against Branson and Kathy.

Well . . .

Dad, it’s . . . it’s important.

Important, how? her father had asked, suspicious. Is everything okay?

It took everything in her to not blurt it out over the phone. But again, timing was crucial. So instead, she just said, Everything’s great, Dad. I just . . . I’d just really love to see you. And show off the house.

She’d heard him sigh on the other end of the line. Okay. I’ll talk to Kath about it, but . . . count us in.

Nathalie had smiled and mentally fist-pumped as she said her goodbyes to her dad.

Then, cold realization settled over her: she was going to have to host Thanksgiving dinner.

At the age of thirty-three, she’d never hosted a holiday meal. Their place had always been too small, they always had friends or family to go to . . . one way or another, it was something they’d always managed to avoid. Now, she had invited it on herself.

But there was nothing to be done about it. She needed to have her family there on Thanksgiving.

Because on Thanksgiving, she would be thirteen weeks and one day pregnant.

Thirteen weeks was the cutoff point, ending the queasiness and worry of the first trimester, and the beginning of the (supposedly) smooth-sailing second. But more importantly, it was the point at which it was universally agreed that it was safe to tell people. The chances of something going catastrophically wrong plummet, and you can tentatively share your good news—either quietly, in hushed tones over brunch with girlfriends, or by the trumpet blast of posting a sonogram pic on your Facebook wall.

Or, if you were like Nathalie, you could announce it in the Thanksgiving toast you’d had composed for three years, your family gathered around, your father sniffling away tears at the thought of his first grandchild.

So, for the next ten days, while her father took a meandering route back to California from the Midwest, and her husband David watched with silent bewilderment, Nathalie wrote lists, scoured Pinterest, and laid out a rational, detailed, and perfect plan for their very first Thanksgiving.

Number one on the list was they had to get an actual dining room table.

What’s wrong with our current table? David asked as Nathalie dragged him through IKEA.

The bistro table can go on the deck, where it’s supposed to, she finished mentally. The little metal table was whimsical in their old tiny apartment, but they were well into adulthood now, in their thirties, with 401(k)s and homeowner’s insurance.

Time for the black STORNÄS extendable table that showed it.

After acquiring chairs (NORRNÄS in white, for contrast), she gave David a six-pack of his favorite IPA and set him to the task of assembly while she went and bought matching fall-themed linens, serving dishes, utensils, decorations, and all the other things that people who have never had cause to entertain before might not have around the house. The gold-edged china plates she’d inherited from her mother and dragged from apartment to apartment but never used finally came out of their boxes, ready for their moment in the spotlight.

The one thing she was not worried about was the food. She had made almost every single dish, minus the turkey, having brought various sides to potluck Thanksgivings and even once, when she was eleven, doing the whole dinner on her own. Plus, she had her mother’s recipe box, and knew exactly how to time the cooking to make everything in her small kitchen.

Although, she could use an extra pair of hands.

Sorry, Nat, I can’t, Lyndi said into the phone. Her little sister’s regret was apparent in the tone of her voice, but it did little to appease Nathalie.

But you said you had it covered!

I know, but . . .

It’s just one little pie! Nathalie exclaimed. It wasn’t just one little pie. It was their father’s favorite triple berry pie, and normally she would have done it herself, but timing the pie with cooking the turkey was tricky and good leaders knew how to delegate.

Yeah, but our oven’s totally crappy, and I don’t even have, like, a pie plate. Besides, Marcus doesn’t eat gluten so he doesn’t want any of that stuff in our apartment.

Nathalie was glad Lyndi couldn’t see the look on her face at the mention of Marcus’s gluten sensitivity. It also didn’t help that she was in the middle of mashing the potatoes.

And oh God, the potatoes. Her morning sickness, which usually confined itself to the mornings, decided to voice a strong objection every time the masher smushed another boiled potato. She dreaded adding the butter and cream cheese and the thick dairy smells it would create.

She had just about breathed through the worst of it when Lyndi said, You got gluten-free stuffing for him, right?

 . . . I’m sorry?

For Marcus? Gluten-free stuffing?

You’re bringing Marcus? Nathalie asked, incredulous.

Well, yeah. I mean, if that’s okay, Lyndi said.

I . . . I guess it is. Thank God she had bought that sixth chair. But, surely your roommate has other places to go—friends, or a party?

In truth, Nathalie would have rather not had Marcus there. She had met him once, when she was helping Lyndi move into the third-floor apartment in the bohemian neighborhood of Echo Park. And he was nice enough, helping Lyndi carry her bike up the stairs. But his niceness and splitting the rent with her sister didn’t exactly warrant him being present at the moment of her big announcement.

No, we’re going out to our friend’s pre-Thanksgiving bash tonight, Lyndi said. "And, besides . . . you know that Marcus isn’t just my roommate, right?"

Nathalie blinked. You’re dating?

I mean, I guess you could call it that, she said, awkwardly.

This was news to her. And not just because she’d thought Marcus was gay.

Lyndi was twenty-four, and sometimes the years between them stood out—like when one tried to define dating. Often Nathalie felt like a second mother, rather than a big sister. And obviously Lyndi felt the same way, because when she finally spoke her voice was small, like a little girl caught after misbehaving.

Are you mad?

No, sweetie, Nathalie heard herself saying with a sigh. "But you could have told me earlier. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and now I have to make the pie, and gluten-free stuffing!"

So he can come? Yay! Lyndi cheered through the phone. And I’m sorry about the pie but hey, I’ll bring the flowers, okay? Don’t worry about that!

Lyndi was off the phone before Nathalie could protest that she’d already got a centerpiece (a brass cornucopia she filled with tiny squashes), but as usual with her little sister, Nathalie let her get her way.

Having Lyndi there for the announcement was more important than fretting over the random guy she had with her.

Of course, what she didn’t expect was Lyndi showing up the next day at noon, completely hungover.

Oh my God, are you okay? Nathalie said, seeing Lyndi’s gray face. She tried to hide how she was feeling with a wan smile, but it didn’t work when she was the same color as her flowy pale blue minidress.

Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Lyndi said breezily, giving her sister a quick hug and then slipping past her.

Hey, Nathalie! said the massive arrangement of flowers behind Lyndi. Good to see you again!

Good to, er, see you, too, she replied, taking the flowers (oh God, the smell) and finally being able to actually see Lyndi’s if-you-could-call-him-that boyfriend.

Marcus had a sweet smile, that was the first thing she realized. He was lean—likely from a lack of gluten—and achingly hipster, with the skinniest of skinny jeans, a narrow strip of a tie and a full sleeve of tattoos peeking out from his button-down shirt. He was also surprisingly nervous. As one hand extended to shake hers, the other went to his short dreads, twisting the dark hair tightly.

Nathalie decided to take pity on him. Good to see you, too, Marcus, she said in the voice that she used with her shyest students. Come on in, it’s wonderful to have you.

Hey, Marcus! David came in from the living room, extending his hand and pulling Marcus into a bear hug. Marcus seemed only slightly surprised, considering he’d never met David before. I’ve got the game on. Wanna beer?

Um . . . do you have any wine? Marcus replied. White?

David only gave the slightest hesitation before he slapped Marcus on the back, and pulled him toward the TV. Sure thing. Hon, can you open the wine?

You got it, Nathalie singsonged back. Luckily they had a bottle of white in the back of the fridge. She hadn’t had a drink in three years, and she knew Lyndi was a red girl. The white was meant for Kathy, who, when confronted by a lack of Bartles & Jaymes (which Nat didn’t know existed outside of, oh, the 1980s), would settle for a pinot grigio.

She put the flowers on the table. These are gorgeous, she said to Lyndi. And they were. They put her brass cornucopia to shame. Fat seasonal blooms in earthy reds and oranges, with a trail of yellow orchids flowing out, still on the vine.

Thanks. I designed them.

Designed them?

The arrangement. It’s what I’m doing at the flower co-op now.

I thought you were a delivery girl at the shop.

I still do some deliveries, we all do . . . but I sort of got promoted. Lyndi shrugged, then scowled. And it’s not a shop, come on. You know that.

Of course, Nathalie replied, wanting to keep the peace. And congrats! On the promotion. In truth, she didn’t really understand what Lyndi did at her current job. It was a place that sold flowers—so that was a flower shop, right? Even if it was only online? Whatever it was, Lyndi had stuck with it for six months, so it was better than any other job she’d tried. Nathalie could only hope one of these days she’d focus on a career.

A timer dinged in the kitchen. Nathalie heeded its call like Pavlov’s dog.

Oh what is that smell? Lyndi said, following her.

The holiday mashed potatoes, Nathalie answered, taking them carefully out of the oven. Can you help me with this?

To accommodate the triple berry pie, she’d had to rearrange the timing on baking the potatoes . . . which meant she’d had to hit the pause button on cooking the turkey for an hour. But, she thought, as she and Lyndi shoved the bird back in and cranked up the heat, it would be fine in the end.

Totally fine.

Want a glass? Nathalie asked, as she moved to the fridge to fish out the white wine from the back.

No, thanks, Lyndi said, looking green.

A little hair of the dog might make you feel better.

What? Her sister wrinkled her nose. I’m not hungover. I don’t get hungover.

Did you go out last night?


Do you feel like crap now?

Yeah, but—

Then you’re hungover. Nathalie gave her sister a sympathetic pat. There’s a reason beer bongs are relegated to college, you know. Welcome to your midtwenties.

Lyndi gave her a dirty look. Then she glanced at the potatoes, and quickly changed the subject.

When’s Dad getting here?

Any minute now, she said. He called when they hit Palm Springs, so—

As if on cue, the sound of Dolly Parton’s Islands in the Stream as played on an air horn wafted through the air.

Oh thank God, Lyndi muttered, as she trotted toward the front door. Marcus and David were already on the front lawn by the time Nathalie got there, David helping to hand Kathy down from the steps of the massive beige RV that took up the whole driveway, and Marcus shaking awkward hands with their dad. She could tell Dad was eyeing the tattoos peeking out of his sleeve, bewildered by what the kids did to themselves these days.

There they are! Dad called out in his booming baritone when he saw both girls standing in the doorway. He came over immediately and wrapped them both in a bear hug. How you doin’ squirt?

Great, Daddy, Lyndi answered, giving back as good as she got.

And you, kiddo? he said, throwing an arm over Nathalie’s shoulder. How are you holding up?

I’m fine, Dad. Glad you guys made it. She nuzzled against his side, his dad-warmth.

Yoo-hoo! Babe, can you help with this? Kathy called out. Nathalie was released, as he trotted to his wife’s side to take a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes from Kathy’s hand.

Sweetie, you look so pale! Kathy said, as she came up to Nathalie, air-kissing her cheek. Do you need any help in the kitchen?

Nope, I’ve got it all covered!

Oh, good! I was worried, I made your father drive so fast to get here. But he said that you always have everything under control, and of course, you do! Kathy trilled. I’ll just go see what needs doing.

Nothing needs doing—

But Kathy was already inside. Nathalie sighed. Maybe she could pawn Kathy off on setting the table.

So, David, she heard her dad say as they all came inside. Who’s winning the game?

And so the afternoon went. As Kathy kept trying to get into the kitchen to see if she could help, Nathalie would effectively redirect her to something else she could do, be it refreshing the men’s drinks or finding a new place for the brass cornucopia (What a funny thing! Why did you buy it when you have these flowers?). Lyndi kept looking gray and wan, opting to avoid the wine and instead sipping on a ginger ale. Marcus, to his credit, was happy to play the hungover Lyndi’s nursemaid, leaping up to get her some ice, or put a pillow behind her, or take her on a walk to get some air. It was, Nathalie had to admit, awfully sweet.

David was ensconced on the couch, keeping her dad company, their long-established in-law relationship comfortable and quietly spent watching sports. Although, Nathalie couldn’t help but wish David would take a page out of Marcus’s book—even though she told him she had everything covered, and yep, was feeling totally great and didn’t need any help, she wouldn’t have minded a shoulder rub, a quick walk to get some air, or, for someone thirteen weeks and one day pregnant, a chance to sit down.

Finally—finally—the timer dinged on the turkey.

Don’t worry, Kathy, I got it! Nathalie said automatically, knowing that the clip of kitten heels was headed toward the kitchen. Time to get around the table everyone!

She heaved the turkey out of the oven, and inserted the thermometer.

The dial did not rise nearly as high as it should.

That’s not how it’s supposed to be, she muttered to herself. She’d done everything right—she thought. She checked and double-checked the timing, and was sure she’d calculated correctly to allow for the potatoes, and . . .

Hold on . . . who turned down the oven?

I did, sweetie, Kathy said, all shock and innocence. You can’t cook a bird that high, it’ll dry out!

Nathalie closed her eyes. I know that, Kathy, she ground out, it wasn’t that high the whole time, I had to take the turkey out for an hour. I looked it up—it would have been fine.

"Well, I didn’t know that," Kathy huffed.

Now it has to go in for another . . . I don’t know how long!

And that meant that the potatoes, the beans, the stuffing, everything else was going to go cold.

"I’m sure it’s fine, Kathy tried. We’ll cut around any pink parts."

I’m not serving undercooked poultry for Thanksgiving! Nathalie nearly screeched.

I’m just trying to help!

Hey, Mom, came Lyndi’s weak voice from the kitchen doorway. Did you know Marcus is from near Branson?

Kathy turned to her daughter with a watery smile. Is he? Oh, Marcus, I must know everything. Who’s your favorite artist? I just love the greats—Hank, and Cash, and Dolly.

 . . . Yeah, Dolly’s the best, Marcus said agreeably.

Nathalie caught her sister’s eyes, giving a silent thank-you.

I’m getting pretty hungry, kiddo, her dad then said. Maybe we start in on the sides while the bird finishes.

But . . .

Yeah, came David’s voice. There’s only so many chips and guac a guy can eat. Let’s sit down.

Nathalie looked from the underdone turkey to the ready-to-go everything else. She shoved the turkey back in, upped the heat, and set the timer. Maybe it wouldn’t take too long.

Besides, she had a toast to give.

Her heart started fluttering as they all gathered around the table. As they put the potatoes, stuffing, beans, and cranberries on their turkey- and pumpkin-shaped trivets, she looked to David. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. They all took their seats, and Nathalie realized the empty space at the center where the turkey should go didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except that everyone was here, and she got to tell them her wonderful—


Oh my God! Lyndi cried. Marcus, are you okay?

Yeah, Marcus replied from the floor. My chair just . . . I think I broke it.

The NORRNÄS chair had come apart beneath him, its Allen bolts unscrewed, its legs lying in broken bits.

I’m so sorry, the skinniest person there said. It’s my fault.

I think that one’s my fault, David said, pulling Marcus to his feet. Interpreting IKEA instructions is not my strongest suit.

Suddenly everyone was looking at their chairs with apprehension.

Let’s just . . . stand, for the toast, David said, giving his wife a look. And then we’ll . . . break out the folding chairs from the garage. Honey . . . ?

Yes. Yes, she said, forcing a smile. Then, she launched into her speech. I’m so glad that everyone could come to this family occasion . . . And you, too, Marcus. Friends are wonderful and welcome. But, like I was saying, Thanksgiving is all about family. And my family is so important to me. Especially now as . . .

I’m sorry! Lyndi’s voice broke through the toast, thin and reedy. She was no longer gray, she was pea-green. And she wasn’t looking at Nathalie. She was looking at the big casserole dish of holiday mashed potatoes, which was sitting directly in front of her. Nat, I’m so sorry . . .

She pivoted as quickly as a ballerina, grabbing the first container she saw: the brass cornucopia, which had been placed haphazardly on the buffet table behind them.

The sound of her hurling up bile and ginger ale echoed metallically through the room.

Oh my God! Kathy cried, once the retching was through. Sweetie—

Are you okay, squirt?

I’m fine! I’m fine, Lyndi said, as Marcus placed a soothing hand on her back. I’m just . . .

The timer dinged. The turkey was ready.

Lyndi wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and gave a sheepish smile. I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell everyone I’m pregnant.

Chapter 2

SEVENTEEN HOURS OF COOKING, AND NO one said thank you, Nathalie grumbled as she spooned the last of the gluten-free (basically mush) stuffing into the trash. And if it was so important for Marcus to have gluten-free stuffing, the least he could have done was EATEN the gluten-free stuffing!

David, from the couch, grunted in agreement, which only managed to make Nathalie’s rage burn brighter. After days of decoration and preparation, after running out to the Whole Foods all the way in Glendale to find gluten-free bread crumbs, and after being the most agreeable, accommodating host on the planet, Marcus didn’t even touch the goddamned stuffing.

Okay sure, after Lyndi destroyed Nathalie’s brass cornucopia with her own announcement, the afternoon had gone slightly awry, so maybe he wasn’t hungry . . . but surely, he could have taken the stuffing home.

There was at least two-thirds of the turkey left over too, not to mention all the holiday mashed potatoes. Luckily, Dad had taken the triple berry pie back to Santa Barbara with them, lest they would have had to find space for that in the fridge, too.

It turned out, after Lyndi’s surprise, everyone pretty much forgot about the food. Instead, they had just stood stock-still in shock, until Kathy burst out with a screech that sounded like a Muppet being slaughtered.

Oh, my baby is giving me a grandbaby! she’d said as she grabbed Lyndi into a big hug, and then, Marcus with them. Lyndi, through being mobbed, barely kept a handle on that now-filled brass cornucopia. Nathalie had stepped forward to take it from her just in time.

As her father loosened Kathy’s grip on Lyndi, and placed a kiss on his little girl’s cheek, Nathalie moved off to the kitchen, to drain the cornucopia. Once she deposited it in the sink, she came back into the dining room.

Um, I am, too, she’d said, barely loud enough to be heard over Kathy’s mews of joy and their dad manfully trying to find something to say to Marcus—but mostly just making a lot of Well! and That’s . . . well! noises.

Pregnant, that is, she’d finished lamely. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Before.

Again the room stilled in shock. Until David—unfrozen for the first time in minutes—had stepped forward and thrown his arm around Nathalie’s shoulders. That’s right! he’d said. We are having a baby. We’re twelve weeks—

Thirteen, she’d mumbled.

Thirteen weeks along, and are due in . . . May? May.

No one moved. Nathalie waited for the strangled-Muppet sound from Kathy, but . . . nothing. Just leftover sniffles from her Lyndi-based joy.

We are . . . really excited, she’d said, forcing a smile up at David.

Of course you are! her dad had finally replied, coming over to kiss her on the temple and slap David on the back. So are we, kiddo. So are we!

And that was it. That was her big announcement. Um, I am, too.

Something that she’d been wanting, and preparing for, for years, reduced to an I am, too.

And an entire massive family dinner that should have been a celebration, reduced to no one eating, the wine being gulped by the people that could, Kathy sniffling over her cranberries, and awkward glances shared between sisters at the table.

Hon, you don’t have to clean everything up now, David said from the living room.

Yes, I do, because if I don’t it will just sit out on the counter overnight and the food will go bad. And attract bugs. And then we will have to have the house fumigated and we’ll have to stay at a hotel and you know I can’t sleep at hotels!

A pause before an answer of Okay then drifted in from the other room.

How can you be so calm about this? she yelled over the water filling the turkey pan. Admit it—that was a disaster!

It wasn’t a disaster, hon, David replied. Somewhat unconvincingly. Your dad was super happy for you.

That was the one solace. When her dad’s lips had hit her temple, he’d whispered, You’re gonna be a great mom, kiddo, in her ear. And she’d felt the warm rush of emotion across her cheeks, and tears beginning to sting her nose.

Then, he moved over to Lyndi, and placed a kiss on her temple . . . and no doubt whispered the exact same thing to her.

You don’t think Lyndi puking in the cornucopia was a disaster? She shut off the water just in time to hear David’s whispered and obviously not-meant-to-be-heard reply.

And there it is.

She stepped into the living room. And there what is?

Nothing, David replied immediately. But instead of letting him off the hook, she watched him, her hands dripping. Eventually, he said, I’m sure Lyndi didn’t mean to ruin dinner, Nat.

She didn’t ruin it, Nathalie replied immediately. I can’t blame her for morning sickness. I mean, that’s just another thing we have in common.

But . . .

But . . . what is she doing? Nathalie said finally. She’s twenty-four and can’t decide on a career but she’s gonna have a baby? She can’t even remember to walk her dog!

David’s brow came down. When did Lyndi get a dog?

It’s a metaphorical dog, David!

Okay, okay! David held up his hands in surrender. I’m just saying, she didn’t do this on purpose. Step on your moment.

"Our moment. Nathalie huffed. And I know she didn’t do it on purpose. That’s the problem! Obviously this entire thing was an accident for her, but she’s just going to trip into it and go ‘oh well, guess I’ll have a baby now!’ Because that’s how she is!"

She wiped the wet from her hands on the dish towel tucked into her back pocket. Lyndi, no doubt, would just have wiped her hands on her pants leg, if she even bothered to do the dishes at all.

‘I didn’t like accounting, so I guess I’ll take an extra year and be an art major now!’ Nathalie mimicked in a high, little-girl voice. ‘I graduated so I guess I’ll be a graphic designer now!’ ‘Didn’t really dig that, so I guess I’ll be a barista!’ ‘No, now I’ll be a florist!’

Honey, she’s twenty-four. Not everyone is like you and knows exactly what their life is going to be, David said calmly.

It was true. Nathalie had known since she was six she wanted to be a teacher. She had known since she was ten she wanted to teach literature. And she had known since she was nineteen that she was going to marry David Chen, who she met half-drunk at a college party, and they argued all night and into a 3 AM Del Taco run about the merits of Dickens’s early work.

Later, he’d confessed he hadn’t ever read any of The Pickwick Papers. He just wanted to keep Nathalie talking to him, so he took the opposite opinion of whatever she said.

No wonder he was a lawyer.

Screwing up and figuring it out, David continued, that’s what someone’s twenties are for.

Yeah, but . . . she had only just begun screwing up. Now she won’t get to anymore! Nathalie said. "This is her big screwup! And once she has the baby, she can’t just decide to drop it and do something else."

You think she’s making a mistake, he said. It wasn’t a question.

Yes. No. She sighed deep, suddenly tired. "But you and I . . . we know what it’s going to take. We’ve planned for this. We’ve been trying forever!"

His brow knit. We tried for two months before we got pregnant.

She stared at him, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs. Her nose began to sting. We’ve been trying for three years, David.

I meant . . . this time, David said eventually.

But it was too late. Nathalie just held up one hand, shook her head, and headed for the bedroom before she could break down in tears in front of him.

Stupid hormones.

She’d been on the knife’s edge of crying all day. All the stress of cooking, all the emotions of the announcement—then the fumble of said announcement. Add that to the funhouse ride of hormones her body was putting her through to grow a human . . . well, there was a reason she had avoided watching TV. One sappy refrigerator commercial and she would be lost.

But through it all, she thought she could count on David to be her support! To be outraged and pissed off with her. To be aghast at Lyndi’s lack of pie making and Kathy’s messing with the oven temp, and Marcus’s . . . sperm’s ability to bypass what she hoped was decent birth control. But instead, David sat there, his eyes forward on the TV, playing devil’s advocate.

Which, considering his lawyerly ways, wasn’t new for him.

But if his plan was to talk her around to a more open mind, he failed utterly.

I meant . . . this time.

As if the last three years had been a fluke, easily forgotten.

Nathalie remembered precisely when they began trying. It was on her thirtieth birthday. She had just made tenure at her school the year before, David was on track to be named a junior partner at Stanis and Lowe, his old law firm. And he was only months away from paying off his student loans. So, on her thirtieth birthday, after she and David and her friends had stumbled out of the bar after last call, Nathalie went straight to her bathroom, where she flushed her birth control pills down the toilet.

She was ready.

They were ready.

All they had to do was make a baby.

Which turned out to be harder than anticipated.

After five months of trying—of tracking her periods by plugging them into an app on her phone, which dinged whenever their algorithm said she was having a fertile day—Nathalie called her doctor for an appointment. Just to check, she’d said.

Dr. Duque—a woman a few years older than her with a mop top of wavy brown hair and an authoritative motherly vibe—gave her a cursory exam, looked at her tracking app, and said, Hmm.


Listen—you’re very likely fine, Dr. Duque said kindly. You’re young, you’re healthy. Most people conceive within the first six months of trying.

It’s been five, Nathalie replied.

Your cycle is short, Dr. Duque said. The average menstrual cycle is twenty-one to thirty-five days. Yours are ranging from eighteen to twenty-three. The doctor took out a pen and a little slip of paper that said Menstrual Record Chart and copied out the info from the app. Your app is pretty low-tech, it’s predicting your fertility based on the average cycle, not on yours. So, instead of having sex when it tells you to, I want you to have sex every other day, between days five and fifteen of your cycle.

Nathalie took the card, finding a sense of security in this scrap of paper that she hadn’t in all the technology the modern world could offer. Of course the app failed her—it wasn’t for her, it was for everyone! Now . . . now she had more than a ding on the phone telling her when to have sex.

Now she had a plan.

If you haven’t conceived after eight months of trying, you should come back in and we’ll do some tests, Dr. Duque said. But seriously, don’t worry. Enjoy this time.

Nathalie hugged Dr. Duque—yes, hugged. She wasn’t a super huggy person, but the relief she felt warranted it.

However, the relief was short-lived.

Nathalie and David had always enjoyed a healthy sex life, and at first David had found the novelty of having sex at the ding of a phone app kind of funny. But five months of that had taken its toll. So to be told he had to perform his husbandly duties on a more aggressive schedule was . . . not romantic, to say the least. Although, Nathalie tried! When the circled dates came up, she dolled herself up, cooked his favorite food, cued up certain scenes in Blue is the Warmest Color  . . . but doing this every other

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35 valoraciones / 7 Reseñas
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  • (4/5)
    Fun (yet also emotional) read for anyone who is pregnant, has ever had a baby, or is even thinking of getting pregnant.
  • (4/5)
    I don't have babies. I don't want babies. I do not coo over every baby I see. However, this book, all about the having of babies (though not so much about the babies themselves) was a delight. I have long been a fan of the historical novels Rorick writes as Kate Noble and am pleased to see that the same wit and emotion carry over to a contemporary, non-Romance.
  • (4/5)
    The Baby Plan is a funny look into the unexpected and motherhood. The Baby Plan is sure to have you in stitches from all the laughter!Nathalie, Lyndi, and Sophia were all great women. I had such a fun time getting to know them all as well as their situations. Each one was different but in a way the same. They were all thrust into motherhood. Although, Sophia had experience with a college age daughter. However, it was kind of a new experience for her again with her age. Lyndi was more of the free spirited sister. Nathalie the more reasonable level headed one. Together, they were sisters. They had their arguments like other sisters but when it counted most, they were there for each other. One of the funniest moments that I enjoyed was the tweets from @WTFPreg. I have never experienced motherhood but if I did I could imagine I would be agreeing with the tweets that @WTFPreg was tweeting. You have to check this book out.
  • (2/5)
    Meh. But not a bad read while I was in bed sick for the weekend. Very predictable.
  • (5/5)
    A great combination of the stories and perspectives of different women and how they go through the emotional and mental changes of pregnancy. As a woman who hasn’t experienced this yet but spends time thinking and wondering about how it may feel, i found this book adressing many of my own questions and worries. A lovely read, touching upon various types of relationships.
  • (2/5)
    2.4 maybe. It's such a predictably boring boy. There's nothing that surprises you. None of the characters are noteworthy.
  • (4/5)
    I enjoyed it even though two things are immediately obvious (to me). One, vegans don't eat eggs. Or cheese. And two. I haven't had a baby.
    But should I be fortunate enough to travel that route, I feel fairly confident that I now know far more than at least 7 books and 9 websites could ever tell me. Fantastic story, and lovable characters.