I have a whopping secret.  The motherload of juicy gossip.  It is single-handedly the most important thing to happen to me and will change my life in every way that is important.  It is all I think about, every moment of every day.  And I CAN’T…TELL…ANYONE.

People in my life have been waiting a while for me to share this news. After all, I have been married for more than 6 months, am under the age of 45, and have no outward loathing toward small children.  At meals, they listen intently to see what I order.  At parties, they stare at my hand to see if I am holding a drink.  They glance at my midsection looking for tell-tale bloat or alien-like movement.

Now, I understand the reasons behind waiting three months to disclose a pregnancy.  But as a result of my secrecy, I find myself creating horrible webs of lies to avoid detection.  “I’m not drinking…because…I am taking medication.  What for?  Oh, I hurt my back in a car accident.  I have no car?  Righhhht…I borrowed it from my friend.  She can’t drive because she is pregnant.  I’m totally not, though.”

My husband brings me decoy drinks: orange juice instead of screwdrivers.  A friend of mine, after mocking the fact that I have the same drink choice as a college freshman, insisted on taking a swig.  I was convinced my cover was blown.  Instead, she smacks her lips a few times, before shaking her head: “They really make weak-as-piss drinks here, huh.”

I use the excuse of having eaten “bad sushi” to explain away my perpetually queasy stomach. To avoid doing shots.  To get out of having to eat more sushi. [My dad asked “Didn’t you have this bad sushi two weeks ago?”]

Since the only person I can discuss this with is my husband, we find ourselves talking about it ad nauseum.

Me: “Did you know that our baby now has a pituitary gland?  And is the size of a poppy seed?  And has no nostrils yet?”

Husband: [volume on Giants game slowly getting louder] “Mmm.  You sure you don’t have any friends you want to share this with?”

And because I can’t disclose this most exciting of news to my closest friends and family, I find myself letting it slip to virtual strangers.  The security agent running the body scan at the airport.  The cashier ringing up my lunch consisting of four frozen pizzas.  Yesterday, the woman giving me a pedicure asked me to pick a color for my nails. I announced to her: “I chose ‘Baby Pink’,  for obvious reasons.”  And she smiles demurely and asks me if I want my cuticles cut.

Which I do.

Because I’m pregnant.