How to Ruin My Teenage Life by Simone Elkeles

so obsessed with him?

11
    â€œWhen a woman at childbirth bears a male,
she shall be unclean seven days …
If she bears a female, she shall be unclean two weeks.” (Leviticus 12:2-5)
Umm … does this mean boys are viewed
as cleaner than females? Has God seen the boys’ restroom at Chicago Academy lately?
    â€œDo you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
    It’s Sunday and I’m in the ’burbs with my mom. We’re sitting in her car, heading to a maternity-clothes shop. She looked so excited about this little excursion; I couldn’t say no.
    My mom rubs the bump in her stomach, like a prego person in the movies would. “We want it to be a surprise.”
    â€œWhat if it’s twins?” I ask her.
    When she smiles at me, the corners of her light blue eyes crinkle. Isn’t she too old to have a baby? “There was only one heartbeat. No twins.”
    The baby is due in six months and already my mom’s stomach looks like a small bowling ball. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before. Maybe she’s been trying to hide it with those ponchos she’s overly fond of lately.
    When we drive up to a place called Modern Maternity I feel stupid. I’m seventeen years old. I could seriously be a mother myself.
    â€œMarc and I both want you to be involved in this pregnancy,” she says. “It’s important to us.”
    My mom’s not Jewish, but she definitely has the Jewish guilt thing down pat.
    I put on a huge, toothy smile. I’m probably overdoing it, but the reality is I want my mom to be happy. “I’m so happy for you,” I gush. “And I want to be a part of this new family, too!”
    â€œAmy, I’m your mom. I can see right through you.”
    We’re still sitting in the car. I watch her face turn from elation to unhappiness in a matter of seconds. Oh, no. I gotta talk to her before she starts crying. “Mom, I am happy for you and Marc. It’s just weird for me. First the wedding, now the baby. I just need time to get used to it, okay?”
    I remember back to when my mom took me to my first ballet lesson. I’d begged for her to sign me up and practically dragged her to Miss Gertie’s Dance Studio where Jessica was already taking lessons. My mom paid the hefty tuition, bought me ballet slippers and a cute leotard, and off we went to the first class. Only there was one problem: I refused to go inside the studio. For some unknown reason (even to me) I cried in the car until my mom dragged me kicking and screaming into that studio.
    She forced me to go.
    In retaliation, I sat in the corner of the studio and refused to move even one pink ballet-slippered foot the entire time. This routine continued lesson after lesson until the costumes came in for the recital. My class danced to a song called “The Buzy Bees.” We were little bees with black and yellow sparkly sequined leotards and black springy sparkly antennas. What can I say, all those sparkles would turn any reluctant kid into an instant ballerina just waiting to go on stage. The day those costumes came in, I stood up from my usual spot and danced and buzzed around as if I was making up for lost time.
    Those ballet lessons made me learn one thing:
    My mom is a patient parent beyond belief. And she’ll wait anything out until I cave.
    â€œAmy, I know it’s not easy for you. Too many changes in such a short time.” She looks up at the sign to Modern Maternity. “Should we just go back home? Or go bra shopping for you? I can do this another day.”
    â€œNo, we’re already here. You might as well get some clothes that won’t strangle the baby.” Besides, I don’t want to go bra shopping with my mom. She’ll probably pick out those big hefty white ones that resemble tablecloths with straps.
    Mom needs no further encouragement. She’s out of the car as if someone was pushing her enlarged butt