I round the island and step in behind her to help. “What? Not those angels.” I smirk knowing full well how rambunctious my nieces, four-year-old Annie, and two-year-old Sophia, can be. Especially Annie, she’s Carrie’s mini-me.
After an easy twist-off cap on the wine bottle, Carrie does a heavy pour.
“I’m going to assume that’s for me?” I chuckle.
She takes a deep sniff of the burgundy liquid; her exhale is a sigh as she extends the glass to me.
“After this baby pops out, I’m drinking a whole bottle of Whispering Angel and no one is going to stop me.” Carrie enjoys wine, but she’s also due in a month, so I’m guessing she’s just really sick of being pregnant.
“Wine?” I lift the bottle toward my mom and Kyle. She accepts, he declines, motioning to his beer on the counter.
I pour a glass of wine for my mom and move to set it on the counter by the cutting board.
“It’s so good to see you.” She says it wistfully, like it’s been months.
“You saw me last Sunday at dinner.”
“I just like to know how you’re doing. How work is going. If you’re seeing any special someone that you might want to bring to dinner.”
There it is. I can’t help but smile. My mom is nothing, if not predictable. She needs to know what is happening in her kids’ lives like she needs a decaf coffee after dinner every night.
I take a drink of my wine.
“Good, busy and no.” My standard responses to her typical line of questioning. The answers to the last two have always been in direct correlation to each other. Work is busy; therefore, my personal life is non-existent. I haven’t brought anyone to a family dinner since I was in medical school, and that was mostly a study session with a meal break.
I’m an OBGYN specializing in Maternal-Fetal Medicine, which means I work with women who have high-risk pregnancies, whether it be from a mother’s pre-existing condition, such as high blood pressure or diabetes, or a chronic health problem, a risk of early labor or bleeding, or a birth defect that has been identified and requires treatment before birth. Also, women expecting multiples.
After medical school, internship and residency, I completed my Maternal and Fetal Medicine fellowship at University of Colorado Hospital and started my own practice. That was three years ago, and with the addition of more physicians and staff, I’m finally at a point in my professional life where I can take a breath. Have some fun. Date. Start a family.
My mom smiles and takes a drink of her wine. She knows that I want to find someone. She and my dad got married in college, and they had me before he finished his residency. He’s retired now, but was a family physician for forty years.
Kyle pops the lasagna he’s been prepping in the oven, then turns to give me a guy-hug. You know, the light embrace with a few solid pats on the back. “Good to see you, man.”
“Looks like you’re in charge here tonight.” I motion toward the oven.
Kyle leans in and on a whisper says, “I’m not in charge, I’m just the worker bee, while the queen oversees the hive. You know what it’s like with this one.”
“I’m right here.” Carrie smirks, watching our exchange. “I can hear you.”
“I didn’t think hearing was one of the enhanced senses during pregnancy.” Kyle looks at me for confirmation, but I just shake my head and try not to laugh.
“It’s not. You guys just have no sense of what a whisper is,” Sis retorts.
“Huh.” Kyle places a kiss on my sister’s neck, then grabs his beer. “I’m going to go turn on the grill.”
Kyle then turns and says to me, “Come on out after your interrogation.” Then kisses her neck again, “Love you, boo.”
Once he’s gone, Carrie sighs at his shenanigans, slides herself onto a barstool and turns her attention back to me. “Let’s run it back. Why were you late?”
“I’m not late. Dinner hasn’t even started.” I motion toward the oven where the lasagna just started baking. “Wait, why is Kyle turning on the grill?”
“He loves grilled garlic bread.” My sister rolls her eyes lovingly, then motions with her hand for me to answer her question.
“If you must know, I had to change clothes. I bumped into a woman at the bookstore.”
My sister makes a face, and I realize my explanation might have come out a little odd. She’s now imagining me picking up a woman in a bookstore on my way to our family dinner. Which, I actually tried to do and failed miserably.
“She ran into me and dumped my smoothie all over my shirt,” I clarify.
