When you’re 17 and pregnant, you tend to wait a great deal of time before telling anyone you don’t have to tell. I knew pretty much immediately. My best friend knew almost as soon as I did and my parents figured it out within the first few weeks.
Eventually, I told other friends, but it was a good long while before their parents knew.
In February 1994, I was two months pregnant with some of the worst morning sickness in the history of birthin’ babies. And one of my closest friends, E, turned 17. A mutual friend, L, hosted a slumber party to celebrate the amazing feat of E turning another year older and invited about ten or fifteen of us to join in.
I, of course, wanted to go, but the way I felt most days, I wasn’t sure I could stay all night, so we decided to play it by ear (or stomach, if you prefer).
Like any responsible parent would, L’s parents wanted to know ahead of time how many giggling teenage girls would be sleeping in their finished basement that night and L had to tell them that I was coming, but I hadn’t been feeling well lately, so I may not spend the night. Their response, in their ignorance of the situation, will go down in history as one of the funniest things ever said:
“I hope it’s not contagious.”
Don’t drink the water!