Worry Rock

For all my life, I had known so well that there were thousands upon thousands of female [or even male, perhaps] fans that constantly wished to live inside the Armstrong house, sometimes even wishing that they could replace me. It didn’t bother me anymore, considering I would have most likely been doing the same thing to a celebrity had I not been married to my own.

However, I could honestly, truly say that they wouldn’t want to be any part of the family now.

Sydney was most likely sulking next to Tiff in her bedroom about me being three months pregnant and of course about the issue that my husband and I still had sex constantly [or as Billie Joe liked to put it, like bunnies]. Speaking of my husband, he was currently lying next to me, complaining about cramps that had formed in his body. When they first had formed, Billie Joe had grabbed my iPhone out of my purse and had used it for the internet source while searching for sympathy pregnancy symptoms. Low and behold, cramps were surely one of them.

And me? Well, I was three months pregnant. ‘Nuff said.

My family was a disaster, and I really felt quite terrible for Tiff having to spend a week with us.

The best part? [Or worst, if you were looking at it from my husband’s point of view.]

When Billie Joe had stepped outside on the balcony for a cigarette early that morning since he had skipped one the night before and now claimed to be stressed out from the whole sympathy pregnancy ordeal, he had immediately dropped the cigarette into an ashtray after the first drag and rushed inside, through the bedroom and into the built in bathroom to rid himself of more of his dinner from the night before.

When he stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later with me in tow since I had been comforting him like he always did when I was sick, he attempted to go light up another, hoping that it was a one-time thing. However, though he managed to stick it out past the first drag, when he went to take the second, he had kneeled over on the deck and forced himself to alternate between taking deep breaths and holding his breath as he was hit with waves of nausea. When Billie Joe had recovered from terrible nausea minutes later, he was stupid enough to take another drag, which turned the nausea into actual vomit.

Smoking cigarettes made Billie Joe Armstrong sick.

After getting sick for the second time from smoking, Billie Joe stubbed out his cigarette and threw it over the side of the balcony angrily. He came back inside the bedroom and slammed the glass door closed before he rounded the bed and climbed in next to me. “I can’t believe it,” Billie Joe admitted into his hands. “What the fuck do I do? I can’t fucking quit cold turkey, I’ve been trying that shit for years and it doesn’t work—but I’m not going to fucking do this shit all the time,” he added while motioning from the balcony to the bathroom. I sat up slowly next to him and folded my legs so that I was sitting Indian style in the bed. There was no way to really respond to that without him snapping at me. He scowled. “I think this whole sympathy pregnancy is either a crock of shit and you’ve poisoned me—,” I rolled my eyes, “—or it’s just working with you.”

I laughed. “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

Billie Joe continued to scowl. “And you seem to be just so upset over it, anyway.”

I shrugged and slowly slid out of bed. “Well, I’m not going to mourn over the fact that you can’t smoke without getting sick. It should be nice kissing someone that doesn’t taste like an ashtray for once.”

Billie Joe winced as he also slid out of bed. “Why don’t you get fucking sick?” He snapped. “Why am I the one going through this shit?”

I shrugged again. “I’m not sure. Zach hasn’t given me much of a morning sickness. Well, a few smells and kiwi make me absolutely nauseas, like smoking does to you, but I don’t vomit every time.”

Billie Joe sat back down and sighed. He sat there for a moment with his head in his hands and then reached over to grab the pair of shorts that he had taken off last night, apparently too lazy to look for a pair from the drawers not only but a few feet away from him. “I’ve got to run to a store quickly, then,” he mumbled.

I cocked an eyebrow as I pulled up and tied the back of the black Foxboro Hot Tubs t-shirt that my husband had changed me into the night before since it was a size too big for me and I didn’t feel like changing into a tank top, which would only show my stomach. I pulled on a short pair of gym shorts and turned to lean against the dresser where Billie Joe’s wallet and car keys sat now that he had taken the cigarettes out to try to smoke earlier. “Why?” I asked, folding my arms.

“I’ve got to get something,” he muttered while I threw him another t-shirt, “to help me get through this then. If I can’t smoke, I’m not going to go through fuckin’ withdrawal the week that we’re here for Sydney’s birthday with her friend. I’ll get nicorette or patches or some shit.”

I nodded slowly, still not sure of what to say to Billie Joe. If anything, I found this to be perfect and it disappointed me that he hadn’t felt the same way. Billie Joe had told me numerous times that he was trying to quit smoking, though I knew that that wasn’t exactly what he was doing because he still smoked half a pack a day [that being around ten]. It drove me insane, considering I had always vowed to never marry a smoker. “Do you want me to go?” I asked.

“For what?” Billie Joe snapped. “So we can pick out Nicorette together and have a jolly good ol’ time because Billie Joe can’t fucking smoke anymore? I think I’ve got it, thanks.”

Check on the mood swings; apparently the cramps went away or got worse. Perhaps that bug crawled farther up his ass?

I winced and it went noticed by my husband. He sighed while I looked away. I had thought that this whole sympathy pregnancy would have helped the two of us, considering Billie Joe would have understood what I was going through, but if he continued to snap at me as he had done recently, we would end up having arguments that were worse than when I was pregnant with Sydney. A hint? That wasn’t a good thing.

Now instead of fighting with a husband that was trying to understand, I was most likely fighting with a husband who had just as bad as an attitude as I, therefore not caring about my feelings at first enough to hold back.

Who the hell cares? Billie Joe can’t smoke.

Amen.

“Whatever,” I mumbled. “If you’re going to be a complete brat, there’s no reason for me to stick around.”

Billie Joe laughed. “How the fuck am I being a brat? I was answering a question, Joe.”

“You didn’t have to snap at me,” I bickered, “it’s not my fault you can’t continue on your journey to lung cancer, but I’m not going to sit and mourn over the fact that you’re gaining a few more years of life.”

“Oh don’t give me that shit, Joe,” my husband spat, “I’ve fucking got sympathy pregnancy when I’m hardly feeling fucking sympathetic at all and the one fucking thing I can barely control anymore since you hate it, even though I’ve been fucking doing it since I was a teenager now makes me sick. It doesn’t fucking help that you’re sitting there trying not to fucking dance because of it.”

I disregarded his lack of sympathy comment because if I hadn’t, I would have snapped. “Because it’s so wrong that I hate kissing an ashtray? There’s nothing worse than having sex with you after you smoke; I feel like I’m fucking an actual cigarette.”

“Well if it wasn’t for you going ahead and fucking me, cigarette or not, then we wouldn’t be in this position, would we?”

“This position?” I snapped back, “Oh, you mean me being pregnant?” I laughed and rolled my eyes while crossing the room to leave, “Right, because it’s so terrible that I’m pregnant and you’ve got to deal with a bit more of it than usual all because now you can’t smoke. Aw, poor baby. How the hell do you stay married to me? I am such a bitch!”

Before Billie Joe could respond, I had already escaped the bedroom and slammed the door closed behind me so hard that the black and white pictures that hung framed on the wall shook.

I knew immediately that I was going to cry as soon as the door shut. In fact, I could feel the tears start to trickle down my cheeks as I paced down the hallway and into the bathroom where I closed and locked the door behind me. I pushed myself up onto the counter and buried my head in my hands, already feeling the tears leaking between my fingers.

I hated this. I hated being pregnant and being overly-emotional. I hated Billie Joe for getting into a damn fight with me over smoking while knowing how emotional I was!

But then again, I shouldn’t have expected anything less than I received from the forty-six year old. Not only was Billie Joe shit out of luck when it came to his one addiction, it was all because of sympathy pregnancy. No nicotine for a chain smoker made them incredibly irritable [which had been one reason that when Billie Joe had attempted to stop cold turkey a few times, I had given him everything he wanted] with not only the moods that Billie Joe had naturally and the emotions that he was feeling now—him only snapping at me should have made me thankful.

I let out a small sob and immediately lifted a hand to cover my mouth while still using the other to violently wipe the tears away but it wasn’t working. They didn’t stop. A sudden knock at the door caught me by surprise. I stopped sobbing and held my breath, listening to faint knocks continue. “Mom?” Sydney called through the door. “Ma, are you in there?”

For a moment, I stared at the door in complete shock. Sydney was talking to me? She didn’t hate me? What God was currently on my side?

Fuck. Shit. Brilliant. Brilliant.

“Uhh, yeah, Syd, I am,” I called back, trying not to sound as if I had just been sobbing to myself for the past few minutes.

Sydney sighed. “I heard you crying and dad just walked out looking as if he wanted to punch someone—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I croaked.

Unconvinced, Sydney groaned. “Can you open the door, then? I wanna talk to you,” she admitted.

I sighed and pushed myself down from the marble counter. Hesitantly, I opened the bathroom door and wiped away my tears again. I laughed once I saw her, and she cocked an eyebrow, obviously not seeing the humor at the fact that her mother was just sitting locked inside the bathroom crying. “This is backwards,” I laughed, “I should be the mature one, not the one crying in the bathroom.”

Sydney smirked at me and hugged me. I grinned against her shoulder, an overwhelming feeling of relief spreading through me at the fact that my daughter didn’t hate me. “What’s wrong?” Sydney asked when we pulled away.

I giggled slightly. “It’s nothing, honestly. I’m just, well, really emotional now.”

Sydney laughed softly and nodded. “Yeah, pregnant women tend to get like that,” she snickered.

I felt myself blush apprehensively. “Yeah, right,” I agreed. I hesitated. “Sydney,” I murmured as I went back to sit on the counter. Sydney hopped up beside me. “Are you, uh, well, are you alright with this?” I asked, gesturing to my stomach that was hidden underneath Billie Joe’s t-shirt.

Sydney looked down at the tiled floor. She shrugged slowly. “I’m not upset or mad or anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” she admitted, “I mean, the only problem I’ve got with this is that well, not gonna lie, I’m pretty skeeved out. Like, I thought I was your last kid.” I felt myself continue to blush while she laughed. “But like, I think it’s cool to have a baby sibling, as long as I won’t have to watch them all the time. Like, I refuse because that’s totally not fair.”

I felt myself grin. I wasn’t expecting her to be so easy going after the night before. “We wouldn’t make you do that. We know you’ve got a social life.”

Sydney nodded. “Tiff made me realize more than anything how happy I should be that you’re still having kids and not constantly fighting,” we both chuckled at the irony of that considering the argument that Billie Joe and I had gotten into about ten minutes ago, “because her parents do nothing but fight apparently. They’re the closest thing to a divorce that a couple can be without actually divorcing, she says. So, I really should be happy that you and dad really do love each other.”

I reached over and hugged my daughter again as we had just done in the doorway. I kissed her cheek and sighed. “Thank you,” I thanked, “so much. I didn’t know if you were going to hate your father and I this morning or not.”

Sydney grinned again and shook her head. “No. I didn’t even hate you two last night, I was just shocked.” I nodded understandingly and we both smiled at each other. Sydney motioned to my stomach. “Is there a bump?” She asked. I reached in back of me and pulled my hair tie out of the t-shirt so that I could roll it up more to let Sydney see my stomach. I rolled the shirt up to just underneath my chest and slid off the counter, showing the very noticeable bump. Sydney’s eyes widened. “Holey crap,” she mumbled. I laughed at her reaction as she slid over on the counter next to where I stood and placed a hand on my stomach. “Oh my god,” she breathed, “does it like, kick or anything yet?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think that happens until a couple of more months.”

“Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a boy,” I admitted, “I’ve got strong mother’s intuition that it’s a he.”

“Have you guys named him yet?” She asked.

“Actually, yeah,” I paused, “if it turns out to be a girl, your father came up with the name Savannah Alexandra Armstrong.”

“Aww,” Sydney cooed, “that’s a really cute name. Why couldn’t you have named me that?” She asked.

I laughed. “Hey, Sydney Ann Armstrong is a great name.”

Sydney grinned up at me and continued to leave her hand on my stomach. “Have you thought of a boy’s name, like, since you think it’s going to be a boy?”

I nodded. “Yeah, we’ve decided on Zachary Andrew Armstrong.”

“Aww,” Sydney cooed as she had done when I had told her Billie Joe’s pick for a girl, “that’s a really cute name. I love the name Zach, and you named Andrew after grandpa?” I nodded and she grinned. “Oh my god, I bet dad was happy.”

I nodded again and grinned, thinking back to when I told him. “He was thrilled.”

It was about an hour later when Billie Joe entered the penthouse with four CVS bags in his hands. He closed the door behind him with his foot and walked throughout the downstairs until he reached the kitchen where he placed the bags on the counter. The rock star shuffled through the bags and eventually found what he was looking for. As soon as he did, he pulled out one of the pieces of Nicorette and placed it in his mouth.

Billie Joe stepped out of the kitchen and into the lounge where both Sydney and Tiffany sat, watching a movie on HBO. He felt compelled to ask where Sydney’s mother was, but didn’t want to create an awkward atmosphere since he wasn’t sure if Sydney was alright with the news yet.

Upon hearing footsteps, Sydney turned to look over her shoulder and saw her father. “Oh, hi dad,” she greeted, “I didn’t hear you get in. Where’d you go?”

Billie Joe chuckled. “Thanks, Syd. I just ran out to CVS quickly,” he stated. “Where’s your mother?”

“Oh, about that,” Sydney murmured as she got up from the couch. At this, Tiff turned her head and snickered at what obviously was going to happen.

Sydney walked over to her dad and smiled before turning and slapping his arm, causing him to jump and gasp. “What the hell, Sydney? What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re not supposed to make pregnant women cry!” Sydney snapped as she slapped his arm again. “Haven’t you ever heard to just nod and agree with them? My god, I’m not even the father of four kids—not even one and I know that! You’re not supposed to yell at mom when she’s pregnant and make her cry! Well, you’re not supposed to make her cry anytime, but especially not now! It causes stress for them and all unneeded crap that could end up hurting the baby!” With those last words, Sydney slapped her father’s arm again.

Billie Joe scowled loudly and swatted his daughter. “Knock it off, Sydney. Stop hitting me.” He paused and placed his fingers on his temples to rub. “Now what the hell are you yelling at me about? And don’t you dare hit me.”

Sydney rolled her eyes which caused Billie Joe to scowl again and tell her to knock it off. “You were being a jerk to mom this morning and you made her cry. Since you’re the father of my baby brother, you’re the one that’s supposed to calm mom down when she gets overwhelmed and upset and crap. Not be the one to make her cry.”

For a moment Billie Joe almost decided to tell his daughter exactly what he was also going through despite the fact that he was a male, but decided to not make anything more awkward after last night especially when she was speaking to him as if the pregnancy [at the moment] was something that she was perfectly fine with. Throwing in a ‘Sydney, shut up, I’m pretty much fucking pregnant, too’ wouldn’t have carried on the good mood.

“Alright, alright, I get it, I’m sorry,” Billie Joe grumbled. “Don’t flip a shit.” Sydney groaned at her dad. She spun him around and pushed him towards the directions of the stairs that led towards the bedrooms. “What the hell are you doing?” Billie Joe snapped.

“Go apologize to her and stop being a brat.”

“I’m not being a brat, Sydney. Now will you let go of me?”

“Not until you say you’ll apologize! I don’t care if it was mom being too emotional or not, point is you made a pregnant woman cry and that’s really crappy.”

Billie Joe scowled again and pulled himself out of his daughters grip. “Alright, alright! Let me get my damn bags from the kitchen and I’ll go and fuckin’ apologize, Jesus Christ,” Billie Joe spat, “since when did you become such a god damn dictator?”

“Since you made mom cry this morning.”

Instead of responding, Billie Joe plodded into the kitchen and grabbed his bags, snarling under his breath the whole way there. “Since when am I not allowed to have a fucking dignity in this goddamn family? Is it against the fucking rules to be able to stick up for yourself or something if you’re a fucking man here? Jesus Christ, I’m surrounded by fucking mind controlling women.” When he stepped out of the kitchen with his bags in hand, Sydney immediately forced him up the stairway. “Alright, alright, alright! I’m fucking going. Knock it the hell off.”

“She’s in the bedroom lying down,” Sydney called as Billie Joe continued up the stairs slowly.

“Yeah, alright, whatever,” he muttered, “god be with the man that fucking marries you.”