I’m not the first woman to confuse a hangover with pregnancy, right?
The decision to have a baby has been a long time coming. I’d resisted for so long, reluctant to give up my freedom, our life, the possibilities of living an unencumbered existence. And then one day I was ready. I’m not sure what happened or what changed but I knew I was ready. And when I’m ready to start a project, I’m ready. Right then. No stopping to work out logistics or verify that this is permanent change of heart. Ready, set, GO.
Take home remodeling for instance. If I were not married to a rational, logical human being, my home would look quite different. Here’s a little scenario for you.
ME: Hmm, I want to remodel the bathroom. Maybe I should tear out that wall. Yeah, ’cause if I tore out that wall, then we could move the bathtub there and then the sink could go here and I need to go get my sledgehammer. Exit stage left to look for sledgehammer.
BH: Moving the tub could work, but I think we might end up being a bit short on space. Looks like about four and three-sixteenth inches short, if I had to eyeball it. I need a tape measure to be exact. And if we move the sink, we actually cut off water to the rest of the house. Is that wall load bearing? Let me get some measurements and sketch this out to scale and see if we can make this work. Exit stage right to get clipboard, pencil and tape measure. Is confronted by large pile of rubble which is the rest of the house caved in on me and my sledgehammer.
So while BH has been “procreation friendly” for some time, he was a bit taken aback by sudden change of heart. Seriously, he made sure we went and talked to our therapist before he’d agree to stopping birth control. If he could have sketched out pregnancy, birth and childrearing on his clipboard, I think he would have. He likes to be prepared.
But the therapist signed off and we were ready to go! And, shockingly, we didn’t get pregnant the very first time we tried. What the hell? It’s almost as if eight years of hormonal suppression takes some time to wear off. Who could have predicted?
Which means we were reasonable and rational the second month, right? Um, no. After breaking out the ovulation sticks we were convinced that THIS. WAS. IT. We read the back of the pregnancy test kit obsessively, figuring out the very first instant that it could possible be positive. 67% accuracy? Who cares? We were pregnant. We were sure.
And this is what we saw:
WHAT? HOW COULD WE NOT BE PREGNANT? INCONCEIVABLE! (Ha!)
So we did what all good, healthy married couples do in hard times. We fought. And we drank. I blamed BH for having slow sperm and he looked at me like maybe he wasn’t even sure he wanted to have children with me.
We nursed our wounds with a second beer and then somewhere along the way the kitchen sent out my sandwich with the Russian dressing not on the side and then felt bad so the waitress came out with a free bourbon and by then we were relaxed and happy and ready to celebrate the unencumbered life again so there might have been another round. Or two.
So the next day I had a bit of a headache. And was nauseated. And irritable. Because the disappoint had set back in and I was mourning the loss of a life filled with laughter and bubbles and cupcakes (this is what you get when you merge worst case scenario [I’ll never be pregnant. . .] with grass is always greener [Raising children is nothing but joy and fulfillment]). BH went to run some errands and I moped and fumed and stomped and decided that I was going to pee on yet another stick, because we were meeting some friends that night and I wanted to make absolutely sure I could enjoy myself.
And this is what I saw:
Not the “oh my god now I can’t go to college and my parents are going to throw me out and does Billy even love me?” kind of “SHIT” but the “oh my god my life just changed forever and even though I really wanted this I’m totally in shock right now” kind of “SHIT.”
20 weeks later I’m still kind of in shock.