Sunday, March 23, 2014

Oh #$@%, I'm Pregnant...A Tragically Comic Tale

I always imagined that when the time was right to have a baby with Mr. W, we would know.


We would have a long discussion and come to an agreement with knowing, excited smiles. We would save money responsibly, maybe take a nice tropical vacation and enjoy some mojitos and sushi and endless pots of coffee. And then, I would detox...I’d cut back on refined sugars and carbs, fueling my body with organic produce and lean proteins. I’d cut way back on drinking, and I’d get into the best shape of my life, developing my core and preparing for the process ahead.


I imagined the trying part itself would be fun….after all those years of strict birth control use, how could it not be? I imagined several months of carefree fun, testing every month until, at last, we received a positive sign….a positive sign we were ready for, because of our fat savings account and perfect health insurance plan and detoxed bodies. Of course.


Instead, I found out I was pregnant after one of the worst months of my adult life. I had fallen into winter depression with a double dose of stress. I hadn’t been exercising and was at the highest weight I’d been since The Chubby High School Years. My “core” was a mushy joke. I had spent Christmas eating things that go against everything I believe in—pesticide-laden produce, cookies made with God knows what, boxed, processed garbage, GMO’s, possibly even *shudder* factory farmed meat. I was ready to kill Mr. W because he’d been grumpy the entire time, ruining my holiday. It was the exact opposite of the beginning I wanted to give my child.


Even when I realized I was “late”, I didn’t think I was pregnant, even though Mr. W and I did have one minor “oops” in late December (our first EVER...a cautionary tale). I had zero symptoms other than the obvious. I’d always thought I’d be one of those women who just intuitively knew. My mother swears she knew the moment she was pregnant with me, and I’ve had many friends say the same thing. You just know, they say. Well, I was not one of those women.


Even if you’re trying to get pregnant, you’ve got a 20% chance of conceiving during the whopping five days you’re fertile. Those odds drop slightly after you turn 30 and drop even further if you only “try” once. With these facts, the odds that our one minor snafu had resulted in a pregnancy were less than 5%. I liked those odds.


But as I became later and later, I started to get a sinking feeling that perhaps we had beaten the odds. Mr. W remained confident that we were “fine,” but I bought the tests anyway. And before I took them, I prayed to every God I believed in and some that I didn’t that I wasn’t pregnant. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be a mother...I did, and had for awhile. It was because I wanted to give my baby a better start.


And then I took the test, and it didn’t even wait the three full minutes before it threw PREGNANT in my face. Shaking, I threw the test on the counter, fell into my walk-in closet and sobbed loudly into my clothes while poor Mr. W stood outside. When he finally asked if I was all right, I grabbed the test, walked out the door, showed it to him and sobbed into his chest. I was wailing so loudly that it took me a minute to realize that he was sobbing, too.


“I’m sorry,” I said to him, as if it was all my eggs’ fault, and not his determined-ass sperm that had somehow beaten the odds that were stacked against it.


“Don’t be sorry,” he said, wiping my tears, holding me tightly and promptly redeeming himself for every time I wanted to stab him over the last month. “Never be sorry. This is good. We’re in this together, I promise. I’m just scared. I’m so scared,” he said as if he was the one who was now facing childbirth. We fell onto the bed and cried together until we passed out...mostly from shock and terror, but a little bit from joy, too.


It doesn’t take us long to adjust to big life changes. It never has. The next day, when I came home with two more tests and they confirmed what the other two had said, we laughed. Mr. W picked me up in his arms, kissed me and called me his hot mama. I went online and read up on what I could and couldn’t eat and drink and adjusted my diet accordingly. I read Skinny Bitch: Bun in the Oven and What to Expect. I set up monthly transfers to our savings account and started telling my friends “no” when I couldn’t afford to go out with them, even when I really wanted to.


Mr. W adjusted his attitude immediately, too. Instead of dwelling on the “we’re not ready” negatives, he has been a constant source of support and has been nothing but understanding and amazing since that fateful day. I knew he would be, but I’m amazed at how much he’s changed for the better already. And I look back over the years at all the douche bags I fell for and all the less than awesome fathers that, in theory, this kid could have had, and I thank God that it was Mr. W I ended up with and also that I didn’t stab him when I wanted to.


And I forgave myself for the somewhat shitty start I have given my child, and I’ve since forgiven myself for the less than stellar first trimester we’ve had together. Yes, it would have been better if I was in better shape, eating healthier and drinking less wine when I conceived. But the thing is, I’ve got six more months of pregnancy to feed him or her a healthy diet and 18 years to instill healthy habits in him or her.


And even though I wasn’t at my best, I wasn’t in the worst shape or eating McDonald’s every day (or fucking EVER) either. All I can do is move forward as best I can, take care of myself, nurture my body and my mind, and be there fully and completely for this little human we are making. I really do feel different already, and I’m embracing every moment and every shift.


The thing about life and God and the Universe or science or whatever the hell you want to believe in is, it will give you what you want. Really. Sometimes it just happens in ways you never expected.

And even though it was the opposite of how I imagined it would be, Mr. W and I now have the best “how we conceived” story in the history of all time. It’s not going on a public blog, of course, but once I can safely have copious amounts of wine again and you ask me, I’ll probably tell you.


 
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