I am not one of those happy-go-lucky first time preggos oooohing and aaaaahing over Babies R Us catalogs and the latest trend in diaper clutches on etsy. I am not racing out to register for shower gifts. I am not really thinking of names.
Honestly, I’m not all that excited right now.
(Yup, she said it. Unsubscribe! Fast!)
It might be the hormones. I had basically non-functional ovaries for the better part of a decade, so any normal amount of estrogen/progesterone is too much for me, let alone the onslaught that is first trimester pregnancy.
It might be the part where I’ve been sick as shit for the last 6 weeks. Not that I don’t love puking my guts out like every girl who has ever had a whiskey bender, but I don’t really care for it every day. I also don’t like not getting work done, not getting out of my bed, and not having a clean house. The constant puking plus my hell bent need to have a drug free tree hugging pregnancy (meaning no anti-nausea drugs) is not the best selling point on why having babies is the coolest thing on the planet.
It might be the part where we tried (and by tried I mean didn’t actively try but gave up any and all forms of birth control with a … well, it’ll happen if it’s going to happen approach) for five years. Yea, FIVE. The first 4.5 of those years, I was actively emotionally involved in the process. I would chart my cycle as it progressed (or largely didn’t, thanks, busted f’in ovaries) and I would regularly hide in the bathroom waiting for those little lines to appear. And they didn’t. Ever. Not once. Somewhere in that last 6 months (or more, I don’t really remember) I became kind of disenfranchised with the whole endeavor. It wasn’t working. It was never going to work. I didn’t even know if I wanted it to work anymore.
It might be that I had started planning our lives without the prospect of kids. Or that I just decided what grad school program was the right one. Or that the admissions committee just finally agreed with me. It might be that a decade ago That Boy and I agreed that if we ever had babies, one of us would be taking care of them … limiting severely my ability to do um, anything, for the next however many years.
It might be all of it. It might be none. It might be that I’m some kind of perverse heartless creature incapable of love and living in a cloud of baby making remorse. It could be the least popular thing I’ve ever written.
Yea. That last one is probably true.