Warning: I am going to do a bit of oversharing in this post.
So, my period was late. Very late. So late, that I started to think, well, maybe this is it.
It was a funny feeling. There was none of the panic of college years when every day past the due date I said a little prayer: “please don’t let me be pregnant, please don’t let me be pregnant.” I was always responsible, but you just never know, right? So I almost had to remind myself not to panic, that this was a good thing, that this was what I wanted.
Then, once I realized I didn’t have to panic, came other disturbing thoughts and phantom symptoms. That twinge of nausea while I was brushing my teeth in the morning – was that pregnancy, or the seafood from last night, or was I sticking the tootbrush too far down to reach my back teeth? Are my boobs tender, or is my bra uncomfortable? Are my jeans a little snugger than usual because of the chocolate cake for dinner, or you know, from a fetus growing inside?
I actually had to stop myself from feeling giddy, from thinking about baby names, from running out and buying baby furniture. But my thoughts ran wild without my permission. Baby Porter or Fiona (although I am still not sure about Fiona – it makes me think of Shrek’s wife…) will have my curly hair and Drew’s button nose and blue eyes. He/she will be a good baby, not much crying, above average intelligence, good manners, good grades, etc. I will be working from home – maybe? – and we’ll have a little house with a little garden where we’ll plant tomatoes and beans with the kids.
OK, OK, stop!
But if I wanted to be honest with myself, I knew that I really wasn’t feeling any different than usual. Then my Mom assured me that if I were pregnant, I really wouldn’t feel anything at first. That just added fuel to the fire and I could barely sleep that night. I am not feeling anything = I am pregnant!
I had a sudden urge to do major spring cleaning that Sunday – was the apartment dirty, or was I nesting? – and when my period made its entrance between scrubbing the kitchen floor and vacuuming, I was miffed. Disappointed. Felt really stupid for thinking I could be pregnant. I promised that I would not drive myself crazy every month, but now it was happening.
That is the weird thing about trying to get pregnant. When you start out, you don’t think it really matters whether it happens or not, whether it happens now or a year from now. You are just trying because, well, because that’s what you do. But as soon as you start trying, the baby project becomes more important than you ever thought possible. And now here I was, just like other women, waiting anxiously every month, feeling let down, angrily shoving furniture out of the way.
I popped a couple of Tylenols to curb the cramps that were swirling in my tummy and watered the plants. I watched my favorite Danielle Steele romance of Oxygen – the one about the German woman who escapes to America carrying the baby of her Nazi officer lover. I made dinner.
There is always next month