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July 11, 2001
The interesting thing about pregnancy is the spectrum of ways people react when they find out they are expecting. Up until recently, I had anticipated that my childbearing days were behind me. We already had two children – a girl and a boy – and they were (are) still fairly young. I didn’t know how I felt about being outnumbered, and I was pretty certain that financially we were already stretched way too thin. A third baby would add to what was already a heaping mountain of stress, bills and good intentions.
Nevertheless, it was the fourth week in March and I was pacing outside our closed bathroom door. Two minutes? Hell, it might as well have been two hours. Two minutes seems like an eternity.
John had pretty much decided to ignore me since this was my fourth test. Fourth. The first two were huge negatives. El numero three was too, but I happened to glance into the trashcan the following morning and notice a faint positive line. Two days later I was locking myself out of my own bathroom and wondering how I felt about all of this.
It’s typically not considered okay to talk about an unplanned pregnancy as though it were that – unplanned. You’re supposed to smile, say everything is hunky-dory and be on with it. Well, screw that. I’m not about to lie for anyone, least of all my coworkers or anyone else who feels uncomfortable with my feelings. I anticipated that white, lined stick like a prisoner does a night in the box. Chloe was 3 months away from turning 3. Ivan was barely 18 months. And now, another? Another?
For many women it probably seems cruel for me to wring my hands over my luck. Women who try every possible method for conceiving and carrying a child. But my reproductive ability isn’t the yang to someone else’s yin of infertility. I am who I am – a 27-year-old mom who has one tragic miscarriage and two beautiful and exhausting kids under my belt, or uterus. Or whatever. My feelings are real, and despite the knowledge that there are a vast number of people out there who’d wring my neck for me, let alone my hands for saying this, it doesn’t change it. Bringing kids into the world is hard work, and a lot harder to do well. I think anyone should have some trepidation when entering into parenthood, regardless if it’s the first or eighth time.
Of course, after all this rug-a-ma-roll, the two minutes has been up for awhile, and I go into the bathroom. Two lines, clear as day. I pick up the test, shake it a little, and look again. Yup – still pregnant.
The first few days are like that. Only I keep picking myself up and mentally giving my brain a good shake. Thoughts like “What have I done,” “What about school?” mixed with “Oh, I hope the baby has blue eyes like Chloe’s” and “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl” fly randomly through my brain at any given time. The duality of it is what drives me crazy those first few days. How can I think one thing and then a minute later have a completely conflicting thought? Well, I can.
John’s conflicted for all of ten minutes and then, in typical John fashion, assures me we can do anything and that the baby will great. I love him for his self-assuredness, but how I envy his demeanor. And part of me wants to say really rude things like “Well, of course it’s easy for you – you get to watch pretty much everything!” But that isn’t fair - John can’t help that.
And then one tossed-turned night I dream about my dad. My dad’s been gone for about four years now – he died in 1997. He doesn’t visit very often, even though I sometimes think I have a lot more say over my dreams than anyone else. He did that night though. And he was carrying an infant in his arms – a sweet little girl. He handed her to me, and smiled, and in a blink he was gone. It wasn't cinematic. There were no bright lights, no music.
I woke up a few minutes later, and something had changed. I felt at peace with the pregnancy, and knew that despite any of my fears, that this baby would be welcomed into our family without excpetion.
heather r
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