Tag Archives: pregnancy

Avoiding War

Pregnancy for me has meant a lot of things. Sure, there are the standards. Weight gain, strange growth in abdomen, listlessness followed by manic cleaning and gardening, strange eating patterns (one week oranges, the next peppers and the following baked goods) a whole host of aches and pains (I swear for a week there I felt like I had stretched my inner thighs too much, like when I was trying to coax my pre-teen body into the middle splits, the coolest splits of them all) and a litany of of other irritations that have been covered ad nauseam in the motherhood blogs and facebook rants on the internet already.  For me though, it has been more of  a long diplomatic meeting handled not by the secretaries of states, but by the rulers themselves.

Being 32, I have long since dealt with the teen angst inspired rhetoric of youth that causes one to lash out at their parents for what they did or did not do.  I have stopped judging them as parents and started judging them as people.  This happened years ago.  I moved from home, permanently, as a teenager so I never did have the protracted wars for independence like many of my friends did and as a result, there is less emotional fallout and I was able to tackle the rebuilding aspect of the war and handle the diplomacy mission much earlier.  I think we all have benefited from a few thousand miles of good road and somewhat intermittent communications.  That, I think, is the basis of a solid diplomatic relationship: enough distance so one state is not an immediate threat to the other and sporadic yet sincere communications.  I’ll take my Nobel Peace Prize now.

My relationship with my parents is what I think it should be. We are all fine with what we’ve established as our standard and for the most part, it’s been satisfactory or better.  However, the diplomacy has seen a few bumps in the road since I’ve been preggers.  It’s not because of me. It isn’t about my relationship with the foreign states of my parents, it’s about the diplomatic relationships between the feuding states known as Mum and Daddy and the new, scion of Me, the new Republic of Baby.  Given that The Republic of Baby is just starting out, it’s power to cause diplomatic tension is a little shocking. Truth be told, we, as Allied States don’t even know what the temperament of the new state will be and we are already trying to dominate and control him.  It is my new state, after all. A break away republic that was indeed started by a group of dissenters and I feel that I should be able to decide his fate.

I’m not angry about it, these rebels. In fact, I do plan to give them aid. Years of aid.  I will provide for the fledgling states infrastructure, I will give it food aid and I will shelter it until it can not just stand on it’s own two feet but until it is ready and able to provide those things for itself. I will also post my own troops on its border and protect it from all enemies until it has a standing army strong and well trained enough to protect them itself. Kinda like Germany for the past half century but without all the atrocities.

This new republic will be well cared for and I will see to it that it’s policies are sound and that is where the problem is starting for diplomatic relations with other states.  The problems are simple ones and ones that you wouldn’t think would be a problem. Such as when actual independence will take place. I intend to treat the new state more as a territory, like Puerto Rico or Guam and keep it officially attached and in bed with me. One of my diplomatic ties has a problem with this, saying I could end up smothering the state and have it die suddenly in the night. I feel it is my decision to make as the new state is not yet able to make solid decisions about this sort of thing, considering it’s government is too new and not yet fully formed.  I’m hoping the this will be resolved during the long week I’m visiting the allies in summer with the new territory in tow.

We have not had issues with what the official religion of the state will be yet,  but as one of my parent states is a Papist, we may have some problems in the future with that issue. I suspect the question of baptism will come up at some point and I will have to remind one or both allies of my prior stance on government and religion.  Hopefully, that will be resolved with little compromise on my part and understanding on the other states parts. We will know in July after the summit.  I know, having seen the raising of another scion, this one from my sister state, we will have issues with what sort of aid is allowable.  I would prefer gifts to be few and far between and solid and durable and not made of plastic. This was my sister state’s wish as well for her own new territory, but those requests were mostly ignored and defended that it is for the benefit of the territory and not the parent state and those arguments are hard to rebut. After all, when you have not calved a territory from your own already, you don’t really have the real world experience to judge what the new territory will actually need or want.  I even must admit, I  even took an insane pleasure in clothing and outfitting the new territory with quality goods that would benefit it for years to come and also messy, noisy items that would inevitably drive my sister state insane when she found little plastic choking hazards all over her house 10 or 15 years after the aid was delivered by air drop.

Such is world politics though. There is give and take and relationships grow and change over the years. Hopefully, the summit this summer will see new new treaties signed that will establish solid relationships between all the states, new and old.

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19 Weeks

So, I’ve made it to 19 weeks. As my friend J.M. pointed out the other day, almost halfway! I think my pregnancy time should count by the time I knew I was preggers and it affected my life. Well, let’s be real here, the affects were real right away. I had no choice but to sleep as I had developed a mild case of narcolepsy for most of my 1st trimester. Anyhoo, it really should go by the 10th week, so with that rational, I will only be 30 weeks preggers at the end and that would indeed make me over halfway. No matter though, because I’m right about half either way. Tomatoes, tomaatoes.

And that is a really excellent segue for this section. The little monster can no longer be described as a prawn. It is way bigger than a prawn now, it’s the size of a very large heirloom tomato. 6 inches. That’s big. I’ve also read it described as a “cheese covered mango” and that actually made me a little ill.  I love mangos but now I will see them as cheese covered and intra-uterine and that’s just icky. Maybe this is emotional growth for me, but I can no longer think of anything in my uterus as good for eatin’. If I had a therapist, I would totally talk to them about this and I’m sure they would lower my dosage. Well, they would probably make a note to revisit my dosage in the next month or so.

I’ve mentioned this in an earlier post, but I really haven’t started to feel much as far as the kid moving.  This is not helping my self esteem because all the articles say if you are very thin you should be able to feel it sooner than others who are not thin. I was thin. I really was.  I wasn’t like rail thin, but I was skinny.  My bones protruded. That counts? Right???  I know the kid is moving. I saw it move on the ultrasound and it was all over the place. Like a little retarded monkey, but I didn’t feel it at all, much to the ob’s surprise.  It was cute, she was laughing.  I do have relatively strong abdominal muscles so maybe that is why.  I did spend eight years in the military after all and while military members are not necessarily the most fit people on the planet, they are, by and large, much more physically active and fit than the rest of the country.  I was also heavy into weightlifting so that may count too.  Also, walking from bar to bar while drunk in stilettos five nights a week is great for your core muscle strength. So, maybe that’s it.


Pregnancy and Little Corks

The amazing thing about pregnancy is that it doesn’t just affect the belly and general belly area.  Oh, no. The whole body is affected.  The skin thins.  All over the body the skin gets thinner. More blood also rushes through veins and capillaries and that is what causes the “glow” you’ll read all about with just a simple google search or two. This can also cause a little skin dryness.  I got it around my nose. Crusty, ouchy skin around the folds of my nose and I’m not like a Shar-Pei or anything, but let me tell you, it’s doesn’t matter the smallest little crease was painy. And red. Did I mention also a bit crusty? I’ve finally gotten that under control. I use the hippie oil that I bought for my stretching stomach skin on my face too. Problem solved.  You never read about that though. You never hear anyone say they needed to use their hippie oil all over their body, but there you have it. I use it all over my body, even on my face.  Amazingly, my skin has cleared. Totally cleared.  I’ve had problems with mild, hormonal acne since I was around 27 and had to use Retin A to get it to clear. Retin A also causes red, flaky, ouchy skin near my Shar-Pei folds, by the way.

Now, Retin A, my little life saver, cannot be used during pregnancy unless you want a retard kid.  Luckily, as soon as I got preggers, and I mean from the day the little monster became a splitting ball of cells, my skin started to clear on it’s own.  I can be a little bad about using my face cream.  Usually, when I forget to use it (Okay, I’m not going to lie. I don’t forget. I just don’t feel like using it because it makes my lips dry right after I apply it even though it doesn’t touch my lips and I have to wash my hands after I put it on and there’s the whole ouchy skin thing) I get about five days of clear skin and then a deep, horrible zit will start to form in some prominent place on my face and then I’ll start it back up again. This time though, I noticed nothing.  Not a single little zit. Not one raised spot. Not one extra black head. Super sweet.  I was wondering if I had finally fixed whatever hormonal problem I had been having.  Yeah, no. Well, I did, sort of. I’ve heard that the skin clearing can last after pregnancy and that would be super sweet.  I know it will stick around while I’m breast feeding so I may just breast feed forever. I’m a little freaked out by kiddos who can talk and walk up to the dairy bar and unleash a tit for lunch, but who knows.  If it keeps my skin clear, it might just be worth it.

I’ve been lucky so far not to have any problems with hemorrhoids. Thank god! I’m thinking I probably won’t have the pleasure of ouchy little grapes around my ass because I eat a whole lot of fiber. Like, a whole lot. Also, I drink tons of water and that helps.  Oh, and I take Cod Liver Oil capsules.  A little unrefined oil does wonders for the GI tract. In fact, a few years ago, long before I was knocked up, I was on a health bender and was taking Cod Liver Oil capsules.  The bottle said to take one or two with a meal.  It was a Friday night and I was eating alone because I was dating a Super Jew (should that be hyphenated?) who ate dinner with his parents every Friday and then went out drinking at the bar. That is the way young, hip Super Jews do it in LA. So, I ate my dinner, popped two capsules and washed them down with a glass or two of box wine and got dressed to go out. By the time he showed up to get me, I was starting to have little fish burps, but no matter! It was for my health. I was sure I could wash that down with plenty of bourbon and it would pass.  It did. Soon, I didn’t have the fishy burps anymore and all was fine.  The night was almost over and the bar had closed.  There were a few of us in the bar while the bartenders closed.  Just as my date and I were about to leave, I felt a small rumble in my tummy. A little gas slipped out. Normally, this isn’t a problem because I take a lot of probiotics and eat a really nice diet, so literally, my shit doesn’t stink.  Good thing too, but that was exactly what I had let out and it was dripping down my leg. Super! I ran to the bathroom and took care of that, I think without anyone noticing. Hopefully without anyone noticing. But, as I pushed the bathroom door open I noticed that the bar was completely dark! I had been locked in the bar! Shit!! I heard the gate screeching  back open just as I hollered “Hey!! I’m locked in the bar!” I wasn’t allowed to stay in the bar after close anymore after that. I haven’t tried in ages so I don’t know if that rule is still in effect, but I’m afraid the bartenders there have a pretty long memory. It’s just as well, I don’t drink that late in the night anyways, except water. So, moral of the story? Work up to two capsules. Take your time with it.

There are a whole lot of things you don’t hear much about though. I was in the shower the other day and roughing up my nipples as my mother suggested. It’s not as much fun as it sounds like.  Basically, when you start breastfeeding, your nipples can become like very chapped lips and start to crack and bleed and that is painful, obviously, so before you have a little monster latching on and ruining your nipple, you have to spend a few months roughing them up with washcloths or what have you. I think that may be the biological reason behind the constantly hard nipples. It makes sense to me. When they are hard all the time, they rub up against clothes all the time and that helps to toughen them up. Sigh, my nipples will never be the same again. They will now, forever, be tough. Well, at least I got years of enjoyment out of them first. There is something to be said for waiting till you’re in your 30s to spawn. The nipple roughing was going as expected but then I noticed this little white dots on my nipples.  It wasn’t like lint or anything like that. It was more like black heads.  I used my fingernail to scrape it off and it would lift up like a little waxy covering and then I could pull of the rest. Yes, it was exactly like a shallow blackhead, except it wasn’t because it was on my nipple.  Not my areola but on my nipple. My newly toughened nipples. Ewww. I did a little googling about this and found that the little blackhead like things were exactly that, like little blackheads.  I found one site that called them little corks on the top of my milk ducts. I kinda like that. So, now I have little corks coming out.  That means the next thing is leaking nipples. Yay!


Do You Think I Didn’t Already Think of That?

Not very often, but just occasionally, rarely or sometimes, I run into a friend who has not seen me since before I announced my condition.  Well,  actually, that’s a lie, I very often run into friends who have not seen me since I announced the impending little monster, what I not very often, occasionally, rarely or sometimes run into, is a friend who hasn’t seen me since the announcement and they would like to play a little Devil’s Advocate with me. I assume when they are doing this that they are concerned that I don’t have the mental capacity to think critically or to look at my current situation from the outside. I understand this can be a problem for some, mainly very young people or very self-absorbed people which oftentimes goes hand in hand.  The problem with playing Devil’s Advocate with people who are either or both very young or very self-absorbed is they don’t appreciate it for being the caring, self-sacrificing with love activity that it is.  Well, I’m not terribly sure that it is any of those things, but that is what I have been told it is by the three who have played this little game with me.  It seems like it must be though. Pointing out my glaring character flaws, my tragic employment situation, and the difficulty of who I happened to have my bastard child with (not because of him, as none of them have met him, they just know that he is, regrettably, nearly six years my junior and horror of all horrors, an artist and craftsman.) It must be difficult indeed to carefully point these problems out and then expound on how if they were to decide to have a child they would make sure they are doing the exact opposite of what I have done because that is the only way to raise a child who is not a delinquent or mentally retarded.  Sometimes, I’ve even been told that perhaps I would never be able to raise a child who could be anything but a delinquent.  It is so difficult to point out another’s faults, so I really do appreciate this service they are offering.  Very selfless.

Does that all sound a little defensive? Yeah, I guess it does and do you know what really bothers me about this? I shouldn’t have to defend myself against my friends. My friends should know me well enough to know that I am capable and even prone to critical thought.  They should already know that this is not a decision I would ever take lightly.  And you know what? They should just support me and baring that, they should just shut up about it. If I wanted opinions about my pregnancy, I would have said something along the lines of, “Hey, I’ve recently found out I’m knocked up, it would be great to have opinions of what I should do about it.”  I didn’t say that though. I just announced it.  I did talk about the prospect of my being pregnant with a few people before I knew for sure that I was.  I spent hours talking with these friends about what I may do, about my options and how I felt about it.  I asked them for their opinions and they gave them to me readily.  I took the opinions and chewed them over.  Not everyone thought it was a great idea. Not all were excited about it at the time. I wasn’t offended, hell, I didn’t even really know how I felt about it. Sometimes, I still don’t know how I feel about it. But, that is to be expected, this a big deal.  Perhaps, my mistake was not asking everyone what they thought before I had made the decision.  Then again, possibly, the reason I didn’t ask for these people’s opinions when I was deciding what to do is that I didn’t want to hear what they had to say.  Maybe I knew that these people had a tendency to be self-important and judgmental. Maybe.  Maybe I just hadn’t seen them, or hadn’t seen them in a quiet situation without lots of ears around besides our own so I would be comfortable discussing serious issues.  Maybe, I thought they had their own problems to deal with and didn’t want to burden them with mine. Maybe, I thought they were busy-bodies.

Whatever my reason for not discussing my issue with them, it stands as it is. I made the decision without them. But, just because they were not involved in the decision does not mean it wasn’t well thought out. It does not mean that I didn’t ask myself the same questions they asked me.  I doesn’t mean that I’m just letting life happen to me without thought or care. This is the biggest decision I will ever make because I’m not just affecting me or another consenting adult. I’m going to be bringing another person into this world and into my life, for better or for worse.  The relationship you have with your child is really the only one where there is a real guarantee of for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part.  And it is a huge responsibility. Of course I thought about it. I agonized over it. I lost sleep over it. I worried. I fretted. I stressed. I cried. I made lists and points and counter-points and brainstormed and researched and soul-searched. In short, I did everything and then some that a responsible, reasonable, intelligent person would do when they have to make a huge decision. Because this is a huge decision and there were a lot of things for me to consider. So, yeah, I know all the obstacles before me, but didn’t you think that maybe I had already thought of that?


Hello In There!

I’ve been amusing my friends with this horrible story for a few weeks and it has received plenty of guffaws from my completely tasteless and horrible friends so I thought the general masses may also appreciate it for it’s incredible base and even prurient ideas.

On my very first pre-natal appointment, in the middle of December, I woke up early and made sure I ate plenty of food and loaded my bloated butt into the car with baby daddy and drove on over to the hospital.  After waiting for at least an hour, I was called into the exam room with the midwife.  She does the normal questions many of which I was not exactly forthright in my answers.  Honestly, what does it matter to the hospital that I was a total stoner when I was a teenager? So, drug use, no. Alcohol use, no. Smoking, no ( I had quit, a couple days before because that was when I found out I was baking a baby, so that one was sort of honest.)  I really just didn’t want to hear a bunch of crap.  I already knew the possible damage I had done. I also knew that there isn’t much the quacks can do for me or the little monster if there was damage. Oh, and I knew that in all likely hood, had their been damage I wouldn’t still be pregnant at 11 weeks.  Side note, not surprisingly, they didn’t believe me and gave me a tox screen anyways. Negative, of course, but still annoying.

We finally get to the good part. She has me strip down and climb into a johnny and lay down on the table.  She grabs a little blue tool thing and sets it on gel on my belly and then we hear it, the heart beat.  It was strong and watery sounding. I knew my eyes were turning read. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes and a smile creep over my face.  We listen for a minute or two.  Dad, for some horrible reason, was not allowed in the room for this so he didn’t get to hear it.  He still hasn’t as the ultrasound woman didn’t turn the sound on while she had the doohicky in my whoo-whoo.  I think this is because she is mean.  She may have had her reasons, but I still prefer to think that she just has a failure in her spirit and she is mean.

While I was riding the high of hearing the parasite in my belly, she tells me to get my feet in the stirrups. Time to start the pelvic exam. Goody.  Speculum. Goo. Q-tips with really long handles (thank god!,) little brush thing, little spatula thing. Fine.  I really didn’t want ANYTHING up in my lady parts, but whatever.  Pelvic exams are never pleasant, not like medical fetish porn would lead you to believe. No one is happy to be there, but this time I really, really didn’t want any of it. Even before I knew I was pregnant, that area was closed for business.  I hear that makes me a little strange. It’s not that I don’t feel attractive, because I still am and I know it.  I have a mirror that I obsessively look into, because I’m incredibly vain, and I think I actually look a bit better now than I did before.  I finally have bewbs, so that’s nice and my skin looks Amazing. It’s just like that area of my body is sealed or something.  I don’t even touch it.  I normally touch it all the time so this is pretty strange.  Oh, the miracle of pregnancy.  Alrighty, so out come the detailing kit and the lift and then in go the gloved (I hope) fingers.  This is, again, horribly invasive for me at the time.  Like being at a frat party too late, except I couldn’t smell vomit wafting up from the carpet or stale, cheap beer on her breath.  She then, with what feels like her whole hand inside me, grabs my uterus from the inside and the outside together. Like she is grabbing a football and pulling it up.  Imagine it. Yes, just like that. She lets go of the top and keeps rooting around inside and then she says this, “Well, it’s roomy. Plenty of room for the baby.”

Seriously? Roomy? That is how she is describing my who-who? Since when did it get roomy? I’ve never, ever heard it called roomy before. It was like she was describing an apartment. Does it also get a lot of natural sunlight in the morning? Now, maybe, just maybe she was describing my pelvis. Describing my pelvis would be nicer.  Even though I do not use that hospital any longer, I kinda want to call and ask her exactly what she meant. I wish I had been in a more critical mindset, so I could have found out what she meant at the time.

So, there you have it. You now know I have something that could be described as “roomy” down there in my lady parts.


Whore Clothes Make Great Maternity Clothes

I’m 12 weeks 3 days now.  Finally, I am starting to have more energy, although last night I did crawl into bed around 8 pm, but that was mostly because I was bored and it was a little cold in my warehouse.  I am no longer taking a nap around 4 in the afternoon till around 10 at night and then going back to sleep around midnight till 5:30 am.  I guess that is progress. I’ve spent the last few days going through my wardrobe to see what I will be able to wear for the next few months. Luckily, most of my clothes involve Lycra so they can do double duty, for a little while at least. Also, I’m really glad almost everything in my closet is black. I have had to make some dresses into shirts and I ,for sure, must wear tights or at very least fishnets with all of my skirts, but hey, it’s winter anyways.  My incredible increase in size seems to have settled down a bit.  I had gained 12 lbs by the time I was 11 weeks.  I was a little underweight, I suppose. For Los Angeles, I was the acceptable weight for a girl about town, but my mother insists I had no body fat.  I have twice assured here that I did, in fact, have some body fat; even enough body fat, as clearly I was still menstruating. Was.  I’m not anymore, obviously.  After dealing with nearly monthly cycles for 20 years, it is kinda pleasant. Alas, that is neither here nor there, on with the post.

I have been holed up in my room for the last month or more.  I don’t feel weird about being out or anything like that, I’m  just tired.  But, I had a birthday party to go to at a fancy lounge above Besso Tuesday night and I didn’t want to miss it.  I had announced my case of the babies to my little facebook world Sunday and some people were at least curious to see what had become of me. Like when you slow down for an accident. I had 7 pm dinner reservations, and it would take me 30 minutes to get from downtown to Larchmont at that hour (if I were lucky, but I always count on luck to move traffic along for me, which may be why I’m always late for things.) Normally, it takes me 45 minutes to get ready but I hadn’t done the whole make-up and hair thing in at least a month so I gave myself a little more time to do it. I had a new pair of lashes to size and put on as well and even when I am current with my make-up routine, that still takes some time.  I added an extra half an hour. I found a dress that was a bit too big when I bought it and was fitted, sort of. It was a little more fitted on the butt than I would have liked but it had an empire waist and was comfortable enough.  It would do.  My boobs were a little big for it, but they were not smooshed like Elizabeth Hurley likes to do, so I went with it.  No one will complain that my boobs look too big.  Not in my crowd. I found a pair of fishnets that were not “ruined” and then slapped on a pair of heels.  It was okay.  I looked good. I looked pregnant, but good. After fussing with my hair, who’s cut I still am not sure about, I was out the door. It was 20 till 7.  So much for the extra time I budgeted.

Dinner at Girasole was excellent.  It was a whole lot less boozy than dinner with my girlfriends normally is, but it was still fun.  Because I’m following the Weston Price Foundation diet for pregnant and nursing women, I got the pasta with clams. Pasta doesn’t really fit, but at least it was made in house, but the clams do and it was loaded with them.   I wish I had known the chef loved garlic so much before I ordered that though. That turned out to be a problem later. After a leisurely  dinner filled with talk of babies and stretch marks and speculums, I bid Sharon adieu and headed to the party.

I got there early, of course.  Ten on the nose.  The birthday girl was happy some people showed up at the beginning. I was happy to get a chance to chat with her early on, so she would remember it and I would be able to slip out after a reasonable amount of time. Because of the garlic, I would be leaving much earlier than I had thought I would.  As the lounge filled, I was having a hard time finding a discrete place to blow my garlic burps so as not to offend anyone’s olfactory nerves.  It was killing me.  By 11, I was yawing and starting to get a headache.  My friend was being annoyed by some man who smelled like tempera paint and modeling clay and was wearing payless shoes and a poorly fitted suit. He was clearly snorting the good stuff and not sharing with my friend, although she didn’t ask.  Probably a good thing.  She had to work in the morning.  After 11.30, we were able to find everyone knew and say goodnight.  We were in the car by quarter till and I was home by midnight.

Going out without drinking is nothing new to me.  When I had a shoot, I wouldn’t drink a drop for two weeks before and my social calendar never lets up so I had to go out anyways. I would just order water with lots of lemon or lime and call it good.  It was new to me to be leaving the party before midnight though. I’m not sure how I feel about it.  I guess it’s being responsible.  I guess it’s being a mom and having someone else to think about. It’s not though as much as I would like to think it was something reasonable like that. I was because I had a headache and because I wanted to go home and take those fishnets off and let my belly expand and burp in peace.


The Double Lines

It’s been 10 days since I saw the double pink lines in the 99 C store pregnancy test I had reluctantly purchased.

I hadn’t had my period for a couple months, but that was THAT odd, it did sometimes happen.  Not usually to me, but there were plenty of stories from women (on the internet) who skipped periods for nothing more than a slight hormonal problem so why not me? Maybe I would get lucky and have an ovarian cyst that was stopping up the works.  Huge tender breast can come from a cyst right? Right. I checked it on every medical website around.  They totally can.  Moodiness happens from being premenstrual so that was covered, I was very premenstrual. Cravings can come from that too.

The night sweats were harder to explain.  I immediately assumed that as a 32 year old it was perfectly reasonable to add pre- menopausal to my list of possible ailments. I looked it up, it can happen at 32. It can happen younger for Pete’s sake, so why not?  Well, at least if I was about to enter menopause, at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the ovarian cyst any longer.  I could get used to the hot flashes.

Sleep disturbances are totally normal for me, so I wasn’t even really trying to figure out why I wasn’t able to sleep till 8 am and why I was sleeping till 5 pm.  Those were pretty close to my normal hours anyways. The only thing was I found myself too exhausted to go out. This is truly a shocking development, as for the last few years of un or under-employment I had become almost a professional partier. But now,  I couldn’t even be bothered to take a shower. I would be on the guest list +2 every night and  all I wanted to do was layabout and read and nap.  I had become a house cat. It was this that led me to believe I had sunk deep into depression or maybe I had Chronic Fatigue.  The CF self-diagnosis was convenient because the diagnosis is so vague anyways.

I always have to pee so that also wasn’t such a concern.  I drink tons of water, but that is mainly to deal with the tons of bourbon I (used to) drink. The only nausea I experience was when I was my bartender friend poured me a shot of Wild Turkey because I was in the bar dressed as a turkey.  Yeah, that’s a long story.

Alas, I was beginning to not fit into much of my clothing.  I was eating like a manatee after all, so that would make sense. But, really it was more than that.  I may have been in denial, but I’m not stupid.  I knew what it all added up to.  I just didn’t want to know.  I was hoping my patented Immaculate Intervention method would work for me and if I didn’t really confirm it, I could miscarry and not be sad about being a poor vessel.  Once I knew, for sure, I would have to make a decision.

Abortion seemed to be the obvious answer. A single, 32 year old, party animal who lives in a ware house with three guys and four dogs and is living by the seat of her pants is not exactly what one thinks of when they think of a good time or person for motherhood.  I’m not at all pro-life. I mean, sure, live. But, I’m not even pro-choice. I would say I’m more, well, not pro-abortion, because that just seems wrong, but pro-planning and pro-doing the right thing for all parties involved. This was not how I had “planned” my journey into motherhood starting.  God, “journey into motherhood” sounds so ridiculous. But, what is this? My abrupt transition? My sudden realization that this is what is going to happen? My one thing in life I can’t procrastinate about? Fuck it. I don’t know. It is what it is.

Maybe adoption was the way to go. After searching around the internet for a bit, I knew couldn’t possibly let some bible-thumping weirdos from Temecula or Salt Lake City raise my child.  Oh no.  Not this kid.  I decided it would have to be a nice gay family.  I had a lot to choose from.  I read hundreds of stories. I read their websites and looked at their pictures.  I was the first time I cried about my pregnancy. Reading the stories of how they met and how much they wanted to raise a child together made tears stream down my face.  I felt for them. I really wanted to help them, but it made me feel so callous.  I was carrying this one thing that so many people would be willing to mortgage their houses for or fly around the world for and I was going to just give it away.  Actually, that’s a lie.  I was hoping to make some money on it.  Trade it for a new car.  Yeah, I know, it’s horrible. I’m not proud of myself for that, but like all of this, it is what it is.

It was that experience, the looking for adoptive parents experience that made me realize I was an ass. Here I was, at the perfect age for child rearing, carrying a child that would no doubt be beautiful (as I’m a looker and so is it’s dad) and smart (daddy’s super smart and I’m pretty bright) and it was here.  It was healthy because it was still there.  After 10 weeks of partying it was still there.  After the hot tubs, the smoking, the drinking, the coffee and being cinched into corsets it was still there.  I was even lucky enough to have relieved myself from my very high pressure, high stress job a while ago and had learned to cut my expenses and live cheaply.  I no longer needed to make tons of money, I could be even happier with less. I was at least in a good situation to have a child and actually get to raise it myself instead of plunking it in daycare or with a nanny.

I decided to do it. To keep it. I notified the father via text message. I quit drinking. I quit smoking and I switched to half caff. Those double pink lines had just changed everything.


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