You know how you felt at the end of The Sixth Sense? You felt like NO WAY I HAD ALL THE CLUES THE WHOLE TIME AND I NEVER PUT IT TOGETHER. We all felt that way.
Back in late July, I had my IUD removed. At first, it was because we were going “to try” and see what happened. But in all honesty, that lasted about two weeks.
Because of our unusual sleeping situations (we take turns sleeping on the couch since Bryan’s snoring is preventing us from sleeping in the same room), I was INSANELY tired. Like, cranky pants tired, times eleventy frillion.
So about two weeks after the removal, I said, “I’m done. Really.” Bryan agreed and began to set plans in motion for a vasectomy.
As you can imagine, sleeping in separate quarters doesn’t really lend itself to spontaneity, if you catch my drift. I really, really, REALLY never thought twice about anything.
I was cold all the time. I’m normally always my own personal space heater, but all of a sudden, I could be dressed in layers of sweaters outside in 90-degree weather and still complain about the chill. I was EXHAUSTED.
But – again. I was working (more than) full time, going to school (more than) full time, and still had other stuff happening. Exhaustion and taking crappy care of myself were not a surprising result of these things.
One morning – at 5:00 a.m. before a big customer meeting – I got up and shut off my iPhone alarm, like I usually do. I stumbled to the bathroom and checked my bangs to see if I could get away without shampooing that day, like I usually do. And as routinely as I did everything else, I took a pregnancy test.
And it was positive.
And like any normal person, I held up the two blue lines and said out loud, “Nope, don’t have time for this,” and shoved it in a drawer.
Naturally, once I had caffeine in me, I assumed the whole thing had been a dream. It was so surreal, and really, WHO REACTS THAT WAY? So I came home, greeted the boys playing video games, and excused myself for a second test. While the first test had some fuzziness to it, the second test arrived with fanfare and confidence. Pos-i-TIIIIIVE, it sang.
So like any normal person, I shoved it in the drawer with the other one and went to do homework.
When I told Bryan I was pregnant with Tony, I had planned a nice little revelation that revolved around a cute baby book and a private, intimate moment, the kind of memory that is absolutely perfect to record in a baby book that you then hand over to your teenager and they can be embarrassed at how saccharin their parents were.
Bryan knew something was up when I offered to come lay down with him for a little while.
Noting how cold my feet were, he mentioned how odd it was that I was now cold all the time. “Well, I’m about six weeks pregnant.” There was no fanfare, no sweet hesitation, no cushion.
He began giggling while gushing about how excited he was.
“I’ll let you get through that,” I said, rolling away. “I’m not there yet.”
We had just made the decision of No More, which resulted in the final purging of all baby-related items in the house, and the dregs of my long-forgotten maternity wardrobe. It was all gone. We had finally settled into this being our forever family, and it felt okay, honestly. I didn’t feel incomplete, I didn’t feel discontent. And now. NOW.
Irrationally, my main concern – outweighing the fact that we’d now have to upgrade EVERYTHING: house, cars, more baby stuff – was that I already had a baby. I mean, he didn’t look like a baby any more, since he was now approaching his 5th birthday, but he was. He was MY baby. My lap was his; he occupied over half of the pictures on my phone. I already carry so much guilt that he doesn’t get enough time, enough attention, and this would just split us further.
Bryan and I had made peace with the decision that we were done having kids. I made no bones about telling Tony that he would always, always be my baby, no matter how old he got. How would I tell him that there was now another? HE WOULD BE SO MAD AT ME.
Yesterday, we went to the doctor, finally having reached the magical eight weeks point. I had both dreaded and longed for this day; the arrival of this news meant I could finally TALK about it, and y’all, it has been KILLING ME to not talk about this.
Well, while we did get good news, it was certainly surprising: we were not eight weeks along, as the data suggested. Because of my IUD, my cycles were way out of whack. I was about six weeks, from what they could guess. Which means I knew I was pregnant at, like, THREE WEEKS.
MY OWN SIXTH SENSE.
Anyway, healthy little bean thingie in there, good heartbeat, all that jazz.
Due to scheduling yesterday, my master plan of us picking up Tony early and taking him for ice cream to tell him the news was kind of shit upon, so instead, I knelt in the kitchen and showed him the ultrasound picture. “There’s a baby in my tummy,” I admitted, like I had been lying to him.
“Where is the surprise again?” he asked.
“This is it, bud. Surprise.”
“Okay. I will keep this secret for the surprise tonight.”
And that baby – not a baby anymore – did, and we surprised the snot out of my family after a southern banquet.
Everyone is genuinely, truly excited. And I know I will be too. I think having to keep this a secret from EVERYONE is partly why I’m still so disassociated from it. I am trying to force it, trying to make myself feel excited because I know how some people would trade anything to be in my shoes, and I know that and that’s the logical way to see it, but I’m not there yet. I’m just not there. I am tired and overwhelmed and exhausted and I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel yet. I see a swirling hole of finances that are suddenly about to avalanche upon us and I see more uncertainty. I’m not there yet.
But thanks so much for your support thus far. All the kind words and sweet sayings and… really, thank you. I’m not there yet, but you guys will get me there, no doubt about it.