That’s right folks, somehow I managed to get myself knocked up, by accident, at the ripe old age of 41. This is baffling to me on so many levels. The first of which is, that we were not trying, at all.
We are a historically under-fertile couple. Back when I was 34, “experts” told us we had a .05% chance of getting pregnant naturally. With the help of my amazing acupuncturist, we eventually did, but it took a while.
I am in the midst of peri-menopause. My hormones have been in decline for a few years, getting ready for that old pause in the meno. On my way out, expiring, heading towards old-ladydom, that’s me.
The single-kid thing has always been fine by us. I am not one of those people who looks over at the parent with two kids and thinks How lovely! or Maybe someday… No, I look at that mom with one in the Bjorn and another in the stroller, and think: That poor woman or What a pain in the ass.
We were done, diapers and baby-proofing are distant memories. Quit while you’re ahead we’ve always said. We already have one great kid, why spoil a good thing? Plus, it’s cheaper.
At restaurants, our adorable, well behaved child sits quietly between us, and politely engages in our adult conversation. I watch as the parents of multiple children struggle to maintain order and enjoy their meal. Smiling at my husband, I think to myself: Well, aren’t we just the smartest couple here. Just not smart enough to use a condom.
So how did this happen and what does it mean? Well, I know how it happened, technically, I just can’t fathom how it actually came to fruition.
What does it mean? It means we have to completely re-arrange our world view, our life plans, our furniture. Fortunately, Shane and I have not been great about making life plans, so that’s one issue taken care of already.
It means I might eat chicken. Once, during my last pregnancy I found myself standing outside the Gourmet Garage on 7th Avenue devouring a whole (cooked) chicken breast with my bare hands. All bets are off.
It also means that The Steady Table might be on hiatus for a little while. During those dark days, those awful newborn weeks, which people who have more than one kid on purpose seem to forget about between pregnancies.
What if it’s a boy? I don’t like super heroes, video games, guns, aggressive stuff, banging, yelling, screaming or any other loud noises. I don’t know anything about little penises. And man-oh-man, I really don’t like screaming.
I’m sure I sound cold and ungrateful, but I don’t mean to. I struggled with infertility once, I know how it feels. Who am I to scoff at an unexpected baby surprise? It’s just that it’s not what I had in mind. Feeling like shit 24/7 for the past 8 weeks didn’t help either.
I will eventually embrace this pregnancy. It’s pretty much impossible to deny that it was meant to be, the way it happened against all odds. Some little soul, out there in the ether, decided it would be nice to be a part of our family. We’re a pretty fun family, after all.
If everything goes according to plan, this baby’s going to pop out—quickly and painlessly, please!—in early to mid-December. And in spite of everything, I’m going to love it like crazy. We all will. Even if it’s a boy.