I don’t quite know what to do with my infertile-but-now-pregnant self. I’ve been having feelings of…. Guilt! Betrayal! THIS GIRLDLE IS SO TIGHT! And other melodramatic feelings that only exist in the hearts of women in Jane Austen books and Downton Abbey?
Being pregnant after infertility – even after my total junior league, AAA, <insert other sports reference signifying a very novice level of anything> infertility – is fucking strange. (An expletive was appropriate there, I assure you.)
But because delving too deeply into my “complicated” and “complex” feelings would necessarily involve something about my superego, followed by several painstaking hours of insufferable navel gazing, the urge to drink,
and the en masse exit of all of my readers I’ll spare you.
That was a lie.
It’s just that <deep breath signifying profound thoughts to come, accompanied by dramatic hand gestures>: I’m not sure where I belong – cue the COLOSSAL ORCHESTRA of tiny violins. On one hand, any admission of a promising beta feels like a direct assault. A kind of virtual, so long suckers! Which makes me feel like a total witch. On the other hand, ohmygoodness half-off-infant-fleece-Patagonia-onesie!
But this week, as promised, I’ve been trying to embrace optimism; to allow C (and myself, on alternate Tuesday afternoons, except today, not today), to like, enjoy this. Every godforsaken tender-breasted-getting-up-in-the-night-to-pee-three-times-should-i-bring-a-plastic-bag-on-the-subway-in-case-i-puke? moment.
So anyway. In my first act of everything-is-swell-ness, I contemplated purchasing the bible of expectant motherhood, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Because what better way to GETEXCITED than through “literature.” After reading a number of reviews, which insinuated something to the effect of – ONLY BUY THIS BOOK IF YOU WANT TO HAVE THE EVERLOVING SHIT SCARED OUT OF YOU! – I was
having second thoughts. Despite still believing I have (a) an ectopic pregnancy;
(b) a blood clot moving slowly, but defiantly, toward my brain; (c) shingles;
or (d) all of the above plus some other parade of horribles I am not yet privy
to, I’m not sure I need to pay someone else, namely this-woman-who-obviously-lives-in-a-wax-museum,
to fan the flames of my insanity laced paranoia in print. So I’ve resolved my
internal debate by fiendishly searching the interwebs for a free, digital
version of the book. Because as long as I don’t have to pay someone to fan the
flames of my insanity laced paranoia…amiright?
Anyway. Optimism! She’s a devious mistress. This post is really wrapping up nicely, eh?
In other infertility news: you guys, Tom Arnold did twenty-one cycles of IVF with four different women. And now he’s a dad. So that should…inspire us?
I am slowly finding my “pregnancy voice.” Bare with me.
 Actually, I have no idea. For some reason Jane Austen books seemed to be perennially assigned as summer reading in my public high school. Which meant that sometime, in late August, I would purchase the Cliffs Notes and also maybe, maybe, listen to about 1/3 of the book on tape.
 Ditto. Never seen a single episode *ducks to avoid the volley of sharp objects thrown in her general direction.*
 Today’s intermittent all day nausea confirms that I am, possibly, still pregnant.
 No one knows why LeBron is playing a tiny violin. NO ONE.
 For the record, did not purchase because: hellomiscarriageharbinger. On a related note: anything with the official name “baby reversible puff-ball pants” just slays me. (Swear I was just looking at the sale items and infant wear was mixed in with totally reasonable and age appropriate adult women’s wear).
 Don’t worry mom. I’m calling my PCP tomorrow.