Pregnancy. Descent into the WTF-ness
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| Us at 3 months pregnant |
The culmination of a
nine (no, wait, that's bullshit) ten month pregnancy has left me with
somewhere between a long short story and a very short novel in my
head. Here goes, in no particular order. Welcome to my
head. Please enjoy your stay.
Wait...we're
WHAT?
We have all had a
lot of lifetimes in our lifetime, and I have wiped my slate and
started new chapters in defiance of basking in the lukewarm glow of
mediocrity or settling for a less than extraordinary life. I'm
guessing more times than the average person. I also have a
sense of self entitlement for run on sentences. It's my short
sweet beautiful life. I can't settle. I won't settle.
We were friends
whose families got together approximately monthly for about eight
years. He had his wife and life and I had my own relationships
and curvy path along the way. We were never on the sidelines
pining for one another, just friends that admired and respected the
spark in the other, and the circle of All Of Us provided a safe space
for fun food and a sharing of the selves.
Right about the time
he was dealing with the fallout of having married the wrong woman I
was losing the fortitude to carry around the dead heavy carcass of
what had not been a healthy relationship for about two years.
We started out in support of one another, holding up mirrors to the
good we saw in one another and offering up words of comfort, logic,
emotion, or the overall directive of if everything else fails to fix
or bring comfort “just let that shit burn...”. Then walks
in the woods turned into the fact that stuff happens in the woods.
He told me he wanted to be with me. I called bullshit.
You've been in a relationship for eight years. You are a juicy
virile man. You need to dive into a waterfall of pussy and
disappear for a while. You might even believe what you are
saying right now, but you are wrong. I don't want to lose our
friendship over a short hot fling as we simultaneously ride the manic
crests of failed former lives. Headed into our fifth year
together as I sit 38 ½ weeks into pregnancy carrying our child, I am
starting to believe him. A little bit.
He
was told years ago with his ex that a child was just not in the cards
for him for whatever fertility reasons, but those reasons were his to
bear -- low count low motility blahblahblah. I never believed
it, even before we were romantically involved. Once we got
together, we only ever used coitus interrupts and cycle tracking as
our method of birth control. One can pretty much get pregnant
just considering using rhythm method as their birth control choice.
January found me thinking about his loss of pleasure at having to
withdraw at moments of climax. Reasoning went something like
this: Well shit I'm old, and I probably don't have any eggs left.
And you're old as hell and have been told by fertility specialists
you're not going to produce a baby. What are we wasting
pleasure for? (And besides, we'd make a beautiful baby, just
sayin'. I'd have your baby! Oh yeah? Well I'd totally have your
baby...and so on). My love sums that moment up so concisely
and with such delicious eloquence there is just no point in me trying
to re write it:
One
night, over her in the near-dark, moving slow and strong inside
her, I felt my seed quickening and in that split-instant I realized I
was going to pin myself as deep in her as I might and plant my
release right on top of her cervix. I remember making the decision
and realizing – as I galloped towards release – that she didn’t
know what had just happened in my mind. With my usual exuberant
expressions of pleasure I let go. As she realized what was about to
happen/was happening her head and shoulders rose up off the bed and
molded to me as she wrapped her legs around me and mashed my body
hard into hers. (from his blog at Dad50.com)
About
two weeks later my moon cycle, which had given up its young
irresponsible unpredictable ways for more mellow and reliable
behavior in my middle age seemed to go off on a bipolar weekend
bender that must have involved a fifth of vodka. I had the
indicative spot of blood in my panties that signaled the need to
implement period protocol. And then nothing else happened, for
two days. (I would later learn the term "Implantation
blood"). I peed on a stick. It reported back two
blue lines. I'm not sure how long I stood there blinking dumbly and
numbly at the pee covered plastic stick on my sink.
Born
and raised in Flint Michigan, I had managed to avoid the pitfall of
becoming a teen pregnancy statistic. I had landed square in the
middle of a geriatric pregnancy (I believe my OB office listed me as
an “elderly primiparia”). At least I wasn't 16, terrified and
unprepared. I'm 43, terrified and unprepared.
At
43 years old (and 51 for him) we are both pregnant for the first time
(this comes one year after moving our lives from Connecticut to Maui
-- talk about new chapters!). With a combined age of 94 between
us we have just decided to skip having kids and go straight to having
our own grandchild.
We hear it's easier and way more fun than having a kid.
When he brought in the mail the next day -- he had received his AARP card application. I can't make this up -- this shit writes itself.
We hear it's easier and way more fun than having a kid.
When he brought in the mail the next day -- he had received his AARP card application. I can't make this up -- this shit writes itself.
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