A Little Bit Pregnant

Let’s just get some shit out of the way:

I’m 38.

I’ve been married for *almost* six months.

I’m totally knocked up.

How I got here will, no doubt, reveal itself throughout this little “project,” aptly named Week Forty.  I say “aptly named,” but the truth of the matter is, every other domain name that was remotely related to pregnancy was taken, and “Sore Titties” didn’t seem like it sent the right message.  I had voted for “Linea Nigra” because I think it sounds really exotic and interesting – like Mons Venus.

(Full disclosure, I’m from Tampa, Florida – strip club capital of the South. We have a strip club called Mons Venus, it supposedly has the best/most beautiful dancers anywhere. Now I kind of want to open a club called Linea Nigra.  Work the “niche market.”  Put the “bump” in bump and grind. There is no sex in the Champagne Room, or Champagne. Mostly sensible shoes. This unique gentleman’s experience gives dancers a solid work venue rather than have to take those last two pesky trimesters off. You just have to figure in the cost of lost revenue from the dancers destroying the prime rib buffet.  You think I’m nuts? Check the internet – there are freaks out that who are in to all sorts of kink. I bet a preggers strip joint would be a crazy success).

My husband nixed the idea. He thought that Nigra could be misconstrued as racist. He’s an Apologetic White Southern Democrat with privilege guilt. I think it’s sexy. (The guilt – not unintended racism).

He’s allowed to post here too. You know Liberals, we’ll give anyonea seat at the table.

Anyway, Week Forty will mark the end of how long I’m going to be rocking the whole “I’m eating for two,” “I’ve got to pee ALL the time,” “I have a craving for artichoke hearts,” “If you don’t start helping out around the house I’m going to feed you your own liver” thing, and I figured it was as good a name as any.  I will take more care in naming the Critter I’m sure. Or maybe not, hell that might be a crap shoot too… “Is Stephano taken? Shit, really? How about Stepheeno?”  (Now that I think of some of my friend’s decisions in naming their children, I think it may have gone down just like that).

We found out just about a week ago.  Actually, exactly one week ago.  I had been out at favorite local beer barn (it’s nicer than that) and the beer just didn’t taste that good to me.  That seemed to be a sign from God to pee on a stick. (Oh peeonastick.com is taken – like I said – there are some freaks out there).

And if you are totally gonna judge because I was drinking a beer – let’s get this out of the way:

I was still a week from getting my period – so it wasn’t like I was all, “Gosh, I’m really late, guess I’ll go crush some microbrews and ponder what it could be…”

If you’re still freaking out here’s another thing:

I am a woman who was totally okay with getting pregnant, and totally not going to put myself into a tizzy over it. And if you don’t know what a “tizzy” is I’ll tell you – it’s all those women who don’t eat anything fun (like oysters and sushi and brie), don’t drink anything fun (like beer and margaritas and more beer), and so help me god would swear off sex – except that’s the whole point – because they’re “trying to get pregnant.”  Fuck that. Literally.  I never “tried” to get pregnant. I tried to see how many different places me and my open minded liberal husband could have sex and how many times I could pounce on him before he began to curl into a small ball, rock back and forth, and whimper “Please, no more.”

That, my dear reader, is how you make a baby. You drink beer, you have sex, you calm down, and you let it happen.

Or you start filling out adoption paperwork – I hear that’s also very effective.

(I have since given up all manner of DANGEROUS FOOD and for the record, it’s easier to find gluten free food than it is to avoid lunch meat, bacon, and soft cheese – those were three of my four basic food groups).

Back to the story at hand: I come home after one very unpleasant beer and I tell myself that first thing in the morning I will pee on a stick. I went to bed. When I woke up, I peed on the stick. Then I stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

It was 7 a.m. and I am not a morning person. Neither is my progressive feminist husband.

Two lines. The stick was showing two lines. Two lines means pregnant.

Wait, is that bad? I’ve graduated from high school, right? This isn’t going to ruin my future? I know who the father is right? This isn’t going to be an awkward guessing game?

For the first time in my life I am staring at two lines. I’m actually pregnant. And it is really early in the morning to be having this moment. Oh well. Better go share the news… tra la la la la la la…

My hippie husband took a second to process what I had said. I was also gesturing wildly with the stick, so I think he was confused. He isn’t good with rapid movements before 9 a.m. When he finally put it all together he just hugged me. And hugged me. And hugged me.  Liberals are huggers, what can I say.

When you find out you’re pregnant it all changes. Clean living, sleep, hydration, meditation, whatever the first few chapters of the books tell you. Thank goodness that wasn’t going to be a problem,  because the day after I found out I was pregnant, I left for a six day business trip to Vegas. Awesome, right?!?!

Las Vegas. Six days in Las Vegas.

Worst trip ever. I convinced my colleagues (all male) that I had recently been diagnosed with a terrible kidney infection *cough cough* (wait, wrong symptom). I told them I was on HARD CORE ANTIBIOTICS and there was NO WAY I COULD DRINK or BAD THINGS WOULD HAPPEN.

In the words of Ferris Bueller, “They bought it. One of the worst performances of my career and they never doubted it for a second.”