I’m the type of girl who, for the last, oh…about the last 31 years of my life, have maintained that children are not for me. They drool and they cry and they shit on themselves regularly and therefore? What use are they to me? I prefer to fill my time by having conversations about hot bartenders at cute little martini bars across the street from the ocean. Or sipping wine on my screened in porch listening to the marsh sounds at sunset. Or, at the very least talking to people who can form words or…you know…syllables. So, you can imagine my chagrin when a few weeks ago, I woke up anticipating my trusty period…and she never came. And then the next week. Still no period. I wouldn’t have started to panic at all except for my undeniable urge to inhale disgustingly greasy cheeseburgers from various fast-food establishments several times a day. I didn’t need any convincing. I was knocked up. And with knocked -up and knowing I couldn’t keep it from my lovely boyfriend (and domestic partner) J for very long, comes a myriad of wildly inappropriate and irrational thinking. You know, things like, “I wonder how many margaritas I can drink in the four hours before I have to go to bed in order to get up for work tomorrow. Surely 17 margaritas tonight and none for the next seven months can affect this baby.” and “If I put off taking the test for another week, I can smoke double the cigarettes until then to get my fill in.” or, “From what height building can I jump and successfully make this all end, but maintain the use of all of my appendages?”. It’s no joke, internet, this is what goes through a girl’s head when faced with the prospect of being ripped out of normal early-thirty-hood where the wine flows like water and where a mimosa is a totally acceptable morning beverage to a world where sore boobs and heartburn reign triumphant. And let’s not forget that you can kiss your mimosas goodbye.
(Sidenote/Rant: Okay, internet, have you ever been pregnant? Wouldn’t it make more sense if the two most gloriously relaxing things in the universe, alcohol and cigarettes, were encouraged during pregnancy? Wouldn’t all the fat preggo ladies be much calmer and pleasant to be around? They would be slightly buzzed and mellow, but they would most likely not be biting your head off because you didn’t put the lid on the toothpaste and now there is a tiny speck of sticky mess on the freshly cleaned counter. Right? See? GIVE US THE BOOZE, UNIVERSE! If ANYONE deserves it, IT. IS. US. End sidenote/rant.)
When J brought home the test and handed me my last pack of cigarettes EVER, I really didn’t even need to take it. But I also knew that, if I didn’t, I would continue to drink and smoke just like normal. Which, honestly, to me, didn’t sound so bad but J preached about the dangers of smoking and fetal alcohol syndrome and all those bullshit reasons the media has created to make pregnant women MORE miserable. Eventually, I bought into the hype, drank the last of the pinot grigio in the fridge and chain-smoked until my lungs felt like they were filled with sandpaper and I sounded like an 80-year-old man. Because this, ladies and gentleman, is how I felt it was necessary to react on the day that I found out that my life was over.
Some of you might think, “Wow, she’s dramatic! Life over? No! It is just beginning!” and to those of you, I say this. You are delusional. Because I know that for the next 7 months, I will be confined to places like Babies ‘R’ Us and support groups for women who have recently decided that they are suicidal (read: expecting). Because that’s where they banish pregnant ladies to. Don’t act like you don’t know.
I’m not sure I can do it. Onesies and tiny shoes don’t do it for me, people.