The last time I was pregnant with a viable baby–Alex (a.k.a.The Deer Hunter)–I’ve mentioned that I worried a fair bit. But I think that “worried a bit” doesn’t quite do justice for how much I fucking worried. For someone who never worries about her kids after they’re born, I like to imagine I get my worrying out before they’re born.
Either that, or pregnancy makes me totally nuts (which is my story and I’m sticking to it. I’m quite frankly terrified of pregnant women. This makes it really hard when I am the pregnant one, as you can imagine. Who wants to be afraid of themselves?).
I’d gone into this last pregnancy with the singular stipulation that I wasn’t going to worry. Let go and let God. Thy will be done. Or whatever. Either way, I wasn’t going to waste valuable ‘eatin’ time’ worrying about my unborn fetus. Whether it lived or died, I wasn’t going to worry until I knew I needed to. How do you prepare yourself for a bad outcome anyway?
(Conversely, I’d gone into Alex’s pregnancy promising myself that I wouldn’t get as fat as I had with Ben. 60 pounds later–on a diet of egg whites and tofu–I’m still puzzling that one out. I’m starting to think that maybe I should go into these things without any sort of expectations. Seems futile).
And I did so well for a couple of weeks without worrying. I did so incredibly well. I all but ignored my pregnancy, choosing to focus on other such pressing issues as What I Am Craving At The Moment and How Nauseous Is Enough. I didn’t go in for early monitoring because, why bother? It’s going to stick or it’s not.
But somehow, when I saw that blob with a pixelated heart a-beating away in it’s chest, I started to really care. And when I really care, I really worry. Especially when the spotting continues like it did last night.
Thankfully, this morning has brought no blood AND a call from my doctor with the news that I have low progesterone. So, for the next 5-6 weeks, I will be shoving sexy little suppositories into my love hole. My hoo-haa. That should be AWESOME. I will be beating men away from me with sticks. STICKS, I tell you.
So, the State Of What’s Up Down There is now at a blissful peace. I can only hope it remains that way for the next 30 odd weeks.
And if (when?) this Sausagebryo is born, I shall ground him or her for scaring me so very much. I’m thinking for the next 16 years or so.