When I was pregnant with my first, on a random doctor’s appointment, my OB (who had said, um, *maybe* 15 words to me during the whole pregnancy, but I didn’t care because Dr. Google kept me company, and who cares if your doctor holds your hand and tells you everything is okay? Not me.) heard something he didn’t like on my fetal doppler.
Apparently the fetal heart tones were not acceptable. Having not been able to pinpoint exactly WHAT was wrong with the heartbeat myself due to my non-trained ears, I just accepted it as well as my referral for an ultrasound the following day.
Which is how I planned to learn what flavor baby I was carrying. While it wasn’t something I had to wait for, it was something I had been waiting for.
A couple of weeks ago, at my last OB appointment, we planned our Anatomy Scan, which sounds scary as fuck which will tell me if my baby is indeed fucked up and shit. Since I tend not to worry until I have to (yes, I can get colon cancer, get hit by a car, or win the lottery. Why worry about it until I need to?), I am masking my concern with the very real excitement of learning exactly what flavor I’m cooking.
Sadly, just the same as the last time I was pregnant, I have not been able to make this pregnancy real and I’m hoping that hot dog or lackthereof will.
November 16 at 10 am.
To make this interesting, as all good parents (should) do, we have made a bet.
Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they are far superior and the ability to rub it in the others face.
Loser gets the punishment ascribed by the winner. Punishments have been picked.
Dave: *Girl*. If he should lose, he will wear a Britney Spears t-shirt for one whole week during such time when it cannot be masked by a winter coat.
Becky: *Boy* (only to make this interesting. I still have no fucking clue). I will have to wear a ‘Chicks Dig Unix’ t-shirt for one week without being masked by a winter coat. (as a total aside, this shirt will have to be in a comically large size, as I’m certain Mimi or Pea In A Pod won’t carry it)
Representin’ colors must be worn to the anatomy scan.
Aww yeah, Daver’s bustin’ out the pink.
If I’d have known that getting pregnant could be so hard, I’d have skipped the birth control entirely. I should amend that: getting pregnant when you actually WANT to be pregnant can be hard. I don’t actually think that the last time I was pregnant really had resulted from having sex, but alas, I digress.
Now, like miscarriages and abortions, people don’t often bring up the ‘œgetting pregnant’ stuff with any regularity, unless of course they were successful with their first attempt a la ‘œMy boys can swim!’ etc. What they don’t tell you in health class is that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. When we first started trying, I admit that I was nervous. Like most things a la Becky, I tend to stick with my original plan regardless of circumstance and/or desire as I am one stubborn son of a bitch. I assumed (rightly so, considering my last experience) that the first time we’d have sex after going off birth control would result in a (small) bouncing new baby.
When I got my period, I was almost relieved. *Whew!* I thought, ‘œTHAT was a close one!’
The second month I was less so, but still relieved.
By the time I actually got pregnant, I was so blase about the whole thing that I took the test while smoking a cigarette and drinking a vodka/diet coke. I had inadvertantly bought the fancy assed digital pregnancy tests (they didn’t have THOSE 5 years ago!) that doesn’t leave you guessing (is that *really* a line? Shit. I can’t tell. It kinda looks like one in this light.). They are expensive as hell, so I was peeved to be using one to assuage my husband, as I *knew* that I was not pregnant. Hence the cigarette and vodka.
Well, I pissed on the stick, set it down and took a fat swig of my drink. After a few seconds, I double checked that I had properly executed the test (I’m telling you, it’s COMPLICATED), and while I was pondering the flashing bar (I am not so bright) the word ‘œPREGNANT’ popped up. I promptly spit-taked the drink all over the mirror and yelled ‘œYou’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me!’
One for the baby books, I know.
The proper way to tell Dave would have been by sending a singing candy gram or an engraved Tiffany’s rattle to his office (I have ideas, even I cannot execute them), I know, but I couldn’t have been more suprised if the dishwasher had sung Christmas Carols to me in perfect German. I was in no shape to suprise anyone else.
I unceramoniously shoved the stick under Dave’s nose and flopped down on the couch, clearly in shock. Where I sat for the next three hours, staring blankly at the test. When I finally came around 3 weeks later, I did a little research.
Some husbands give their wives jewelery for their birthdays. Mine gave me a healthy hot beef injection.
Due Date: April 9, 2007
Date of Conception: July 15, 2006 (God, I cannot wait to torture the child with this one!)
I make it no secret that almost no one appreciates my musical tastes, aside from possibly 13 year old girls and aging homosexuals. The last CD I bought was strategically placed into the cart, which was then taken to the checkout aisle, wherein I disappeared into the bathroom leaving my tender husband and 5-year old to pay for it.
Justin Timberlake done BROUGHT Sexyback.
Aunt Becky: ‘I totally need to get into more disco.’
The Daver: ‘Oh NO.’
Aunt Becky: ‘What the hell is wrong with disco? It’s cheerful and doesn’t evoke thoughts of suicide like *someone’s* music.’
Aunt Becky: ‘I mean, come ON! I love that ‘Electric Avenue’ song. You were serenading me with it earlier!’
The Daver: ‘That’s not disco!’
Aunt Becky: ‘Of COURSE it is! What else could it be?’
The Daver: ‘I think it’s reggae.’
Aunt Becky: ‘That can’t be reggae. It’s too ludicrous. (singing) ‘We’re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue”
The Daver: ‘That song is NOT ludicrous. It’s a GREAT song.’
Aunt Becky: ‘No doubt. But it’s INSANE. What the fuck is Electric Avenue?’
The Daver: ‘Don’t you DARE mock that song. It’s amazing!’
Aunt Becky ‘How can I NOT mock it, Dave?’
The Daver: ‘It’s an amazing song.’
Aunt Becky: ‘Are you fucking with me? That song is almost as bad as ‘Disco Duck’ which was in my head all of last week.’
The Daver: ‘I’m no longer speaking to you.’
Aunt Becky: “You no longer have any room to mock my Britney collection.”
The Daver: “I hate you.”
Aunt Becky: “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”