Thank you guys, for all the lovely comments on the last post. We are quite excited about the whole situation, especially because now I can air all my pregnancy-related complaints on the internet! Joel is getting pretty sick of hearing about how bad I want a Wendy's Homestyle Chicken Sandwich, but you guys. Do you have ANY idea how bad I want one of those chemical-laden, cancer-causing slabs of fried chicken? Any by "one," I mean I want two. At least. Right now.
Anyway, Blob's due date is September 13. That means I have a long, hot summer of being extremely pregnant in front of me. Possibly we are not very good at planning and counting to nine and remembering, in the dead of winter, just how hot this city gets in the summer. But too late now! And with a newborn in the house, I'll have a perfectly good reason to stay inside all next winter.
We've been angsting over the are we actually ready for a baby or maybe not quite yet question for a while. We'd talk about having a baby, and it would sound like a pretty good idea... but one that could certainly wait another six months. Or a year. Or however long. But in the back of my mind, the hypochondriac in me had that nagging what if machine going. What if I can't get pregnant? What if it takes forever? I mean, I'm 30. I know that's not old, but I'm not getting any younger. We want to have more than one kid. We've still got time, but not that much time.
And to be honest, it was only half hypochondria and half actual valid worry. Instead of evening out and coming to some kind of acceptable equilibrium, my cycles just got longer and longer after I stopped taking the pill in May. After I finished a lovely fifty-seven day cycle, I decided to take myself to the doctor just so I could stop worrying. I was pretty sure that everything was fine, and this wasn't a new problem. It probably wasn't a problem at all. It's pretty much the way I remembered things being before I went on the pill in college (and actually, that's why I went on the pill in the first place). I expected to go to the doctor, be told that everything checked out just fine, and just go on enjoying having half as many periods as you poor 28-day ladies do.
Instead, it turned out that my bloodwork had some abnormalities. And that my wonky bloodwork, combined with my inexplicably long cycles and some other lovely factors (hello, adult acne), my doctor felt reasonably confident that I might have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
I was not 100% convinced of this diagnosis because Dr. Google informed me that I was missing several of the other key indicators, such as unexplained weight gain. All my weight gain can be traced directly back to homemade pizza and nachos and the stupid TVs at the gym always being broken. But I was still a little unnerved that something -- PCOS or not -- was amiss. Where was my reassurance? My "you're fine, stop being such a hypochondriac"? I've been convincing myself I have every illness that I've ever read about for half my life, and now you're going to tell me that I actually HAVE one? No, no, that is NOT how this works.
Whether it was PCOS or not, my doctor felt it was likely that we would have trouble conceiving. Our orders were to begin trying as soon as we were ready, and -- whenever that was -- we should only wait three months before coming back to start fertlity treatments.
Let me tell you something: there is nothing that will make you ready to have a baby faster than being told that you might not be able to have a baby. My very mature first reaction after seeing the very faint positive pregnancy test (well, right after holy crap) was SEE YOU CAN'T TELL ME I CAN'T HAVE A BABY. I do what I want!
I still had a lot of anxiety over the official decision to start trying to get pregnant. One minute I'd be hoping desperately that I was already pregnant and the next I'd find myself hoping we'd have more time to ourselves. The thought that we might not be able to have a baby someday about killed me, but the idea of having an actual infant human being RIGHT NOW scared the life of out of me. Why do people want babies, anyway? I have always known that I want a family, and I want to have children. But... why? Every time I see a teenager being an asshole on TV, I think "why would I do that to myself?" What if our child grows up to hate us and only grudgingly comes over at Christmas and Thanksgiving? Why would we willingly throw our lives away like this, purposely conceive a being that according to all reports is going to rob us of all our sleep, time, and money for the rest of our lives? Is the biological drive to pass on our genes so strong?
My friend put it this way several months ago: her husband resisted getting a dog for years for the same reasons. It would cost money to vaccinate and feed and care for the dog, they wouldn't won't be able to travel at a moment's notice or stay out late or do last-minute things without finding someone to watch the dog. They'd constantly be sweeping dog hair and cleaning dog pee and picking up dog poop. They'd have to walk it in the rain, in the snow, in the cold, in the dark. Why would they pay money for a being that was going to essentially ruin their lives? Eventually she won out, insisting that she'd do all the dog-work. And my god, they love their dog. I'm pretty sure it's the happiest, most loved dog on the planet. And it's not that all those things -- the money, the responsibility, the poop -- didn't come to pass. "Our lives are so much more awesome now that we have her," she said, "imagine how great it will be with a baby."
That framed things in a way I could really grasp. My cats are huge pains in the ass. I'm not going to pretend that they're not. Madison is a general jackhole who does nothing but sleep, skulk around the house, choke up hairballs, knock over unattended drinks, and attempt to run away. Henry yowls his face off every night, beginning -- without fail -- at the exact moment I'm about to fall asleep. And Max. Oh my god, Max (rest his soul). Max ruined carpets, threw up in the bed, peed on furniture. He had every medical problem known to cat and cost us thousands of dollars in vet bills.
These things are all true. But I have never regretted my decision to bring these furry idiots into our house. Even though Madison is an undeniable jackass, even though Henry is loud and clumsy and dumber than a bag of bricks, even though the day Max died was the worst day of my life -- I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't go back and not adopt them, I wouldn't pick another cat instead. And though I may gripe about it, and I guess I do wish that Max wouldn't have completely destroyed that rug... I don't care. Not at all.
When we were first thinking of adopting a cat (notice how I say "a cat"? We were supposed to have ONE), I worried that it would be too much of a hassle. I'd have to wake up early to feed it and the food would cost money, and I'd have to vacuum more often and sweep up cat litter all the time. Did I really want to do that? Yes, I decided. It would be OK. And now those worries seem so stupid. Yes, it takes me an extra five minutes in the morning to scoop their litter (although, now it takes Joel five extra minutes! Pregnancy card!) and put out some new food. Yes, I have to vacuum more often and there is constantly cat litter being tracked around the house. Yes, they cost money. And it's worth it. Why? I don't know. I can totally see why people don't want pets. It makes sense, logically! Why do I love them? I don't know. I just do.
I can't express how thankful I am that we were able to conceive relatively easily. Maybe I really do have PCOS, maybe I don't. I guess we'll never know. I don't really care. I had pretty much worked myself into depressed frenzy over my impending infertility. Remembering how afraid I was that this would be unattainable has actually made it easier to soldier through the eight freaking weeks of "morning" sickness, the biggest misnomer on the face of the planet. (And "soldier through" is a term that is easy to use NOW, when the worst of it seems to have passed.) (Please, god, let the worst of it have passed.) And really, all-day-and-all-night sickness and all, I could not be happier about our little blob and the fact that on or around September 13th, we'll get to meet him or her in person.