I’d been planning my HUGE post about me being pregnant, unveiling the AWESOME news of me being with child. The post was going to be fantastic and hilarious, and it was going to contain witty stick figure drawings and pie charts and several other ha-frickin-larious things.
I’d been planning it for weeks. Because, I mean, I found out about this baby over a month ago. But the hilariousness just isn’t coming to me. Along with everything else (like the birthday party planning and the cub scout planning) the Ultimate-Prego post is falling victim to my “pea soup brain”. It’s a real medical term, or at least it should be. I found out recently that I can’t crack jokes now that I’m pregnant. It saddened me to learn it. There I was, at my mom’s house, joking around with my brother (my family gets totally goofy and jokey when we all get together) and I can’t even remember what I was joking about (the memory also faileth) but the basic punchline was something about chainmail. You know, like, metal shirts. But I couldn’t think of the term “chainmail” so I was just saying “blah blah, haha, you know, like, that metal shirt thingy?…” and everyone was trying to figure out what I was talking about. And it totally made the joke not funny. So then I started crying and I screeched, “Damn it. I can’t crack jokes anymore.” And then everyone gave me a pity laugh, and assured me that I was still frickin hilarious, but I knew that they were all pity laughs just meant to apease the hormonal prego chick, so I stabbed them all, and then went to the kitchen and ate some pickles. *sigh* Just another thing that goes out the window when you’re baking a bun… And sadly the same is true in my writing. It’s not funny. I can’t think of what I’m trying to say. Or when I do know what I’m trying to say, I will almost definitely spell it wrong. Which also makes it not funny.
So because I have lost all humor mojo, you will just have to deal with a regular non-funny post describing the events surrounding my pregnancy. Wait, no… I don’t mean the sexy parts about getting pregnant (we all know how that’s done, right?)… I just mean how I found out that I’m pregnant. So sometime around the end-ish part of April, I got the flu. I was down for several days, like, the kind of sick where you seriously can’t get out of bed. Towards the end of my flu-week, I noticed that I was picking up on smells like I do when I’m pregnant. Like, I could smell the candle in the living room while I was still standing in my bedroom… and the candle wasn’t even burning. I have bionic nostrils when I’m pregnant. So that was my first clue. I went to Rite-Aid and bought a generic test, just to rule out being pregnant (since I had a doctor tell me a few months ago that I have bum ovaries). So I take the test, and it comes out negetive, but then I notice that the control line never actually showed up. Meaning that maybe the test didn’t work. But I think to myself: Suz, stop being so neurotic. It says no. So a few more days go by, and my bionic sense of smell gets stronger (I can smell french fries from the Burger King two miles down the street…) So one day after picking up Zoe from kindergarten I decide to go the my doctor’s office to do a real test. Once again, I’m thinking that it’s going to be negetive. I’m just ruling it out. So I go into the office with Zoe. Zoe sits in the little blood pressure chair while I go into the bathroom to tinkle in a cup. I put the cup in the little cubby thing and wash my hands. In the time it takes me to wash my hands and round the corner, the nurse says to me, “Well, it’s already positive.” I think I said, “What?!?” or something… maybe it was something in Yiddish. I don’t really remember what I said, but I started kind of crying because I was just shocked. Zoe, reading my face, looked at the nurse and said, “I. Am. Going. To. Die.” and fell out of the chair onto the floor. (I’m not kidding.) Then she started crying. But she was, like, sobbing and saying “I don’t want another baby! No! I don’t want a baby!” while the nurse told me my due date and tried to smile while my daughter was in the obvious throws of a panic attack. I drug Zoe to the desk to make my first appointment, and she was still begging me to not make her have a brother or sister. She was on the floor, sobbing, when a nurse asked her if she wanted a lollipop. She chose one from the basket while she wailed, “Pleeeeeease, mommmmmyy….” But let’s face it: a lollipop was not going to fix everything that was broken in her world now. Had I known the whole thing was going to be so traumatic for her, I wouldn’t have taken her with me. But again, I was honestly thinking it was going to be negetive. *sigh* The whole day was a blur of tears.
But we’ve had a month to get used to the idea. Zoe is okay now, because I told her that now she will get to be a little sister AND a big sister. For the moment, that seems pretty cool to her. Jachin is so excited he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s already a great big brother, we have no worries about how he’ll do.
I’m due December 20th, and both of my other kids were 5 days overdue. Do the math on that one, sparky. (Zoe was in tears again when she heard that, because what if she has to open presents Christmas day without me?? What if Santa misses me and I don’t get any presents?) I assured her that I’d already have the baby and be home by then. It’s all about being induced, baby. And all I want for Christmas is an epidural.
(ps- My apologies for the shifting tenses in this post. Grammar, along with humor and partying planning, goes right out the window.)