For most women, finding out they’re pregnant is one of the most joyous days of their life. Friends of mine have gloated about the over-the-top ways they told their husbands the good news… one of them bragged about her seemingly-Stepford method of “taking him to brunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel.” Not me. I, instead, opted for standing in my underwear in my tiny white bathroom on a Sunday morning (with three positive home-pregnancy tests in front of me), tears running down my red cheeks and hysterically screaming to my husband “You’d better #ucking get in here right NOW!”
I showed him the tests, and despite my psychosis, he smiled, gave me a quick kiss and said “It’s ok… this is good.” And I’ve felt guilty about it ever since.
For the record, my heart is finally beginning to catch up with my head (now that we’re nearing the end of June!) and I’m beginning to accept that I will be having a baby this year. In my defense, we were not planning on starting a family at this point. We JUST got married this past August and had to skip our honeymoon (thanks to a big, 1-month gig I got). Then, in January, I was out of my full-time job, seriously pissed about it, and hustling to find my next thing. Not to mention, I’d still never been to Paris, Greece, or any other of the exotic locations I’d pictured myself getting drunk at with my husband before having to deal with strollers and carseats.
What is wrong with me? I’m acting like an immature, ungrateful brat. Some couples struggle with fertility issues and would give anything to find out they’re pregnant. Me? I barely even want to talk about it. I realize I’m lucky, and tell myself to appreciate it, but every time I’ve told one of my friends over the past 5 months I’ve qualified my news with, “Well, this was a BIG accident.” As if I need an excuse! When they ask me if I’m excited, I say I’m “getting there.” Looks of confusion often follow. I can’t help it: I’m not totally there (yet). I still feel blindsided, petrified and completely out-of-my-body. And, I’m chalking it up to MOURNING the end of MYSELF.
It’s not going to be all about me anymore. Gone are the days of what I selfishly want to do, and approaching are the days of what I need to do to responsibly raise this new little person. I wasn’t yet ready for this focus shift. Do other women go through this? And, more importantly, will I grow up and snap out of it before the baby comes?