My marriage was dying, and I got knocked up. How messed up is that?
My husband and I were having more than a rough patch; we were on a road filled with potholes, black ice, and a few jackknifed semis to navigate around. I had reached a point where I had to decide: do I love this man enough to stay married to him, or do I move on all by myself?
We had reached a tentative place in our relationship, where we worked through a lot of the hurt caused on both sides, and were on the road to being friends again. Instead of feeling optimistic about this, I had a nagging feeling something was wrong.
It wasn’t only emotional. I had been tired, a little queasy, and my boobs seemed to be growing in leaps and bounds. When I didn’t get a visit from everyone’s favorite Aunt Flo, I had to face facts; I could be pregnant.
I handled it with great grace and aplomb. Or, I had my husband buy me a box with two pregnancy tests, and when I got two positive results, I refused to believe it. It wasn’t until I took another set of tests the next morning with the digital readout of “PREGNANT” staring me in the face that it sunk in.
I was going to have a baby, and I didn’t know how to feel about that.
In the better moments of my marriage, I’d talked abstractly about a third child, and eventually decided that I did not have enough parenting capability within me to handle another baby. Now, here I am, my allegedly eternal union frayed at the edges, and I’m slowly turning into Shamu’s nauseous twin.
When I am not combating the lead weight of exhaustion, my mind is electric with questions, the most pervasive of which is, “What am I going to do?”
Option A: Stay, have the baby, and possibly regret one or both of those decisions.
Option B: Leave, have the baby, and possibly regret one or both of those decisions.
There is such guilt in even questioning my path in life. Why can’t I shut up, be grateful, and enjoy this “blessing” already? Because a baby doesn’t fix anything. In fact, it makes life harder.
Already, the hormones are causing my kids’ antics to grate on my nerves a little harder. I am miserable fighting morning sickness, which makes me lash out at EVERYONE, and the desire to sleep overwhelms me at night, so I am not exactly the best companion for my husband. It’s also really hard to see if you can rekindle the flame of love when you’re comatose on the couch with vomit breath.
And, why would I get excited about this hostile takeover of my body? I think about the next nine months of cankle-ridden pregnancy, followed by an extended period of spit-ups, blowouts, a hallucination-filled existence caused of the absence of sleep, and I am stubbornly steadfast in the belief that the next two years of my life will be torture.
To be honest, if I were offered the opportunity to go back in time and avoid the conception of this baby, I don’t know if I would refuse. This is the worst time to be pregnant. Not only am I of an “advanced maternal age,” but my kids are 8 and 6, placing me firmly beyond the baby years, and for that I am grateful. And did I mention the whole problem of trying to repair my marriage?
So, here I stand, awash in congratulations and sideways, “Did you plan this?!?” glances, and I can’t muster up the energy to be excited. Yes, I have friends, family, and a support system that would make an engineer jealous, but that’s not enough. I am desperate to find the sheer joy I had with my last two pregnancies.
The nagging question is, “What if I never get excited?” That terrifies me more than being trapped in a room full of Jerusalem crickets. I love the two kids I have but I know I’ve already scarred them for life. What about the new baby, that I’m just hoping I’ll love? That’s scarring and spiritual maiming right there. Forget saving up for college, I’ll need to start a defense fund because this kid will end up a serial killer. I’ve watched Criminal Minds; I know how this happens.
As I wait for the great wave of prenatal bliss to engulf me, I’m faking it with everyone I know. “Of course, I’m excited! It was just such a surprise is all,” is my go-to answer. That’s believable enough. But there will come a point where it needs to be genuine, and I can only hope my happiness arrives before the baby does.
Wish me luck.