Don't Ask.

NOTE: This post was originally written at the beginning of May, 2010. The next several posts will be published in this fashion--I've been writing quite a bit on the down low.

I'm just going to come right out and say it:

I'm pregnant.

Please, no congratulations, no asking how I'm feeling--emotionally or physically, no gender or name questions. I'm putting this out there so it will be on MY terms.

The weekend after we returned from our vacation there was a home-and-garden show in town. As we were getting ready to go, my stomach gave a sudden lurch and the room began to spin, briefly. After a few swigs of Pepsi things were back to normal.

Except it kept happening. The kind of feeling where if I could just puke and get it over with, I'd feel better. Kept happening. Almost every day. And then I knew.

Two weeks later, it was confirmed. With a digital readout, no less. I wiped the drool-that-I-wish-was vomit from my face and looked at C. Holy. Effing. Shit.

It's, er, a little sooner than we'd--what? Expected? Planned? Not that we were doing either of those things. You'd think after two times around this block I'd have figured out how it works. Guess I'm a slow study.

So, I'm feeling an ocean of emotion: overwhelmed, grateful, hopeful, cautious, optimistic, shocked, grief-filled, stunned, freaked out, paralyzed with fear, emotional and physical nausea ad nauseam. Disbelief. Shock. Fear.

Did I mention I'm shocked?

And the third time, things tend to let loose a little sooner. As in, I'm sporting a belly. At 10 weeks. Which makes for a truly awkward experience pretty much everywhere: Me, trying to hunch over to hide it, others looking me not in the eye, but in the belly, willing me to spill the beans. (Or is that look, "Poor fat MB, can't lose the gut from Numero Dos."?)

I realize how-lucky?--we are--it takes some couples months, years to conceive again--if they ever do. Quite frankly, I can't believe it happened so quickly. I truly thought my body would be all, "Hell to the NO, sister! If you think we're doing THAT SHIT again, you CRAZY!" But here we are. Like it or not. Ready or not.

Don't get me wrong: my underlying emotion is joy. But schlumped on top of all that joy is grief, fear, anxiety, disbelief, shock.

And my mantra throughout--what? Nine months? Three months? Who knows how long it will last? But one of many mantras I recite is, "Just because I'm pregnant now doesn't guarantee I bring home a live baby in November." I have to be cautiously optimistic. I am hopeful, I am NOT peaceful, I am nervous. But I'm trying to be prepared--for the best and the worst.

Why am I telling you this? Personally I'd prefer to go live in a cave and re-emerge at Christmas with a live newborn. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to say it out loud. As of this writing, at 10.5 weeks, very few people know. Our parents,our siblings, a handful of close friends, my doctors. But it's happening, ready or not. Like it or not.

But maybe if I write about it, I won't HAVE to talk about it. I won't have to answer the "Are you finding out the gender?", "Do you have names picked out?", "How are you feeling?", "Are you excited?", "When are you due?" questions. Read the blog, read the blog. And don't ask me anything. Just think positive thoughts and send good vibes but please, don't ask.

My doctor, at our first visit, was amazing. And she began to give options for delivery. I can't see that far. I can barely see til next week. I'm trying to take this one day at a time, as though every day is the last. Sounds morose, but when you've seen the other side, you can't go back. Believe me, I WISH I could be the old pregnant me. She was fun. She ate bacon with reckless abandon. She didn't think about babies dying inside or the possibility of returning the crib and the clothes and coming home from the hospital empty handed. She wore cute maternity clothes, made a plan for the hospital, thought having a C-section was her biggest delivery fear.

Girlfriend has left the building, y'all. It's the new pregnant me, now. She's not fun, she doesn't want to talk about anything newborn/pregnancy/clothing related, and her expectations for delivery--should she get there--have been lowered to bringing home a living baby. That's it.

So help me, Universe, through however long this lasts. If this is all I get with the little soul inside me, so be it. I'm going to try so very, very hard to not bitch, to not fuss, to not complain. If this is the only time I have with this tiny little one, it's up to me to make it real, and positive, and loving.

Oh my word, what have we done? How the hell am I going to do this?