…and some days, the nap takes you.
I keep wanting to qualify it somehow: “I think I might be pregnant,” or, “I’m pregnant, but it’s really early and we can’t be sure of the outcome,” or, “We’re hoping to have a baby in the spring.” Because every time I start to think about it, the two halves of my brain simply split apart and start arguing, the one insisting that everything’s going to be fine, relax, already, there’s no reason to believe that there’s a single thing wrong, while the other one fires back yeah, but since when has everything gone smoothly for anything in your life, you couldn’t see anything on the ultrasound, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment. And both are possibly true, and certainly valid, points of view, and the only way I’ll know which one is correct is to survive long enough to learn the answers.
But in the meantime, I’m trying to force myself to be more positive and realistic. Because I am pregnant. Really. Positive urine tests – it’s a good husband who lets you bounce on the bed at 5:30 in the morning, after a 2:00 a.m. bedtime the night prior, to wave a pee-soaked item at him and smile like an idiot, and knows to smile right back instead of beating you unconscious with the alarm clock and rolling back over for a few more hours of sleep before the movers arrive – and two positive blood tests with appropriately increasing hCG levels, and an ultrasound that did, unequivocally, show a gestational sac, even if there was nothing visible inside it yet. I’m pregnant. No qualification or condition required.
I have other bits of proof – and, I promise, this is not going to become an ongoing log of every single pregnancy symptom I have, and with a little luck I should be able to form a coherent thought or two around other topics soon, but still, right now, it’s all I got. So, proof, in the form of parts that have returned to a decidedly perkier era, but are sore enough that they have to be treated as museum artifacts: look, but don’t touch. I have nausea, including a spate from last night and this morning that left me in the bathroom for hours, not because I was constantly using the facilities but because I was nervous that I wouldn’t be able to get there in time when I needed to. I’m stuffed up, without having any other cold or allergy symptoms. I’m retaining water, and already by the end of a hot day my ankles will be a fond memory – though it’s early enough now that, with enough rest, water and elevation, they’ll slim back down the next day.
And, of course, there’s the naps. I’m not normally a napper, and when I do give in, my family treats me with all of the subservience and gentility of a school of geishas, with much smiling and bowing and careful, sidelong looks in case I unexpectedly bite their heads off. I just awaken groggy and disoriented and logy, and somehow that’s not enjoyable for me, and it all translates quickly into being crankier after the nap than before. Except when I’m pregnant, in which case I don’t make conscious decisions to take naps; the only role I play in that process is to stay where I’m at and risk whiplash, or move into a quiet, soft spot, because the naps come on with brute force and malice aforethought. And I wake up slowly, but when I do, I’m feeling refreshed and – dare I say it – almost cheerful, glad I devote those hours of my life to something so constructive and clearly necessary.
And so on, and so forth. I’m trying hard to be more positive about it, while accepting that the doom-and-gloom half of my brain simply will not stop with its ominous bulletins. So…
Ain’t that a kick in the head?