The Defiance of Being Pregnant

I’m pregnant.

6 weeks.

I’m tempted to stop there, because if you’ve ever been pregnant, the magnitude of that statement alone should be explanation enough. But, since I was never pregnant until right now and therefore wouldn’t get me before now, I shall continue.

I feel like I’m hosting an alien. My breasts are H-U-G-E, which means my husband wants me to be pregnant forever. I’m getting this bizarre discomfort in my lower belly that’s some combination of a cramp and that pressure you feel when you have to take a righteous poop. I get light headed for no reason, my workouts are laughable, and I’m pretty sure I’d extricate your arm from your body if you took my box of crackers away.

I’m pregnant.

I’m still somewhat baffled by this news. As a genetic counselor, with a best friend that’s a reproductive endocrinologist (ie. “baby making doctor”), and a plethora of friends over 35, conception is a big fucking deal. I never let myself dream beyond a positive pregnancy test. That felt too risky, too bold, too…entitled. If I’m honest, I have a bit of pregnancy guilt. Too many beautiful people I know are unable to reach this step, for many reasons. While I celebrate this utterly amazing possibility in secret with my husband, I also ache for the absence of their pregnancies. I feel you, peeps. I hear you. I haven’t forgotten.

And enter my fear. Because now that first hurdle, the one I always thought might be insurmountable, is behind us. I only imagined one hurdle people! And now, looking forward, it’s like one never-ending Spartan race. I’m scared. This alien and I are starting to get to know each other. What if he or she decides this isn’t the planet for them?

And then there’s this whole not drinking thing. Never been so happy there’s not a wine bar here in all my life! You have no idea how much drinking is a part of your everyday life until you’re pregnant and you have to convince all the people that know you WAY too well that you’re not pregnant but still not drinking. Riiiiiiiggggght, pretty sure no one believes me. Unexpectedly, it’s not even that hard. I’ve determined that I drink at night mainly because I get tired of drinking water all day. Water is flavorless people! Wine is not. Silver lining — I’ve rediscovered a love of cranberry juice. It kinda sorta tastes like cheap wine, and it’s red. :)

My husband is the most adorable human on the planet. He kisses our alien goodbye in the morning, checks on it (and me) during the day, and read every word of the two pregnancy magazines I brought home last night despite the fact that only like 1/16 of it pertains to me at this point. He keeps saying “It’s so exciting!” and he means it. I love that. It solidifies that waiting to make an alien with the right man, even at the risk of never being able to, was totally worth it.

I really want to tell someone. Like really, REALLY badly. I haven’t. And I won’t. I hope I won’t. No, I won’t. But I want to. I’m struggling to care about anything else in life but taking care of this tiny little alien, and that preoccupation is hard to explain to anyone else if you can’t tell them about the alien. So, I’m going to write about it until I can tell someone. Foreshadowing for the Chronicles of Alien Development…coming soon!

For those of you weirded out by the fact I’m calling our unborn child an alien, curb your offendedness now. It’s my coping mechanism. It’s my way of distancing myself in case this alien doesn’t become our born child. I’ve seen that happen. A lot. I already don’t know how I would cope with that. This is my way of trying.

All that to say, I’m pregnant. HOLY SHIT YA’LL! I don’t feel defiant, although I’m really freaking glad I got that tattoo before my belly becomes totally engorged by this growing ET wannabe. I vacillate between profound gratitude, utter awe, and barely-contained panic. Stay with me, little alien. Let’s make it to Week 7. Your audience awaits.