Episode two: act one
September 5, 2006
Justin and I had just finished a luxuriously unhurried and delicious supper, soon to hop on our bikes for the Matt Mays and El Torpedo show. Evan was being hosted overnight by his Grammy and Grampa, a treat so intoxicating that night-off libations were almost redundant.
It felt dangerous… contemplating the timing of child #2 while drinking my third beer, feet up, child #1 in absentia. Full of the contented, everything-is-possible fuzziness that can only result from a lack of responsibility plus booze.
Justin: “What the hell, ya know? Why not?”
Kate: “Yeah!” <slurp>
Justin: “It’s not like there’ll ever be a right time anyway, right?”
Kate: “Right!” <gulp>
Justin: “We can’t afford it right now, but we’ll never be able to.”
Kate: “Totally!” <slurp>
Justin: “We loved it with Evan, didn't we?”
Kate: “Yeah!” <slurp>
Justin: “Everyone else manages, right?”
Kate: “Right!” <gulp>
Justin: “I’d love to see you big again. Wouldn’t you?”
Kate: “Totally!” <gulp>
The next morning, coincidentally day one of a new cycle, the familiar packet of pills went unopened. The only thing that stood between our life as it is now (relatively manageable) and life down the double-offspring rabbithole (in which we’d each need to grow an extra set of arms—and win the lottery—in order to cope).
Today is day three, sans pill: No Turning Back day.
Our plan is to simply 1) stop taking birth control and 2) stop thinking. The moment I start thinking is the moment I race out to the all-night drugstore for a bulletproof chastity belt. The lack of money, the lack of time, the entrenchment, the Help! I'm trapped under a baby and I can't get up...
There are good things, to be sure: first smiles and chubb and the bewitching scent of a brand new head. But when it's your second—and when the first spins like a top through the world—you gnash teeth and lie awake and think twice. And constantly. Should we? Now? Later? How about now? Or perhaps later...?
Down the rabbithole we go.
September 9, 2006
I see little corduroy dresses, and pigtails, and striped tights. My heart skips. Don’t hope for a girl. It’s too much of a gamble, and you tempt the fates to wish for anything other than what you get.
We’re a two-fer family. This time, gender means something—I’ve always wanted one of each. No matter what I tell myself about health and destiny, that’s the truth.
Not that we’re trying. We’re not.
On another note, Justin’s sharp-as-a-tack mother was in our bathroom today, the bottle of folic acid pills left next to the sink.
She knows.
Not that we’re trying. We’re not.
November 3, 2006
Some days I feel optimistic—Okay. I’m ready. On days like that I may mention it to Justin, see how he’s feeling about it.
Yesterday it went like this:
Kate: “Okay. I’m ready.”
Justin: “Were you were alone when you figured this?”
Kate: “Yeah, I guess.”
Justin: “Evan was at playschool, right?”
Kate: “Uhh.. yeah.”
Justin: “Ah-ha."
November 8, 2006
This month is the first we’ve been careless. And at every random stomach lurch or flutter, I startle like a horror movie scream queen wandering a darkened basement.
November 9, 2006
Like Pavlov’s dog who salivated at the prospect of food, I am having pre-emptive hormonal swings at the prospect that I MIGHT BE PREGNANT.
I am possessed by the Raging Bitch version of me in a parallel universe. She’s out of control. The Normal Me is cowering in the corner, watching her, jaw-dropped. I hissed at Evan twice (he didn’t deserve it). I drop-kicked the cat (she did). The towel drops into the wet tub: I cuss. A bowl slips in the sink, almost breaking: I cuss. The toast burns again: I cuss. I fear for Evan’s first sentence, what with all the local colour he’s soaking up.
Today was a playdate with my sister-in-law and her two kids, who are sweet, but there are TWO OF THEM. I can’t do that I can’t do that I can’t do that OH MY GOD I MIGHT BE PREGNANT.
After that, an eyes-glazed-over conversation with a friend and colleague in Vancouver, a dad who welcomed his second child into the world a week ago. I can’t do that I can’t do that I can’t do that OH MY GOD I MIGHT BE PREGNANT.
Grrr. Boooo! Hisssss.
November 18, 2006
Woe betide the man who mocks my pain.
During the first go-around, I was the olympic gold medalist of pregnancy. Power yoga, martha-grade crafts projects, heavy furniture moving, epic feasts. I was a single-handed epidemic of energy. Bad skin and a belly stripe—that was the sum of all symptoms, aside from finish-line waddling. It was a nine-month non-event.
But now? Get the f**k out of my way—especially if you’re standing between me and the toilet. Roll your eyes at me after a meal, when I can hardly stand up straight for the god-forsaken cramping. I double-dare you.
I’m exhausted. I fantasize about the fetal position. I want to be left alone. I can’t breathe. I whine. I snap. I drop-kick the cat.
I’m still not bought into the concept, but damn my bloat—I’d better be pregnant. If not, I’m officially the most paranoid, most hypochondriac dipshit in the entire world.
Two more days and we’ll have the answer.
On a side note, Justin really knows how to soothe a woman of delicate mental stability. This morning during an exceptionally claustrophobic moment at the Brewery Market he looked at me, screwed up his face and said, Is that paint in your hair, or a new patch of grey?
November 20, 2006
Two lines! Two lines.
Holy crap.
Two lines.
As fate would have it, I am not the world’s biggest hypochondriac dipshit. I am pregnant. Barely pregnant, technically speaking. More like a whiff of pregnant. But if it sticks, we’ll have baby number two sometime in the first week of August 2007.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Friday, January 5, 2007
Reader Comments (4)
We've been talking about a number two around these parts lately. I flip flop like a dying fish. I want it so badly, but I also think I'm crazy. Atticus isn't even one years old yet and we're already talking? Yikes!
Best of luck with your pregnancy: may it be gentle, full of health and ease.