I find myself completely unable to parse my feelings in relation to this pregnancy. It continues, seemingly without my really having to do anything, and I watch my belly* with awe and amazement, and I faithfully read my weekly updates in my Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy, and my house is full of things that shock me every time I see them — a car seat, a changing table, a freaking crib — and I am still, incredibly, unable to believe it is actually happening. I must be pretty dense.
In a way I guess I can’t believe my luck.
I really didn’t believe the IVF was going to work. I did it because I didn’t want to be 80 years old and regretting not having tried; I did it because my husband had hope; I did it because it was finally possible, and I’m not getting any younger, and why wait any longer?
But it did work, and this is happening, and I haven’t fucked it up yet, and I’m at 23 weeks, which means that I may be more than halfway to an actual, live baby.
And this post … this is why I haven’t been blogging. Because I don’t want anyone to think I’m not happy about this. I am over the freaking moon. I am weeping at sappy commercials and smugly rubbing my belly and melting over tiny socks and totally rocking my maternity pants (dude, why does the panel go all the way up to my armpits? Why?). I have a short list of names. My husband has rigged up a transducer mic for my belly to try to record the heartbeat. Let me say it again: I am over the freaking moon. So no, I’m not trying to say I’m not happy or excited, and I’m afraid that’s how it’s coming off. It’s just … more complicated than that.
It’s a mistrust of my body, after four years of failing. I have no faith that any part of me is going to do what it’s supposed to do. I’m secretly grateful for the scheduled C-section that is part and parcel of having had a myomectomy because I know I could never deliver a baby. Breastfeeding? Well, of course I’m planning to try, but I’m reading up on formula, because my body? It doesn’t work.
So, to no one’s surprise, I’m sure, I am a mess. I am thrilled every day to wake up still pregnant, and I am overjoyed every time he kicks me, because there is a part of me that can’t stop thinking it’s all going to go to hell.
* Like, literally watch it. The other night I SAW Cayenne** kicking me. Why did no one tell me this was a thing?
** I’ve resisted giving the fetus a blog nickname, but I’ve been secretly calling him Cayenne for months, so I’m going with that, especially since he kicks the crap out of me when I eat spicy food (which is all the time). I figure that means he either likes it or hates it; I’m going with “likes it.” And yes, I just footnoted a footnote. My name is gingerandlime, and I have a problem.