Everyone knows that pregnant ladies glow. I mean, it’s just common knowledge. They’re all content and serene in their new-found maternity. Before I started this adventure, I had mental images of the Virgin Mary with her soothing countenance and patient aura. Riiiight. The only time I ever get accused of glowing is when I’ve blow-dried my hair and put on makeup. As you can imagine, that’s not very often these days.
When I peed on that stick, I fully expected it would yield a negative result. So many of my friends have had infertility issues, and it wouldn’t really be fair if I just got pregnant so quickly. In addition, I come from a family of “breeders,” and if I hadn’t been accidentally knocked up by now, there was likely something wrong with the plumbing. Besides, we had only “tried” for four days right before I should have ovulated. No one gets pregnant the first month that they try.
Still, I awoke early on Mother’s Day of this year, ready to sacrifice my first urine to the task of learning I was not pregnant. Shockingly, the test came back positive. I freaked out a bit, took pictures of the test propped on the sink, bookshelf, t.v., dining room table, and couch; all the while trying to convince myself that this had really happened. Then I woke my husband up. I can say that at this point, I was pretty firmly sailing down the river of De Nile. My husband, on the other hand, went ahead and set up residence right on the shoreline and camped out there for the next two months or so. Neither one of us could quite absorb the reality of the situation.
Of course, I came around first. It wasn’t my fault, though. It was the darned boobs. I gained about four inches of bust in a very short time, and that’s just a flat-out uncomfortable feeling. My poor breasts went through life in a fevered state of disbelief that would have rivaled any character in a Louisa May Alcott novel. The bigger they got, the bigger my husband’s eyes got. Too bad he wasn’t allowed to touch them.
Next came the nausea. I was somewhat prepared for this, as I’d heard all about “morning sickness” and how it should be called “morning, noon, and night sickness.” Still, hearing about it and experiencing it were just worlds apart. I will never forgive the universe for making me throw up the blueberries that I had so desperately needed that day. Just as predicted by everyone but me (and my grandmother who had nothing but horror stories to share), the so-called morning sickness did disappear along with the first trimester. The world became a bright and shiny place for those precious few days before other parts of my body began to fall apart.