If you’ve already read my home page, you know I’m pregnant with my first child! But I had to officially announce it in a series! This is a long story so I have to break it up into parts! Hope you enjoy!
Part One: When I found out…
I was casually dating two men. It was wasn’t something I aspired to – it kind of just happened. And I was content juggling the two of them. At least until I caught feelings for the Philosopher.
I met Mr. Philosopher sometime in October. Or it might have been late September. Either way, I was charmed by his outlook on life, his wit, his humor. He loved his two cats. Spoiled them rotten. Conversations with him were always stimulating. And once I followed him to bed, I was quickly addicted to his body. I yearned for him. And in bed was when we had our most serious discussions.
It was intimate.
Now that I look back, I understand that it was because I felt I had more than just a sexual connection with him. The possibility to build a relationship with a man was something I didn’t realize I was craving until I met him.
I slowly began to fade out my encounters with the other man. And I went to the doctor so she could give me birth control pills and make sure the pain in my ovary wasn’t serious. (If you didn’t know I only had one, read this.)
The Philosopher left for vacation in December and goddammit, I missed him. And I thought at the time he had missed me. When he came home in January I welcomed him gladly and enthusiastically. And neither of us were as careful as we should have been.
A couple of weeks later, I started getting period symptoms. Tender breasts and cramps. They were early but I was happy because I had birth control pills I needed to start taking. But then my period was late. And when I told Mr. Philosopher, he brushed it off.
“I’m not worried. You’re stressed,” he replied easily, and he wasn’t wrong. My appointments with my doctor weren’t easy on my body or my mental health. And my period symptoms were vanishing. It was totally possible I had just skipped a period.
But in February, when I was supposed to be enjoying the sun and relaxing, I began to worry about a new symptom: Nausea. I couldn’t focus on anything; couldn’t enjoy my time with family because all I kept thinking was, holy shit, holy shit. And two days into my vacation I took a test.
Of course it was positive.
What was I going to tell the Philosopher? I had only known the guy for a couple of months. How did he knock me up? I tried conceiving with my ex husband for two years and it never happened. And what was I going to tell my parents? I was living in their house again. I’m loud and obnoxious. My dog is brutish and clingy and now I was going to bring a baby in the house? One that was definitely going to be a mini obnoxious version of me? We hadn’t had a baby in the house in just about 18 years.
What had I done?
My friend walked in early from work and witnessed me having a nervous break down in his kitchen, the test clutched in my hand. I showed him it and he, this marvelous man, tells me the pregnancy is great news. “Kids are cool,” he told me with a loud laugh.
His wife, one of my dearest friends, comes home and she, this incredible woman, tells me this pregnancy is a miracle. Both immediately supportive. I get a call from my doctor not even a day later telling me my cysts have completely corrected themselves and it looked like my ovary was functioning properly.
In other words, I had a perfect breeding ground. Good information I would have loved to have had in January when I greeted the Philosopher with open arms and open legs.
Vacation is over and I head home. It was a rough journey. There was vomiting on the flight back. I gagged at the smell of my mother’s car. And at midnight, after hours of traveling and my mother waiting up to get me, I sat on the floor of her living room and told her with tears steaming down my face, that I was pregnant.
And she wasn’t at all mad. In fact, she laughed.
“Daniella, it’s not like you’re 16 years old and getting knocked up. I had already resigned myself that it was going to happen this way.”
But I was living in her house. I wasn’t even divorced yet. Why wasn’t she angry?
“This is what you wanted. You wanted to be a mother, especially when you thought you’d never get the chance. I was worried you were never going to get pregnant. So this is a miracle. This person you’re making is going to be important to us. And thirty years into the future, we’re not going to care or remember how they were created. And it won’t matter.”
She was right. I let go of the guilt and accepted my duty to provide my child with the best life possible – right then and there. And it was the easiest commitment I have ever made.
But – JESUS CHRIST – I miss alcohol. Any other mommy’s-to-be out there miss it like crazy? Or was I just an alcoholic??