The Reveal

It never occurred to me I was actually pregnant.

Really. It didn't. I was all set to go back on my pill, as we'd decided to forgo the baby thing in favor of homebuying, at least for a while. Maybe we'd pick it up again in 2013. I just kept saying to T.J., "This period needs to start!" I was bitchy, short-tempered and my breasts had ached for probably two solid weeks. I had cramps. All run-of-the-mill, pre-period nonsense.

And on July 9, after getting up at 7 a.m. to feed the ever-annoying Dave, I thought, "Well, I'll just be sure..." and dug out a pregnancy test.

It took that little plus sign about two seconds to appear.

And I just sat there, staring it. There were no doubts whatsoever. That was a plus sign. I've peed on plenty of sticks in my life, and I've never once seen a vertical line before. But there it was, in all its faded blue glory.

I shook TJ awake. As he stared at me with sleep-filled eyes, I dropped it: "I'm pregnant."

And he just got this huge grin on his face and rolled over to put his arms around me.

It is not yet real. The queasiness that comes on about 5 a.m. and lingers until around 1 p.m. feels pretty real. The heartburn is real. The mood swings are real. But the now blueberry-sized Wee Baby Tranchell growing somewhere in there I have yet to comprehend. Part of my mind is still convinced this will end up being a food allergy. Like when I had a tummy ache for two months because I didn't know I was lactose intolerant.

But then there's that little blue plus sign. (Actually, two -- I took the test again, of course).

And in another week, I'll get to go to the doctor and she'll poke and probe and with any luck, we'll hear its little heart beat.

Until then, I am overcome with the urge to take a pregnancy test every day, if only I could afford it. Just for some sort of of constant comfort that yes, a baby's really in there. God really did this. Without my permission and totally off my time table.

In the meantime, my mom already sent us a package of diapers.

My small, fuzzy child

Dave, pretending not to want his Christmas present.

At 4 a.m. today, my child was in my face. "Mom! I'm hungry!"
Me: "It's 4 a.m.! Go back to sleep!"
Child: "But I'm huuuuuuuuungry!!"
Me: "You don't get fed one minute before 7 a.m. and you know it. Now shut up."
Whereupon I threw a teddy bear at him, and he ran from the room and proceeded to cry from the living room.

Of course, my child is about 10 pounds, covered in hair and a cat — so I didn't feel too bad about the exchange. And don't you even bother for one minute telling me I put too many human traits on Dave, just like a mother I know exactly what my baby's cries mean.

Dave is perfect practice for child-rearing, I think. At about 11 years old, he is a perfect combination of a needy toddler and a surly teenager. And he's a total mama's boy. He tolerates TJ, but he knows where his true source of sustenance comes from.

Some days he is very much a baby — if TJ and I are snuggling in bed, he likes to crawl right in between us, under the covers. If we're on the couch, he's in our laps. If I try to take a nap, he is immediately hungry, or wants out, or wants attention. I'll be five seconds away from sleeping and he's in my face, with that meow that might as well be, "Moooooooooom!"

Other days, it's like a 14 year old lives here. He wants independence, but doesn't have a car (i.e., opposable thumbs  — those door knobs are tricky). He wants to stay out late, but gets made if we lock him out. He's curious about drugs — OK, I'll admit it, Dave's got a nip problem. He only wants to be snuggled if it's convenient for him, and he'll take your hand off for unwanted advances.

And, just like a teen, you think you can trust him alone overnight, but you'll inevitably come home and he's barfed in the living room.

I know a lot of you are probably dog people, but the metaphor just does not work for dogs. Dogs are too dependent — they never grow out of being more than 5 years old. Cats, on the other hand, cats are like a little training manual for the inconveniences of children.

Want practice for being covered in spittle, Cheerios crumbs and other signs of toddlerhood? We call it cat hair in my house.

Getting too much sleep and need to work up to infant-levels of deprivation? Get a cat — especially at Daylight Saving Time. My cat understands that it's *really* 7 a.m. when it's actually only 6. He knows about sunrise. I have high hopes things are going to get better after Sunday.

Want to practice educating a small being? Dave can tell time, I've taught him that. At least, he knows that when the front door opens it's either lunch time or dinner time, and he also knows that when the black box next to the bed beeps, it's breakfast time. When I was in college, Dave would sit on my pillow and swat at the alarm clock, trying to make it go off. It was hysterical. He also recently learned how to knock, which is actually really eerie.

Feel like your life is too much in your control? Why not get a cat — where every activity you ever try to do will be interrupted, including, but not limited too, napping, cooking, eating, watching TV, having sex, and putting on your makeup. If I don't close the bathroom door, Dave is always in the sink while I'm trying to do eyeliner, bumping my hand. I used to give him a hair clip to play with to distract him, but he got wise to that and it doesn't work anymore.

Not sure if your house is childproof? Here's a key: If the cat can get to it, so can a baby. It astonishes me how he can climb, sometimes. The other day I was cooking, and the next thing I knew the cat was on top of the refrigerator. No idea how he got there. And cupboards or closed doors are his biggest nemesis: He will work at them until he gets them open and reveal whatever secrets they hold.

Need to feel the warmth of unconditional love, followed up by a tremendous mood swing that makes you regret everything up to this point? Yeah, that's totally cat territory.

Right now, my cat is sitting in my lap. which is fine, except I'm trying to type and it makes it harder. He also was just outside, where he rolled in something awful, and his white coat has turned gray.

Somebody needs a bath. I imagine it will go about as well as it would if he were 2.

Generation gap

Recently, I was trying to explain to my mother the stresses of taking pregnancy tests (which, of course, I already blogged about here), and she totally wasn't understanding me. I was just trying to explain the stress of taking one versus the stress of buying one, etc...

Mom: How much do they cost?
Me: Like $15 for a 3-pack
Mom: Well geez! That's a lot just to pee on something! Just wait for your doctor to tell you!
Me: Mom, it costs way more than $15 to go to the doctor and the first thing your doctor is going to ask you is if you peed on the stick!
 
Turns out, pregnancy tests did not exist when my mother was giving birth to children.

Let me say that again: Did. Not. Exist.

Which helps some of my confusion tremendously. For years, I have heard  old(er) women say, "You'll know you're pregnant when your breasts are sore." or "your nipples will turn brown" or "you'll be hugging the toilet every morning," etc. This is very sage wisdom and I don't doubt it's true.

But then I read my baby books and they all say how these signs hit you between 4-8 weeks. And I sat there doing math in my head and counting days and weeks. This didn't add up. Shouldn't the first sign you're pregnant be your missed period, ladies? Why wait until your boobs are sore to take the test?

And there we have it: Because they didn't have tests. My mom knew she was pregnant when she woke up nauseated with sore breasts. She never had the final word of the E.P.T. to comfort her.

She never ever in her whole life has taken a pregnancy test. Women, can you fathom that? There is an entire generation of women that have never sat in the bathroom for five minutes going out of her mind wondering if she peed too much or too little and analyzing the darkness of those incomprehensible lines!

I. Am. So. Jealous.

Then there's my stepmom, who is a few years younger than my own mother. She didn't have a pee test for her first kid, but did for her second. She and I were laughing as she described those "old-fashioned" tests that required you hold a very small tip in your stream of urine (your morning pee) for so many seconds and how you just ended up peeing all over your hand instead.

And then it hit me: These are the same tests we're taking now. So in 20-whatever years, pregnancy tests have not evolved whatsoever. It still involves a woman waving a wand underneath herself as she squats on the toilet, trying to catch enough pee on her stick to get it to process and not get it all over her hand.

Men invented these, didn't they? There's no way a real-life woman thought this was a good idea. Only a man would think it would be easy to aim a stream of urine at a smallish target. I think men forget that women don't get to see their pee as it's happening without serious effort.

I am embarking on a campaign to redesign the pregnancy test and put an end to these ludicrous devices once and for all. Whose with me!?

If I get pregnant, will I have friends again?

Coffee is better in groups.

According to Facebook I have 183 friends.

In real life, I have a handful of "former colleagues" that were my friends when I lived in that town, 3 "phone friends" that I'd love to see in person more but, again, don't live anywhere near, 1 best friend that I do absolutely every thing with (my spouse) and a handful of people I've met since moving to Washington that I want to be friends with but haven't figured out how yet.

Basically I'm left feeling like I have no friends. It's mostly my fault, I suppose — I work a horrible schedule that has me in the office during the evenings, when most adult people socialize and make friends. Also, I've never been good at making friends, so I tend to hold on dearly to the ones I have. In our global, digital age, that's gotten easier since I stay in touch with you all on Facebook (because, let's face it, if you're reading this, you're likely one of my friends).

So once a week, I know I'll get a call from K., or a text message from E., or have a Facebook chat with T. And that sustains me. But my day-to-day friendship requirements of someone to talk to about what I'm going through, bitch about my day with or get a cup of coffee are filled by my husband. Or my mom, who doesn't live here but does a verbal cup of coffee very well.

Now, I married my husband because he's my best friend — and was my friend long before he was my man. He is my favorite company, but the man cannot relate to a conversation about menstrual cycles. Or gynecological visits. Or whatever he did that day to irritate me that isn't actually a big deal, but I still feel like talking about it, just not to him. He does his damnedest, I'll give him credit for that, but dang it if I don't feel like sitting down face to face with another woman and talking about something. Anything.

Reverse nesting

All the baby books say that pregnant moms participate in "nesting," i.e. preparing their homes for their soon-to-be-spawn.

The baby swing - a most necessary item.

I am participating in reverse-nesting. Of course, I'm not actually pregnant. But I intend to be, so I think it still counts. Reverse-nesting is the scientific term for staring at your incredibly small duplex that is perfect for two adult persons and one 8-pound feline and thinking, "Where in the hell am I going to put a baby?"

My guest room/office is not eager to be converted into a nursery/playroom. One wall is lined with bookshelves, which are stuffed with much-needed tomes. The closet is filled with Christmas decorations, the humidifier, out-of-season clothing and other miscellaneous items that we never look at but can't bear to throw away. Our desk overflows with papers. There is a double-size bed shoved in one corner for the occasional visitor.

The rest of our house doesn't do much better. Every square inch of closet space is taken up by TJ's and my stuff. While we do have a surprising amount of children's literature and kid-friendly movies, that's not exactly a concern of a newborn. Newborns are worried about jumpers and changing tables, bottle cleaners and fragance-free laundry detergent.

A terrifying journey begins with some sex

Let's not beat around the bush about what this blog is about: It's about sex. Well, sort of the byproduct of it, anyway — children. This is where I intend to record my thoughts, fears, emotions, doctor's visits and etc. as my darling husband and I attempt to conceive.

The issue, of course, that until just over two years ago when I married my fabulous spouse, I was sort of on the fence about the whole child-bearing thing. I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome when I was a teenager and I know conception could be difficult for me. And I've always been career-driven, certain my job and hoped-for exotic lifestyle would keep me busy and satisfied.

The idea of becoming a mom whose own life ceases to exist the minute her loins prove fertile terrifies me. 

But then I met a handful of truly amazing women who have fulfilling careers, dynamic marriages and brilliant children. And I married the most wonderful man in the world, who just oozes fatherly devotion and lights up like a firework when he plays with Other People's Kids.

My heart caved in. I want to produce life with this person. He will be an amazing father. He'll be one of those husbands that gets up at 4 a.m. in a snowstorm and buys me ice cream and pickles. Finally, having a baby isn't the most terrifying thing I've ever imagined because I know I won't be alone. T.J. will be there with me.

So we're off the pill, thinking about ovulation cycles and trying to have as much fun as possible having as much sex as our loins can manage.

Because let's face it, everybody knows once the baby gets here that's all out the window. Squeeze in the good times while you can, right?

So this is my journey, and you're welcome to come along. I aim to make it entertaining and humorous, if not for your benefit, dear reader, that for my own.

Hopefully it'll be less scary that way.