4-6-09
Mr. Crud and I are undulating through cat and cow poses in our usual Sunday afternoon yoga class. The teacher halts our arching and kicks things up a notch with some core work.
“The pregnant ladies may wish to skip this one,” she says.
Even as I tell myself to keep with my breath, to concentrate on my movement, my practice, I surreptitiously steal glances around the room, trying to suss out the pregnant among us. I spy with my little eye a swollen belly on the woman by the window who is doing her own modification. But my teacher said ladieS, plural. My gaze falls on Dr. Awesome, an occasional Sunday afternoon yoga compatriot. She is modifying too. Hmmm… Her shirt hangs baggy. Could it be? Yeah, could be. And so?
The teacher brings us to a cross-legged position for a few minutes of meditation. We do a leisurely twist. I steal more looks at Dr. Awesome’s midsection. Mid-twist I see it, the bump. Dr. Awesome is 4-5 months pregnant by my estimation. Shit. This is totally going to mess with my yoga class. I go through my now familiar “Wow she’s pregnant” stages. Anger, denial, acceptance and so on. I decide that it’s okay if Dr. Awesome is pregnant (how big of me) and that I will be okay with going to see her if/when I get pregnant again. I wonder if it will feel worse getting miscarriage news from a pregnant woman. Nah, probably not. Should that news come again, I doubt the pregnancy state of the bearer of more doom will occupy my mind much. I’ll be too busy rending garments and letting loose a stream of curse words. Also crying. Lots of crying.
After my dip into worst-case-scenario land, I return to the land of actual concerns. How long will Dr. Awesome’s maternity leave last? Does she have enough of a head start on me? Crap. I should have totally gotten knocked up at my first chance. I wonder if things will necessarily be weird after class. I have imaginary conversations in my head: “Hey Dr. Awesome. Congratulations! When are you due? Cool.”
Whenever someone knows of my miscarriage history I feel this need to be extra excited about their pregnancies as it to convince us both that I’m having no hard feelings about it. I remind myself that I did not come to yoga to contemplate my physician’s pregnancy, which quiets the voices for a little while, but every time I catch a glimpse of her swollen belly they kick back into gear.
After class Mr. Crud and I talk to the teacher about our recent travel adventures. Dr. Awesome sits on the bench stuffing her feet into boots. She sniffles.
“How are you?” I ask her.
“Oh good. Just getting over a little cold,” she says.
“It’s tough to get rid of them in this weather,” Mr. Crud says.
I try not to stare at her belly, the elephant in my room.
Mr. Crud and I head out into the rainy afternoon. After we are a block away, I say, “Dr. Awesome is totally pregnant.”
“Really? I didn’t notice.” He says.
“Yup. Really.”
“Huh.”
We go over the time line for our plans to step back in the pregnancy ring. “I might have to get another doctor. Maybe Dr. D & C? I like her.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Crud says.
Oh yeah. Right. I guess I need to get pregnant first.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
April Fools and Anniversaries
4-2-09
How does one mark the one-year anniversary of their initiation into Miscarriage World? I got my period, which seems pretty bloody appropriate (pun very intended and also protesting its use in the previous sentence). I thanked G-d that I wasn’t in the same place I was a year ago—devastated and terrified that I would die during my D & C. While smoking my first cigarette since my positive pregnancy test, I felt gripped by a fear that I was going to die--not just feel like I was dying--the next day. I made the decision that I wanted all my journals burned and told Mr. Crud as much.
“You’re not going to die,” he said.
“But if I do.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
From a year distance—and through the eyes of a D & C veteran—my hysterics seem melodramatic. I don’t view myself harshly. My whole world-view had been upended in the course of a single, sunny afternoon.
Last night after dinner Mr. Crud’s face fell into a frown.
“You thinking about--?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
It had been hard not to think about it since leaving for our annual spring break trip to Florida. The night we arrived I lay in my niece Emma’s bed tossing and turning as images from our previous trip zipped about my brain: Me going through maternity and baby clothes while Mr. Crud packed up the Pack ‘n Play and breast pump accessories. The terrible cold that kept me in bed for most of our visit since I couldn’t take any cold medicine. Even though I could have since my reason for abstaining was actually already deceased. Infuriating. For lack of anything more solid than Mother Nature to direct my anger, I get mad at my poor, dead collection of genetic material, Primo. Why the fuck couldn’t you have just rode the red menstrual tide instead of sticking around and stinking up my uterus with your baby-to-be-that-never-was death? I could have taken cold medicine. I could have tasted the delicious scallop dinner that I couldn’t eat because, lacking the ability to smell and taste due to my horrible cold, the texture was disgusting.
Because I wasn’t pregnant this time around, I popped a Xanax and eventually drifted off to sleep with visions of playing witches with my niece dancing in my head. She did not disappoint. Nor did her little bro, nephew Jonah. The chief recruiters did their job of kicking me back into the baby-making mode. Emma with her Lemony Snicket and Stephin Merritt obsessions (for real now, how cool is that for a 6-year-old?), and Jonah with his Caesar-style conquering of potty training--He came, he saw, he crapped, AND wiped—reminded me that the struggle is worth it. Well, unless it isn’t and the events of the past year repeat themselves and we end up sad, bleeding, and hating the g-ds. But what can you do? Hello, fertility calculators. Good-bye, cigarettes.
How does one mark the one-year anniversary of their initiation into Miscarriage World? I got my period, which seems pretty bloody appropriate (pun very intended and also protesting its use in the previous sentence). I thanked G-d that I wasn’t in the same place I was a year ago—devastated and terrified that I would die during my D & C. While smoking my first cigarette since my positive pregnancy test, I felt gripped by a fear that I was going to die--not just feel like I was dying--the next day. I made the decision that I wanted all my journals burned and told Mr. Crud as much.
“You’re not going to die,” he said.
“But if I do.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
From a year distance—and through the eyes of a D & C veteran—my hysterics seem melodramatic. I don’t view myself harshly. My whole world-view had been upended in the course of a single, sunny afternoon.
Last night after dinner Mr. Crud’s face fell into a frown.
“You thinking about--?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
It had been hard not to think about it since leaving for our annual spring break trip to Florida. The night we arrived I lay in my niece Emma’s bed tossing and turning as images from our previous trip zipped about my brain: Me going through maternity and baby clothes while Mr. Crud packed up the Pack ‘n Play and breast pump accessories. The terrible cold that kept me in bed for most of our visit since I couldn’t take any cold medicine. Even though I could have since my reason for abstaining was actually already deceased. Infuriating. For lack of anything more solid than Mother Nature to direct my anger, I get mad at my poor, dead collection of genetic material, Primo. Why the fuck couldn’t you have just rode the red menstrual tide instead of sticking around and stinking up my uterus with your baby-to-be-that-never-was death? I could have taken cold medicine. I could have tasted the delicious scallop dinner that I couldn’t eat because, lacking the ability to smell and taste due to my horrible cold, the texture was disgusting.
Because I wasn’t pregnant this time around, I popped a Xanax and eventually drifted off to sleep with visions of playing witches with my niece dancing in my head. She did not disappoint. Nor did her little bro, nephew Jonah. The chief recruiters did their job of kicking me back into the baby-making mode. Emma with her Lemony Snicket and Stephin Merritt obsessions (for real now, how cool is that for a 6-year-old?), and Jonah with his Caesar-style conquering of potty training--He came, he saw, he crapped, AND wiped—reminded me that the struggle is worth it. Well, unless it isn’t and the events of the past year repeat themselves and we end up sad, bleeding, and hating the g-ds. But what can you do? Hello, fertility calculators. Good-bye, cigarettes.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Riding a Bummer
3-17-09
Last night as we hunker down for a (hopefully) good night’s sleep, Mr. Crud says, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
“Is it like every anxiety you have is coming at you at once?” I ask.
“Yeah, like that.”
This morning I awake with a chip on my shoulder. I don’t want to go to work and deal with whining students. I don’t want to ride my bike through the rain. I don’t want to go to yoga and listen to myself criticize myself for not being thin/strong/skilled enough to get into mayurasana or bakasana B for that matter. I don’t want to make dinner. Whatever malaise infected Mr. Crud spread to me somewhere in our tossing and turning last night.
Get on my bike I do. Ride through rain I will. Talking like Yoda I will stop. I make it to yoga, lock my bike, and head inside to (hopefully) find my way back to feeling fine. Or at least make peace with my discomfort. I stand at the top of my mat in tadasana, hands together in prayer. “Surrender. Ease. Peace. Contentment,” I think. One of my yoga teachers says that we can become our mantras over time. Probably not in the white knuckle state of mind that I’m in right now, but you never know when grace steps in to give you a moment of joy.
I open my eyes and begin. Before I’m even done with my first sun salutation, the thought hits: The one-year anniversary of Primo’s miscarriage is on the horizon. April 1. Oh joy. I think back to my previous spring break trip to Florida. The innocence of packing up hand-me-down maternity clothes and a breast pump, baby clothes and the Pack-and-Play which we’ve since tucked into a corner of our basement. I think of the cards my niece Emma made congratulating me and Mr. Crud (although she wasn’t sure what role he had played in the baby-making enterprise). I remember how sick I was during our last spring break and how I didn’t take any medication lest I harm the unborn baby that was, at that point, already dead. Hmmm…maybe this spring break that I’ve been anticipating and counting down won’t be quite as simple as Cuban food and playing auntie. I worry that my niece, who forgot about my pregnancy, will somehow remember it upon seeing me.
“What happened to your baby, Aunt Kt?” she’ll ask.
“Uh, well, some babies aren’t ready to be born yet so they, uh, decide not to come out.”
I don’t know how honest I’m supposed to be, how much disillusionment a 6-year-old can handle.
In yoga class, I keep breathing and twisting myself into asanas as the miscarriage mist envelops me. I want to go home, bury my head in Mr. Crud’s chest, and cry.
One of my best friends from college sent news of the recent birth of her daughter yesterday. Quickly I replied with congratulations. I am happy for her. And I am sad for me.
How all of this fits into my current lack of desire to attempt pregnancy is unclear. I wanted at least one pregnancy-free vacation this year and my will shall be done in 5 days. At least there is that.
Last night as we hunker down for a (hopefully) good night’s sleep, Mr. Crud says, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
“Is it like every anxiety you have is coming at you at once?” I ask.
“Yeah, like that.”
This morning I awake with a chip on my shoulder. I don’t want to go to work and deal with whining students. I don’t want to ride my bike through the rain. I don’t want to go to yoga and listen to myself criticize myself for not being thin/strong/skilled enough to get into mayurasana or bakasana B for that matter. I don’t want to make dinner. Whatever malaise infected Mr. Crud spread to me somewhere in our tossing and turning last night.
Get on my bike I do. Ride through rain I will. Talking like Yoda I will stop. I make it to yoga, lock my bike, and head inside to (hopefully) find my way back to feeling fine. Or at least make peace with my discomfort. I stand at the top of my mat in tadasana, hands together in prayer. “Surrender. Ease. Peace. Contentment,” I think. One of my yoga teachers says that we can become our mantras over time. Probably not in the white knuckle state of mind that I’m in right now, but you never know when grace steps in to give you a moment of joy.
I open my eyes and begin. Before I’m even done with my first sun salutation, the thought hits: The one-year anniversary of Primo’s miscarriage is on the horizon. April 1. Oh joy. I think back to my previous spring break trip to Florida. The innocence of packing up hand-me-down maternity clothes and a breast pump, baby clothes and the Pack-and-Play which we’ve since tucked into a corner of our basement. I think of the cards my niece Emma made congratulating me and Mr. Crud (although she wasn’t sure what role he had played in the baby-making enterprise). I remember how sick I was during our last spring break and how I didn’t take any medication lest I harm the unborn baby that was, at that point, already dead. Hmmm…maybe this spring break that I’ve been anticipating and counting down won’t be quite as simple as Cuban food and playing auntie. I worry that my niece, who forgot about my pregnancy, will somehow remember it upon seeing me.
“What happened to your baby, Aunt Kt?” she’ll ask.
“Uh, well, some babies aren’t ready to be born yet so they, uh, decide not to come out.”
I don’t know how honest I’m supposed to be, how much disillusionment a 6-year-old can handle.
In yoga class, I keep breathing and twisting myself into asanas as the miscarriage mist envelops me. I want to go home, bury my head in Mr. Crud’s chest, and cry.
One of my best friends from college sent news of the recent birth of her daughter yesterday. Quickly I replied with congratulations. I am happy for her. And I am sad for me.
How all of this fits into my current lack of desire to attempt pregnancy is unclear. I wanted at least one pregnancy-free vacation this year and my will shall be done in 5 days. At least there is that.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Late!
3-13-09
I confirm and re-confirm the fertility calculator’s prediction of the first date of my period. I count the days in my date book. No denying it. March 5 was supposed to be the start of the next bloodbath. My gut aches. Shit. How could it? Could we really? I look back to our last, ahem, session of love, and shake my head. No. No way. It would have to be a miracle. Mr. Crud echoes the sentiment when I tell him of my pregnancy fears.
“That’s impossible,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come.”
“I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. It could have happened. It’s just highly highly unlikely that it did,” I say.
Friday night we go to the Savoy like we do every Friday night. I order my well-earned martini and settle back. March 6 and still no blood. All day I have been cramp-mining, hoping each rumbling in the lower abdominal area is the start of the latest round of crushing cramps.
“I’ve never really wished for cramps before,” I say to Mr. Crud and take a sip of martini. I nibble on the blue cheese-stuffed olives the bartender brought over for me to try. Oh the delights of forbidden foods are many. I wonder if I am nibbling my last bit of blue cheese and savoring my final martini.
Mr. Crud reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just that I’m not ready, you know? I’m scared. I haven’t gotten my bravery up for another round.”
Mr. Crud goes into counselor mode. “What do you mean by scared?”
I spill the well-worn catalogue of fears and concerns: I don’t want to go through another miscarriage, another doomed ultrasound. Just picturing the ultrasound room is brining tears to my eyes.
“All of those things sound perfectly normal.” He says.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just not ready for it yet.”
Mr. Crud shrugs his shoulders. “Not really anything we can do about it now.”
“If I am pregnant, I’m totally getting an abortion,” I say.
We catch each other’s eyes and burst into hysterical laughter. We laugh until my stomach starts to ache—oh could it finally be the cramps I wished for upon a star—and tears are spilling from my eyes.
“That would sure surprise the doctors.”
“’No, we just decided we weren’t ready yet. This one is elective,’” I pretend explaining it to the doctor who has performed my D & C-s.
“I’m glad we can laugh about this stuff,” Mr. Crud says.
“And how. Cheers.” I hold up my half-finished martini. Our salads arrive. I manage to forget the nagging what-ifs of the last few days.
Saturday I awake. Still no blood. Shit. I think back to the past month. A couple of nights of heavy drinking, the usual sushi parade, and a few half-tabs of Xanax. As I did in July, I conjure the too-tough-to-die baby fantasy. The baby that wants to live so badly that it was created on non-fertile days and survived all the vodka and puffs of cigarette that I threw at it. Then I worry. What if my carrying on has messed up another embryo? What if I am totally to blame this time? I remember my old mantra—all or nothing, all or nothing—and put the baby fears on hold.
That afternoon I pick up another package of pee sticks. I’ll be using them eventually. This seems to do the trick. When I return home from the store, the cramps kick in, then the bloody smears. Ahhh…sweet relief.
“We need to celebrate,” I tell Mr. Crud. “With liquor.”
I’m going to need some liquid courage if I’m going to make it through another first trimester. Guess I’ll have to front load it.
I confirm and re-confirm the fertility calculator’s prediction of the first date of my period. I count the days in my date book. No denying it. March 5 was supposed to be the start of the next bloodbath. My gut aches. Shit. How could it? Could we really? I look back to our last, ahem, session of love, and shake my head. No. No way. It would have to be a miracle. Mr. Crud echoes the sentiment when I tell him of my pregnancy fears.
“That’s impossible,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come.”
“I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. It could have happened. It’s just highly highly unlikely that it did,” I say.
Friday night we go to the Savoy like we do every Friday night. I order my well-earned martini and settle back. March 6 and still no blood. All day I have been cramp-mining, hoping each rumbling in the lower abdominal area is the start of the latest round of crushing cramps.
“I’ve never really wished for cramps before,” I say to Mr. Crud and take a sip of martini. I nibble on the blue cheese-stuffed olives the bartender brought over for me to try. Oh the delights of forbidden foods are many. I wonder if I am nibbling my last bit of blue cheese and savoring my final martini.
Mr. Crud reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just that I’m not ready, you know? I’m scared. I haven’t gotten my bravery up for another round.”
Mr. Crud goes into counselor mode. “What do you mean by scared?”
I spill the well-worn catalogue of fears and concerns: I don’t want to go through another miscarriage, another doomed ultrasound. Just picturing the ultrasound room is brining tears to my eyes.
“All of those things sound perfectly normal.” He says.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just not ready for it yet.”
Mr. Crud shrugs his shoulders. “Not really anything we can do about it now.”
“If I am pregnant, I’m totally getting an abortion,” I say.
We catch each other’s eyes and burst into hysterical laughter. We laugh until my stomach starts to ache—oh could it finally be the cramps I wished for upon a star—and tears are spilling from my eyes.
“That would sure surprise the doctors.”
“’No, we just decided we weren’t ready yet. This one is elective,’” I pretend explaining it to the doctor who has performed my D & C-s.
“I’m glad we can laugh about this stuff,” Mr. Crud says.
“And how. Cheers.” I hold up my half-finished martini. Our salads arrive. I manage to forget the nagging what-ifs of the last few days.
Saturday I awake. Still no blood. Shit. I think back to the past month. A couple of nights of heavy drinking, the usual sushi parade, and a few half-tabs of Xanax. As I did in July, I conjure the too-tough-to-die baby fantasy. The baby that wants to live so badly that it was created on non-fertile days and survived all the vodka and puffs of cigarette that I threw at it. Then I worry. What if my carrying on has messed up another embryo? What if I am totally to blame this time? I remember my old mantra—all or nothing, all or nothing—and put the baby fears on hold.
That afternoon I pick up another package of pee sticks. I’ll be using them eventually. This seems to do the trick. When I return home from the store, the cramps kick in, then the bloody smears. Ahhh…sweet relief.
“We need to celebrate,” I tell Mr. Crud. “With liquor.”
I’m going to need some liquid courage if I’m going to make it through another first trimester. Guess I’ll have to front load it.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
What's a Pregnant Lady Like You Doing in a Place Like This?
2-27-2009
Is no place safe from pregnant women? Mr. Crud and I step into a basement cum barroom last Saturday. Our first party in months. Partly we sometimes have a hard time relating to folks who haven’t been briefed on our year of heartache. Mostly we are lazy. And in love with Battlestar Galactica and can’t imagine a finer evening than curling up on the couch and watching Lee Adama and Starbuck shoot each other simmering glances while saving humanity from the Cylons. But this special Saturday we decide to venture out into the world of band parties to catch my ex-Gollipopp bandmates do their thing.
One of Mr. Crud’s pals who he hasn’t seen in a few months steps up to our conversational plate.
“What’s new?” Mr. Crud asks.
“I’m going to be a dad in a few months,” Old Pal says and pivots to show his very pregnant wife standing behind him, chatting with friends.
“Hey, that’s great,” Mr. Crud says. We exchange glances. To bring it up or not to bring it up, that is the perpetual question. Is their a tactful way to say “Wow, I’m so happy for you. Kt here was pregnant too. Twice in fact! Twice in one year in fact!!! But you know, it didn’t work out.”
Nope. No tactful way in a basement lit by Christmas lights.
“So, what week are you in?” Mr. Crud asks, making me proud with his pregnancy conversational prowess.
“31. So about 9 weeks left,” he says.
“It’s about 40 weeks,” I say to Mr. Crud, wanting to demonstrate my own knowledge on the topic of human gestational periods.
I do the math. Old Pal’s wife is due a week after I would have (should have) had Dewey. In an alternate universe of perfectly replicating genes, Old Pal and Mr. Crud would have lots to discuss and a mutual back-slapping party of a time ahead of them. Instead, we fish for words as Mr. Crud and I continue to exchange “should we mention it?” looks.
No. We shouldn’t. No father of an about-to-pop pregnant lady wants to hear of a worst-case scenario come to life. He wants to be happy and to be reassured that he didn’t really need to sleep that much anyway.
I decide to excuse myself for a cigarette far far away from the pregnant. The first band starts. A 3-piece with—wouldn’t you know it—a pregnant lady taking lead vocals. Shouldn’t you people be at home gorging on ice cream and nesting or some shit like that? Can a girl even go to a band party without having to look in the mirror and see her failed uterus?
I turn to leave as another friend of Mr. Crud’s steps inside. The last time we saw her I was pregnant and about to have my second ultrasound of doom. She, on the other hand, had a gorgeous 8-month-old daughter whose smiling face made me hopeful that maybe this time things were okay. (Darn babies and their hope-inspiring faces.)
“So where’s the baby?” Mr. Crud asks after we’ve exchanged the requisite how’s it going-s with his friend.
“We have a system,” she says. “I get to party for the first hour while he sits in the van and watches her sleep. Then it’s his turn. And by the end of his hour, we’re usually ready to head home.”
“Ooo, good one,” I say.
I know that Mr. Crud and I will never be motivated to enact such a plan once we (hopefully) have a critter of our own. Plus I’m too prone to forgetting to look at my watch unless I’m having a bad time.
My ex-mates’ band starts up. Old Pal is the third member of the band. Mr. Crud pulls me to the front of the milling crowd where I, who have crossed over into the sleepy drunk zone, find a seat. A few feet away from me Old Pal’s wife records him on a small camcorder. A permanent wide smile settles on her face as her eyes flicker back and forth between Old Pal and the camera’s screen. I imagine myself as her, watching Mr. Crud bang the skins at what would probably be his final rock show before our theoretical baby comes. She smiles like she has a secret. You know, like a baby growing inside of her that is made of the two of them, a being founded in love and kisses and cells dividing at the right time. My eyes keep finding her and wondering if that will ever be me. Should we have tried again last month? Is it time? The longer we wait, the more I get used to sweaty yoga practices and Friday martinis and the fear that hums in the background of every discussion of maybe getting back into the TTC game.
I have secrets too. They just don’t make me smile knowingly.
Is no place safe from pregnant women? Mr. Crud and I step into a basement cum barroom last Saturday. Our first party in months. Partly we sometimes have a hard time relating to folks who haven’t been briefed on our year of heartache. Mostly we are lazy. And in love with Battlestar Galactica and can’t imagine a finer evening than curling up on the couch and watching Lee Adama and Starbuck shoot each other simmering glances while saving humanity from the Cylons. But this special Saturday we decide to venture out into the world of band parties to catch my ex-Gollipopp bandmates do their thing.
One of Mr. Crud’s pals who he hasn’t seen in a few months steps up to our conversational plate.
“What’s new?” Mr. Crud asks.
“I’m going to be a dad in a few months,” Old Pal says and pivots to show his very pregnant wife standing behind him, chatting with friends.
“Hey, that’s great,” Mr. Crud says. We exchange glances. To bring it up or not to bring it up, that is the perpetual question. Is their a tactful way to say “Wow, I’m so happy for you. Kt here was pregnant too. Twice in fact! Twice in one year in fact!!! But you know, it didn’t work out.”
Nope. No tactful way in a basement lit by Christmas lights.
“So, what week are you in?” Mr. Crud asks, making me proud with his pregnancy conversational prowess.
“31. So about 9 weeks left,” he says.
“It’s about 40 weeks,” I say to Mr. Crud, wanting to demonstrate my own knowledge on the topic of human gestational periods.
I do the math. Old Pal’s wife is due a week after I would have (should have) had Dewey. In an alternate universe of perfectly replicating genes, Old Pal and Mr. Crud would have lots to discuss and a mutual back-slapping party of a time ahead of them. Instead, we fish for words as Mr. Crud and I continue to exchange “should we mention it?” looks.
No. We shouldn’t. No father of an about-to-pop pregnant lady wants to hear of a worst-case scenario come to life. He wants to be happy and to be reassured that he didn’t really need to sleep that much anyway.
I decide to excuse myself for a cigarette far far away from the pregnant. The first band starts. A 3-piece with—wouldn’t you know it—a pregnant lady taking lead vocals. Shouldn’t you people be at home gorging on ice cream and nesting or some shit like that? Can a girl even go to a band party without having to look in the mirror and see her failed uterus?
I turn to leave as another friend of Mr. Crud’s steps inside. The last time we saw her I was pregnant and about to have my second ultrasound of doom. She, on the other hand, had a gorgeous 8-month-old daughter whose smiling face made me hopeful that maybe this time things were okay. (Darn babies and their hope-inspiring faces.)
“So where’s the baby?” Mr. Crud asks after we’ve exchanged the requisite how’s it going-s with his friend.
“We have a system,” she says. “I get to party for the first hour while he sits in the van and watches her sleep. Then it’s his turn. And by the end of his hour, we’re usually ready to head home.”
“Ooo, good one,” I say.
I know that Mr. Crud and I will never be motivated to enact such a plan once we (hopefully) have a critter of our own. Plus I’m too prone to forgetting to look at my watch unless I’m having a bad time.
My ex-mates’ band starts up. Old Pal is the third member of the band. Mr. Crud pulls me to the front of the milling crowd where I, who have crossed over into the sleepy drunk zone, find a seat. A few feet away from me Old Pal’s wife records him on a small camcorder. A permanent wide smile settles on her face as her eyes flicker back and forth between Old Pal and the camera’s screen. I imagine myself as her, watching Mr. Crud bang the skins at what would probably be his final rock show before our theoretical baby comes. She smiles like she has a secret. You know, like a baby growing inside of her that is made of the two of them, a being founded in love and kisses and cells dividing at the right time. My eyes keep finding her and wondering if that will ever be me. Should we have tried again last month? Is it time? The longer we wait, the more I get used to sweaty yoga practices and Friday martinis and the fear that hums in the background of every discussion of maybe getting back into the TTC game.
I have secrets too. They just don’t make me smile knowingly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
