I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts

6-8-09

Back during preg #2, I picked up a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting despite the warnings from my doctor and doula that it wasn’t the best of resources. The true title should be What to Freak Out About When You’re Expecting as it contains extensive lists of all the things that could go wrong along. Not to mention the hyperventilating tone. (More exclamation points per paragraph than notes from my niece who is enamored of this most charismatic of quotation marks.) And the condescension. But such is the way of pregnancy world. A woman has sex, starts growing a being in her uterus and somehow morphs into a kindergartner in the eyes of the pregnancy industrial complex. The situation is improving with the publication of From The Hips and other such resources from the sassy and smart Gen X intelligentsia. But those books aren’t as detailed as the classic.

The hip, blue-jeaned woman on the cover beckons. Okay, fine. I’ll just take a quick look at what to expect during week 6. Sore tits: check. Nausea: yup. Food cravings/aversions: And how! (Though I always have my finger on the pulse of my appetite so I might be exaggerating.) My eyes drift to a sidebar “Stay positive!” Women who remain positive during their pregnancies have easier labors and fewer pre-term labors. Well, good for them. All the entreaties to stay optimistic are the fingernails-on-chalkboard of my subsequent pregnancies. I wouldn’t say that I’m all doom and gloom, but I’m certainly not bouncing around, spreading the news of my pregnancy far and wide, and plastering a smile on my face. Now that sounds stressful.

Mom and I are having our weekly chat. She asks how I’m feeling.

“Oh you know, a little sick, very tired, but on the whole I’m okay.”

“I hope you’re feeling better by the time I get there,” she says.

“I’m just hoping that I’m still pregnant by the time you get here.”

“Oh sweetie. Think good thoughts!” she says.

My mom does not appreciate my gallows humor. I try to explain to her that I am staying positive for the most part, but that it’s hard to be blindly positive when I know how things can turn out. When other women tell me of their pregnancies and aren’t aware of my history, I don’t instantly regale them with my story. I smile and congratulate them and envy them their uncomplicated joy. But for those who know, I am honest. Yes, I am thrilled. Seriously. I want it to work out very badly, but I just don’t believe it yet. Talk to me after my ultrasound at week 9. (Thanks for fitting us in before you give birth, Dr. Awesome!)

My yoga pal Jan said that her pregnancy was transformed after her positive ultrasound. I am waiting for similar magic. Not that I mind other people being optimistic. I rationally know that my chances are good, but I’m just not feeling it yet. When you’re on the wrong side of statistics twice in one year, it’s hard to believe that you can get back to the right side. In this case I am so ready to not be special.

Now if I may totally contradict myself. I also feel like I am supposed to be wary when I spread the news like if I were totally thrilled and jumping for joy that my friends would smack a smile on their faces while secretly thinking, “Is she delusional?” I feel like I need to acknowledge that we are in a precarious position. Sometimes I trot out the statistic that 3 miscarriages in a row is extremely rare. To others I just say, “We’re excited, but you know,” and look down at my growing pot -belly. At some point I will want to be balls-out thrilled. Oh probably around month 8 (g-d willing). And then no one will need to entreat me to be positive. I might even glow.

But we’re not there yet.

Random: As I lay in bed, contemplating pregnancy an image of 2 babies popped into my head. Twins? Not bloody likely. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days swearing to G-d that we didn’t use fertility drugs. For the record, we didn’t.

This weekend I devoured Elizabeth McCracken’s excellent An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a memoir about her first pregnancy, which ended in a stillborn baby, and her second, which ended in a happy, healthy, breathing child. She nails many of my feelings: how I must remind myself over and over again not to assume anything of a pregnant woman’s history lest I judge harshly, and the anguish, the deep, bone-rattling, soul-painful anguish. Probably not the best book to read while pregnant, but I certainly feel less alone.