A few friends and relatives have told us they’ve been on the verge of buying us pregnancy journals, before thinking, “Certainly, they have already one of these. Of all the couples I know, The Weiszes must be documenting this.” Then they discover we don’t have one, and haven’t really been documenting it, and they get these shaming looks on their faces and shake their head in awe and disappointment, wondering if they really know us at all.
So far this blog’s all been stories about not getting pregnant, at the expense of journaling what’s going on now. The plan was to sprinkle current stories about the hilarious life of expectancy in between episodes of the fertility drama. The thing is, nothing’s really happened yet. Everything we know about this baby comes from magical ultrasound images and stories from the Internet. Only in the last week or so has the baby effected physical change, evidenced by Sarah’s sudden affection for stretchy waistlines. We’ve scratched the surface of the baby name assignment, and maybe given a passing though to how we’ll decorate the kid’s room, but beyond that, life has been normal. I expect that to change dramatically, and soon. Meanwhile, here’s what’s been keeping us busy in the last sixteen weeks:
Living with the news. Sarah had shared her fertility experience with a handful of close friends and her parents. So when the news hit — “when the line turned blue,” in fertility parlance — she had a few people she could announce the news to. This was necessary emotionally, but also strategically, as Sarah is TERRIBLE at keeping secrets, and we had we decided to abide by the standard twelve-week cone of silence. (For all the standard reasons, plus a few more.) In fact, I consider it nothing short of a karmic blessing that no one asked her to her face if she were pregnant, because her head may have exploded as she desperately tried to stay nonchalant while saying no. Meanwhile, I got off relatively easy (as is the case for my gender with pretty much everything in this department). I only had two tight spots where I was flat-out asked about being pregnant, and I had to flat-out lie. And only one of them was with my mom. (Hey, rules are rules.)
The clues. When you’re married, in your thirties, an avowed kid-lover and not yet a mom, your drink orders are parsed like they’re encoded nuclear secrets. Sarah only ever has the occasional drink, even at friends’ dinner parties, but it was enough that when she made the shift from occasional to never, red flags went up and kibitzing commenced. (Or so we heard, later.) We expected this, of course, so we made half-hearted attempts to deflect it. Sarah’d let friends put a glass of wine in front of her at dinner, and then I’d plan to “accidentally” swap it for my empty halfway through. I equate this move with the porn-mag-inside-the-schoolbook move, and I’m inclined to believe it worked just as poorly.
Eating habits of the half-pregnant. Sarah suffered from all the usual first-trimester food aversions, and I’ll think it’ll be more interesting to hear about it from her. It didn’t affect the Baby Daddy much, except when we went out to eat. I’m a incurable plate-splitter, and when you’re dining with someone who can only eat cheese and bread, and only a few grams at a time, there aren’t many plates to split. I felt like I always was dining out with someone who’d just eaten, but who was polite enough to join me to watch me snarf down my food on my own. Sarah’s ramped back up to a normal appetite again, and enjoys all her old favorites. She hasn’t had a taste for anything peculiar, not even the pregnancy standard of pickles. Which is fine by me; more pickles for Sandy.
The hunt for inspiration. Boys names are stymying us. We’ve got a number of dead relatives to honor, but none of their names are really singing to us. So we look every where for new ideas. This means book authors, favorite characters, and most abundantly, crew members from movie credits. Nothing’s hit in that arena yet, and I’m a bit wary if it does. I don’t want the original source of our kid’s name to be some random actor from, say, The Wrestler. (Unless it’s Mickey Rourke. I could live with that. [But could he?])
Best argument ever. It happens about once a day. We’ll be negotiating something or other, and she’ll whip out the trump card. “Oh and also, I’m CARRYING YOUR CHILD.” Point, set, match.