So you remember way back when– back in those wild, reckless days– when Mitch and I got married, got tattoos (tatti? tattae?), when on a drinking tour of northwestern Minnesota (read: sat in our cabin and drank a lot)? And then remember how like, four days after that, we found out we were pregnant?
AND THEN do you remember how that pregnancy was awful and terrible and I cried a lot and had to be reminded to shower and brush my teeth, but still somehow got my act together and decided– hey– okay– okay– I guess– okay.
And THEN remember how the baby came, and she was beautiful, and then didn’t sleep for a year?
Well, apparently we forgot about all of that, because we decided to try to get pregnant this fall. Whenever I tell my other mom-friends this, I get one of two reactions. Either they are just SO EXCITED because Maren is just SO ADORABLE they can’t wait to see another one just like her. Or they look at me and say, “Have you lost your mind? Do you REMEMBER labor? THREE DAYS OF LABOR, ADRIENNE. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?”
I know. I have no defense.
So way back in February, I gave my left butt cheek the very good news that he (yes. My ass is man. Just ask every guy who’s ever checked me out.) had been granted a reprieve, and there would be no stabbing for a very long time. To celebrate, I ordered myself and my ass some ovulation checker-ma-jigs, and then sat back and waited for the little red flag that it was GO TIME.
Except…. no dice. It’s been months now, and I’m not even spotting. NOT EVEN. Its as if, after ten years of my uterus and I having a fantastic relationship, just because of this one little argument that I had with her (I guess my uterus is a woman), she’s decided she’s not speaking to me. Which is kind of shitty, considering that this argument is stemmed from the fact that I got pregnant unexpectedly, which I think most sources would say is her department.
So I went to the doctor, which I detest doing anyway, and asked her what was wrong. She gave me one of her doctor looks and then told me that she’s not surprised that we’re having trouble. Given my current condition (read: fat. Huge fat.) she said she’d be surprised if I could get pregnant at all.
Guys, has anyone ever said something like that to you before? I mean, what kind of fuckery is this? We spend our entire adolescence and early adulthood doing EVERYTHING WE CAN to AVOID pregnancy, and then we decide we WANT to get pregnant and there’s suddenly a complication? IS THIS REAL LIFE?
And so, Internet, I come to you grieving. It seems as though I am going to have to undergo one of those Dr-Phil-esque lifestyle changes, wherein I have to eat cardboard and tell everyone, “NO REALLY, it tastes SOOOOO good!” and whenever I think about ice cream I have to stick my finger in an outlet. And don’t get me started on exercise.
I’m on vacation this week at the cabin (back at the scene of the crime) and I am under orders from my Doctor to NOT get pregnant until I’ve lost fifty pounds. FIFTY POUNDS GUYS. THE METRIC EQUIVALENT TO ONE LINDSAY LOHAN. So, since most of my plans for this week are now useless (ahem), I guess I’ll be spending the time getting my head on straight to get my body ready to become Kingdom of Baby. Which means, probably, lots of drinking and crying. Great material for blogging, no?