I fully support you hiding in the bushes with vaseline and a pair of binoculars. I do. I dig weird. But I'm really nice, I promise. If you're going to be in my bush reading about my bush consider this just me coming out and making sure you're not in need of lemonade or a cookie.
As they say in Beetlejuice - Are you gross in there? Is it all night of the living dead in there? Are you covered in blood and puss?
Or do you, like me, have issues with the functioning of your puss?
REVEAL YOURSELVES. Let's be friends.
And then you can go scurrying back into the bush from whence you came without a peep from me... for awhile. I am hella friendly, ya'll. I can sense you out in the ether.
Let's get full on apeshit out of our minds coocoo for a second and consider that it is possible, possible, that I could be pregnant three months from now. Possible. For a moment let's throw out all that blaspheming hopelessness I was feeling on Monday and consider that a possibility.
(Source: Brilliant fucking post you should all read).
First let me say, I will obviously be stoked beyond belief. (And you should still come hang out with me in the interspace, even ye who lurk, because let's face it more so than a blog about infertility this has been, and will continue to be, mostly the unrelated ramblings of an insane person). If pregnancy means that I will grow a 40 lb hunchback, start shitting out of my fingertips and grow a full on billy goat beard, I will be stoked about it beyond belief. Beyond belief. Not one whine out of me once I hit that 3 month mark.
That being said, I would like to share some of my more ridiculous fears about parenting/pregnancy because again, this blog is mostly the ramblings of a madwoman and if I don't ramble to you... who then? Innocents on the street?
1. I am not afraid of having an autistic child or the like (Bub has a touch of the ole' aspergers - no relation to asparagus in case you were wondering). What I am worried about is that I will somehow raise... oh gawd.. an asshole.
Do not misinterpret - I will love that asshole. But what if, despite my best efforts, he never tips waitresses, takes 40 items into the express line at the grocery store, and when he's done with a coffee just chucks his freaking cup out of his car window because he believes the apocalypse is imminent anyhow? What if Bub's brains and my dancing bear charm converge into some supervillain asshole that aspires to marry very old rich women and upon moving in 'forgets' to install the no-slip appliques on the shower floor?
2. Equally important: Bub's hair grows straight up like a pineapple, and if left up to nature alone, my hair is a giant, curly afro. (Fuck, even after straightening it if someone exhales within a mile of me in a moist enough fashion, my hair will widen to ten times the size of my head). What if these two things combine and we create a son that looks like the lost member of Kid'n'Play? Or worse - what if we create a daughter that looks like the lost member of Kid'n'Play?
3. I have a high pain tolerance, I do. I have had kidney stones, I have had cysts, I have broken things. Ask anyone who knows me - much like Gloria from Modern Family if I dislocate my shoulder I will pop it back in myself and continue on with my day. I, however, am so afraid of natural labor. And please oh please, do not point me in the direction of a video where a woman in dreads makes sexual noises and releases her child into her home-assembled hot tub. That just makes me more afraid. I will not be swayed by Ricky Lake's nipples. I pretty much feel like a lone wolf, here, in that I would like to be numb from the ears down. I can't even fathom Bub being in the room with me as I barely want to be in the room with me. My feelings on the subject are best expressed by Amy Poehler a-la-baby mama:
But what if that's wrong? What if as a result of not chewing through my own cord and making everyone homemade placenta shampoo, my kid grows up to own a motel, wear my clothes, stuff my corpse in a corner and continue to have very aggressive conversations with me despite my death?
4. This is completely ridiculous, yes... But I am 7,000 lbs as it is. What if after pregnancy, I am permanently 14,000 lbs and have to go the rest of my life looking like an eastern European woman who should clearly be professionally competing in the shotpot?
5. I am a person who has vomited maybe 5 times in her entire life (this includes my stint as a baby). My earliest childhood memory is of going down my plastic slide, vomiting, and then being so frightened by the vomit that I ran to my Mother and made her come explain to me what it is. I have absolutely no idea what it feels like to vomit. What if, as a newly pregnant person with no previous experience in sensing an oncoming barf, without warning I just find myself opening my mouth and vomiting all over myself at inopportune times? I open my mouth to order at Chipotle, I vomit. I open my mouth to thank someone for opening a door, I vomit. I go on stage to accept an Oscar when they finally recognize stupidity as a category, I vomit. Can you appreciate that I will never be able to go to a restaurant ever?
6. My house... My house. I bought a nice house next to an awesome elementary school. Had it not been for the previous owners decorative choices, we would never have been able to afford a house of this size in this neighborhood.
In short, the 70s were a very important decade to the previous owners. Carpeted floors, wood on the walls, wallpaper that was made from a clowns nightmare. We've been here three years and even though we've done a lot, holy gawd is there a lot to do. I have a room - an entire room I shit you not - that is just boxes of my husbands' inexplicable cords. If tomorrow the apocalypse comes we won't have any food or water but we will be able to plug in all things everywhere and still have plenty leftover to hang ourselves with (I swear to Christ those cords breed when I'm not looking.. The room looks like a very special techy episode of Hoarders). When/if the time comes, this cord room will become the nursery.
I am not known for my deep interest in manual labor or my incredible coordination in all things domestic. And holy gawd there's another fear - no fucking way is my kid going to have neat hair (obviously), the best cookies at the bake sale or a wonderfully colorful chore chart. Will you take a look at the cake I tried to bake Bub for his birthday?!?!? I am clearly headed for my own cooking show.
But sweet baby Jesus, the house... I am going to go batshit insane trying to get it together in just a few months - gawd help everyone if I go through a typical nesting phase. I at least love my husband enough to admit that nesting for me is going to be mostly supervisory - me sitting in a chair, looking menacing in my 14,000 lb shotpot body and commanding everyone around me to do things.
I fear everyday when Bub comes home from work he's going to open the door and be greeted by me and Mr. T, like so:
Frankly it's miracle enough he's not greeted like that now and my ute is empty minus a couple of cysts.
It's normal, right? Normal?
Mind you if all of the above is true, I promise promise promise I will still be the happiest shot-potting Catherine O'Hara/Mrs. Bates hybrid the world has ever seen.
I just figure that if (yay hope!) I actually do get pregnant, it's best to get these fears out of the way now... Right?
Love me still. Please. I'll bake you one of my pretty cakes.