Well. Two pregnancy tests later, both positive, and I guess I can stop kidding myself. This certainly wasn’t planned, so I have to admit to some hesitation and ambivalence. We had discussed having another baby in an abstract way, although I did tell Mark that if we were going to do it, we had to do it soon, since I just turned 39 last month.
Thirty-nine and pregnant. God. Do you know they consider you of advanced maternal age if you’re over 35 and pregnant? I hate that phrase. I feel like I should stump in to the OBs office with a walker, complete with tennis balls on the legs of it, orthopedic hose puddled around my ankles, all the while asking the nurses to “speak up a little, deary.”
I don’t feel anything yet. I can’t remember if I felt sick right away the last time or not. I’m exhausted all the time, but then, that’s par for the course: I’m always exhausted.
I just wish I weren’t so ambivilent about this. I want to be excited and happy and instead, I’m just sitting here thinking “Huh. How’d that happen?” Maybe I’ll get more excited as time goes on. I certainly hope so. Mark is more excited than I am. He’s already telling his friends and co-workers. I haven’t told anyone yet. Well, except my imaginary internet weirdo friends.