Husband and I had a lovely anniversary date. We got very dressed up, and my hair behaved, and we had a wonderful seven course French dinner. I did receive a rather unpleasant early anniversary gift: my period. I guess it was nice that it allowed me to have a cocktail with the meal, but we all know I would happily have given that up if we had also been celebrating my pregnancy.
But we're not. Again. I realize that I've only been off birth control for two months and that we're not even trying, but... UUUGGGGHHHHH. Besides that I'm still feeling totally thrown off guard by the whole menstruation thing, I'm so disappointed. Which is stupid, I'm sure.
I want a baby, and I want to be pregnant, so badly. My sister, for whatever probably selfish reason, tries to convince me to wait until next year, and I try, but ultimately fail to communicate how all-encompassing this desire is.
There is only one other time I can think of that my brain was overtaken in this way. Back when Husband and I first met, he lived all the way across the country from me in Ohio. We were so young, and so we were not exactly wealthy, and our visits together were months and months apart. And in the week or so leading up the a visit with him, I could think of nothing else. I certainly couldn't concentrate in school. And my daydreams weren't limited to just the immediate agenda of the time we would spend together that coming weekend, but also his inevitable move to Seattle to be with me and what our first apartment would look like and when we would get married and our wedding and our babies... See, I've always been this nuts.
Fortunately, the daydreams that consume me are mostly good. Actually they are mostly amazing. How I will feel when those two lines appear. How I will announce the news to my husband, my family, my boss, my friends. My adorable growing belly. Feeling the baby move. Giving it a name, and painting the nursery. (Nevermind that we are renters and probably won't be allowed to paint the murals I am imagining.) Sometimes I daydream about my softly lit gentle homebirth, or bonding during those first breastfeeding sessions, and taking a nap on the couch with baby on my chest. Perhaps I have a toddler, and we are picking flowers in the backyard. I imagine a second pregnancy, and explaining a new baby to my first. It's all very wonderful and magical and so easy to get lost in. I love getting lost.
But sometimes my daydreams turn dark. Why hasn't it happened yet? Let's ignore that it's only been two months and that WE'RE NOT EVEN TRYING YET. Do not distract me with logic. Regardless, we've done the appropriate things around what I thought was the appropriate time. And still., no dice. The other day, Husband and I were grabbing a quick lunch at Wendy's (classy, I know), and these thoughts all came flooding over me. What if? What if there's something wrong with me? What if there's something wrong with him? What if we can't get pregnant? What if we need help? What if we can't afford it?
"What if?" I asked him. All of my worst fears came spilling out onto the table, mingling with the chicken nuggets. He assured me it will be fine. But what if it's not? What if we need help? He tells me we will get help. But what about the money? I start quoting figures I am pulling out of remembered blog posts and/or my ass. He says we will find a way. I am ridiculous. I love my husband.
I am back to the happy daydreams today. I wish they would cut it out, though, so I can start packing.