It finally happened. After seven months. When I least expected it. When a large part of me thought I was dying of cancer or suffering from vertigo or a hundred other WebMD diagnoses. I hadn't given up, I was just tired of feeling like I was broken. Like I was letting us down. I just didn't allow my mind to go to the most obvious source of my lethargic nauseated ways. Until, it did. Until I had to consider it as a possibility which thankfully turned into a reality. As I write this in the bathroom with my dog curiously looking on like the guard he's become as my husband plays video games with my nephews, a tiny blob of a baby is inside of me. I can't feel it move. Can't see the tell tale signs of a belly yet even if I squint but it's there. Not to get all pro life, cause I'm not, but it has a heartbeat. It's our baby and I'm already in love.
I feel a thousand things at once. Elated. Relieved. Terrified. There's also been a few mornings since we found out that I wake up in a panic - and with a full bladder, thinking that this has all been just a dream. The kind that feel so real you can't tell the difference. I keep the positive pregnancy test results in the nightstand to look at for those occasions. The equivalent of pinching myself until my belly is all the proof I need. We haven't told our parents yet. There's no deadline and I'm fine with that. I'm not certain of the reception we'll recieve which I'm sure on the surface will be at least moderately happy though the concern for our interfaith lifestyle is destined to bleed through the pleasantries. It might be awkward. I might cry. It'll be dramatic. We can put it off for as long as we can as far as I'm concerned.
I don't really even want to think about it. The inevitable hurt feelings and misunderstandings. It's not like we have everything figured out either. We don't even know where we want to live. To buy a house here or move back to New York. I keep telling myself we have plenty of time for that. But for the rest of the year I just want to take it easy. To bask in the joy of my blob baby who's origins can be traced back to our recent Thanksgiving day vacation involving a homemade fort. I joke that maybe a little silliness is the magic we were missing all along though in truth we're never short on that sort of thing. I don't know why it took so long. It doesn't even matter anymore. All that matters is that I can play a good landlord for the next eight months. I've promised not to play loud obnoxious music or eat spicy food as long as it promises to grow healthy and strong. And if it can avoid ripping me to shreds on the way out, that would be dope too.