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One More Less

08.22.09 | pregnancy | 36 Comments

The week I found out I was pregnant (this time, the fifth time I have found myself with child), it seemed the world was conspiring to tell me how bad an idea that was. On Radio West, I learned that having one less child than I want would be twenty times more effective at cutting my carbon footprint than any other measures we could take. On The Motherlode, it was that raising a child to age 18 costs $221,000. It seems obvious to me that these two things are directly related, and that since I don’t plan to spend $660,000+ in the next sixteen years, I can cross off some anxiety about my environmental impact.

It was even easier to shrug off Polly Vernon and Corinne Maier, who have elevated slamming motherhood into a career. I was never choosing between kids and no kids here but between one more and holding on three. And here I have to thank Cameron Diaz (quoted in both pieces) for sounding like an imbecile on one of the Late Shows early in my marriage. Turns out my husband is attracted to my brains a lot more than he was ever mesmerized by your long legs and blonde hair. (thank you).

When I found out I was pregnant I told a lot of people. I also didn’t tell a lot of people. I didn’t tell my sister-in-law who is miscarrying her first (long-longed-for) pregnancy, or my friend from eighth grade, who recently lost her second pregnancy at a late stage. Most people don’t tell until after the first trimester is over anyway. I’ve never been able to wait that long, even though I know that things can go wrong.

I wanted this baby, though maybe not as much as my husband wanted another child. I took my vitamins and slept every afternoon when the exhaustion couldn’t be held back any longer. I thought how different it is to be pregnant at thirty-two than twenty-three. I weigh more than I should. I drink more Mountain Dew than I should.

I made plans for the baby’s room and daydreamed about cradling a squirmy little infant to my chest. About breastfeeding again, feeling the tug and the triumph of nourishing another human being. Sally, Susan, and Spot were excited.

And then at seven weeks I saw the blood. It was mild spotting at first, but I had a feeling. And how barbaric is it that blood flowing from the womb is the indication that all is not well in there? When I miscarried in Cairo, I went to sleep at the hospital and woke up with it all done. Here I am not as far along, and, though I have never been fully convinced of the unassisted childbirth idea, I am facing an unassisted miscarriage (as long as things progress well).

The physical pain of cramping and the material inconvenience of bleeding through my pants seems all wrong. Not a good plan, here. Isn’t the feeling of emotional loss enough? Aren’t the hormone surges enough?

The thing about grief is that it always spills over at the wrong time. I talk to my mom on the phone, and I am laughing or being lightheartedly-cynical about the State of the World, but the server asks if we are celebrating anything tonight and thirty minutes later I am sobbing into my dinner. I forgot my regular glasses at home so I’m wearing my prescription sunglasses, which turns out to be a good thing because I almost feel like I can cry in public, but still I go to the bathroom and try to muffle the sound in a paper towel.

I think, rather hysterically, that I hope Doug Fabrizio is happy now, now that I’m having one less child than I wanted. But what he doesn’t know is that we’ll probably try again.

Maybe.

totally unrelated, but fun to read

36 Comments


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