My husband has magic sperm.
Like those beans in Jack and the Beanstalk, he plants and a vine begins to grow.
My uterus, on the other hand, is like the gingerbread cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Children go in, but they never come out. Evan is a motherfucking miracle.
I had two miscarriages after he was born and was initiated into the club of superstitious freakouts who don't even want to breathe the word pregnant lest Rumpelstiltskin crawl out of the floor and steal my fetus or whatever it is that we're afraid of.
When I got to 36 weeks with Riley I felt like I could finally talk about the impending addition and we all know how that turned out. Never count your chickens before they hatch. Apparently that means human chickens too.
Thanksgiving before last I was 16 weeks pregnant. Walt. I knew it was a boy but it was hard to tell. He popped out while I was peeing and he looked just like the fetus on those horrible signs that the Devil Christians hold up outside Planned Parenthood. I was screaming, Nick and Evan came running, we didn't know what to do so we flushed. It only occurred to me later that it might have lived had I fished it out and had any kind of idea what to do when sort of thing happens. I had just finally gone to the midwife to discuss a natural birth plan. Superstition.
As I write, my belly is swollen, my boobs are killing me and when I am not face deep in the toilet, all I want is Buffalo Blue potato chips.Normally Buffalo flavor anything would make me gag, but this little shrimp is a hillbilly and enjoys the finer things in life. Like Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I am waiting until I have skipped three periods before I go and commit to a heartbeat and a name or two.
I'm sure you understand.
