After I had the most pleasant experience of a D&C (said nobody ever) my biological clock straightened herself right out and we immediately began trying for another baby. Don't ask me why. The first time we got pregnant it was in a vodka infused, haphazard attempt to shut everyone up. I still wasn't convinced that we shouldn't just spend our lives offering to babysit our friends' little assholes and coming home at night high fiving each other for our common sense not to reproduce.
But, like I said before, we got used to the idea of seeing a little Jeff & Suzie running around the planet, wreaking havoc on everyone while we stood back and smiled at our clever little progeny / monster.
Plus, our main weekend hobby had become an even mix of sleeping in, eating out, alcohol, naps and overall pissing money away with nothing to show for it. We decided we really did need a lifestyle change and we were shocked over how hard we took the loss of our first baby. Nobody in the world has ever accused me of being maternal (or nice, really) so these feelings that I never, ever thought I'd have really crept up on me and were a refreshing slap in the face.
Fast forward three months to the halftime of a New England Patriots game (thanks Monday Night Football) where I again ordered my husband to lose his pants because, based upon my Einsteinian calculations, I was maybe ovulating. Fast forward another 3 weeks and panic began to set in. I had missed my period but otherwise I felt normal. I half hoped I wasn't pregnant so that I didn't have to do all of the pregnant scary things that women have to do and so that Jeff and I could continue to worry solely about work, if we were going to eat dinner out, order it in or (gasp) cook, and who was going to fold the laundry. (Him. Always him because 99% of it is his. Side note: jeans ARE NOT DIRTY until you wear them at least 15 times, and if you wear an undershirt and a collared shirt under your sweater, the sweater goes back on a hanger, too.)
So, one Sunday night after some liquid courage, I peed on a stick. Negative. Total head scratcher. That had never happened before. I was previously batting 1.000% on the "have sex, get pregnant" thing. Obviously it was a mistake. Good thing pregnancy tests come in sets of two. Another beer, more urine, another negative. Now I was perplexed and, to my surprise, SAD. What was this unexpected emotion creeping up on me and ruining my Sunday Funday? I crawled into bed and woke Jeff up, (because he goes to bed at the same time most toddlers do), and explained the failed science. "We'll crush it next month babe" he said.
A week later and still no period. Jeff manned up and managed to purchase another set of home pregnancy tests while he was out being productive one weekend morning and while I was home, laying in bed being a useless piece of shit. As soon as I saw them in the house I got scared and hid them. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I was like a dog that instinctively knew that this car ride was a trip to the vet and not to the park.
This is not my proudest moment, but I want to be honest here (probably to my only two readers... hi Momma Bear, hi Kel. Because really why would anyone but my mom or my sister be reading this shitty blog?) I peed on the stick, ran out of the bathroom, chugged a beer, ran back into the bathroom, saw the PREGNANT symbol and burst into tears. Like, I ugly cried. Happy? Meh, kind of. Terrified? You betcha. I just didn't want another dead baby. Or any responsibility, really. I might be the only woman in the history of the world to pee on a stick, cry, and have just one more glass of wine before reality set in. How's that for a lowlife?
Now for some good news. Two days later the fine folks over at MGH again ushered me into an early ultrasound. We went in and got the most un-gratifying news of all time. There was a yolk sac, which meant that yes I was technically pregnant, but there was no detectable heartbeat. We were told that was normal because at 5 weeks 3 days (which was what I was measuring) a heartbeat has not yet always developed. That afternoon we were driving down to South Carolina for Christmas and wouldn't be back for a week. We were scheduled for another ultrasound (which I later found out was called a "viability" scan… great) for two weeks later. No fucking worries, we'll just head on down South for the jolliest day of the year wondering if we have another miscarriage on our hands. Or, more technically, in my uterus. Bring it on.
Thankfully, we got confirmation that Nugget had done some serious hard work right around the time Santa was jamming his fat ass down chimneys all across the lands. Nugget measured two weeks bigger than when s/he was measured two weeks prior and had a heartbeat of 146 bpm. There was our first proud mommy and daddy moment. We cheered for our genius baby and congratulated it on its wherewithal to go out and gets itself a heartbeat. Achievement unlocked.
Here is Nugget's first Glamour Shot. I know, I know. I was stunned by this little bueat too.