Second verse...same as the first?

I am just going to whisper this very quietly:

last night I took a pregnancy test and it was positive

I am scared to be excited, scared to be scared, scared that I am not praying enough, scared that something will go horribly wrong, scared that this will be a full term pregnancy and result in a baby, scared about jinxing things, scared to think about the test results, scared not to think about the test results, and scared about morning sickness, because that? Is not fun. At least not from what I have experienced thus far which consisted of lying awake from 3:30 am to 5:45 am thinking I could hurl, followed up by wanting to run the other way when confronted with breakfast. Hooray! I am also scared about infinitely more things, but to list them all out would only remind me of how I have no clue what the flippin' hell I am doing, what with all this trying to get pregnant and such.

So far this pregnancy feels different from the last one, but really that could just be wishful thinking, though Lord knows I want a different outcome...one that I can actually hold and cuddle. I only pray that the second time has a vastly different outcome then the first time, because I really could not handle my heart shattering into a million pieces two times in three months. So, little person that may one day be a big person: try to stay in me, while I try not to freak the righteous fuck out every 2.5 seconds, because that's about all I'm good for right now.

Using parethesis a lot means you write real good

Oh...life is good. It certainly is. I love spending time with my husband, making dinner with him, watching hours of pointless TV (reality TV is my bitch) whilst thinking about the educational and enriching outings we should be taking, going for a bike ride whenever I want, and reading a book just because I feel like it. I love being a mature grown-up and doing things for my own self.

But, (and I think you all know where I am going with this) I want some responsibilities! Like, maybe, caring-for-a wee-little-babe-responsibilities (except without all that getting up in the middle of the night stuff. Oh, I kid. Get it? Kid? Ha! ha?). I can do it! I am mature (see above). I am a grown-up (see above). I am responsible. I floss, cook healthy meals, drive safely, clean up after myself. Aren't those all requirements for birthing a 7 pound helpless little human? Plus, I really, really want a kid. Doesn't that count for something? You know, I love enjoying a glass or three of wine at dinner, but I actually wish that I couldn't enjoy it right now. Instead I would like to say "Oh, drinking alcohol was only approved for a pregnant Gwyneth Paltrow, not me. Pour me a glass in 9 months, thanks."

So, to the great baby maker of the universe: I am ready! (Did I mention that already? Because I am.) Just fill me up with baby and I will be happy and content, and I won't complain at all (well maybe once or twice, but only if my ankles swell).

Also: It makes for quite the embarrassing moment when someone compliments the shirt you are wearing, and instead of looking down (like a normal person), you grab your boob and rub the shirt to remember what it looks like, and then you try to explain why you just felt yourself up. Quite. Embarrassing.

How's about a nice swift kick in the...

For the record, I would like to state that time does not heal all wounds, but it does help things become fuzzier. Or maybe that's the alcohol. Does it sound better if I say 'prescribed' alcohol? No? Okay. Moving on then.

For the most part I have been sailing along just fine, I think about loosing the baby, but I have been able to talk about it with more people and each time it becomes easier to talk about. The more I share the less vulnerable to depression I feel. Support from my husband and friends has really helped me move past this dark period in my life.

But...it seems that good ole Quest Diagnostics was not ready for me to move on and wanted to remind me about the crapfest I had just endured. Thanks Quest Diagnostics! You suck. Last night I came home to a bill for the blood work that was done in my doctor's office. You know...the one that tested whether or not I was pregnant? That bill. I can't describe the pain that resurfaced when I yanked out the payment request, payment for blood work confirming the presence of a child, who is actually no longer present, but left about two months ago. I can say that I would have enjoyed slowly peeling back my toenail more than opening that bill.

Losing this baby has affirmed my desire to have a child. If I could talk to my little-skinny-annoying-thinks-she-knows-everything 24 year old self I would tell her that yes, it seems like you want to wait to have a child but you need to pull your head out of your ass. When she retorts with how much she wants to spend time with her new husband and enjoy the first years of marriage without worrying about children, I will simply reply that you are spending time with your husband while you try to have a child. DUH! And then I will slap her and tell her to get busy, because this baby making business is hard work.