In August of 2008, I went to an Indian engagement party called a Sangeet. What a party! We danced, we ate delicious food, and boy did we drink. Odie and I, along with our good friends who carpooled with us to the Sangeet, got a hotel room nearby for the night. In the morning, it was unbelievably hot, typical for Santa Clarita in August, near 110 degrees. We all had hangover breakfasts at Denny’s. A great time was had by all. Even with the Denny’s thing.
The next morning was a typical summer Monday. I went to the gym. I went nearly every day for eight weeks in a row that summer, and I was thinking I had finally made this “working out” thing a way of life for myself. That Monday morning was the 12th day after I ovulated that month, and on a whim, never expecting a positive test, I stopped at Rite Aid on my way home and bought a test.
Guess what?
Baby V was born the following May.
So, this month, when I had a negative pregnancy test 12 days past my ovulation, I took it pretty seriously. A few blog entries back, I wrote, “I peed on a stick today and found out I’m not pregnant.” After that negative result, I joyfully opened a bottle of red wine and enjoyed a big glass before bed. You know, since I wasn’t pregnant.
The next night, Odie seduced me after Baby V went to bed. The man is truly a menace. Later, as I brushed my teeth before crashing, I noticed the other pregnancy test from the two-pack sitting on the back of the toilet. Should I? I wondered? Nah. Those suckers cost so much money. I’ll save it for next month when we actually start trying.
Can you see where this is going?
The next morning, I couldn’t resist. I still hadn’t started my period, nor did I have any symptoms of PMS. I peed on the stick, set it aside and picked up the book I’m reading to wait the three minutes. Usually, I watch the line of liquid move across the test screen and stare intently while the test line appears, but I didn’t do that this time. I was so sure it would be negative, I felt no suspense. When I picked up the stick and saw the faint line indicating a positive result, I was truly surprised. And not surprised at all. Somewhere in my subconscious mind, I knew. It was like this last time too. This knowing, but not knowing.
I’m pregnant.
Traditionally, a woman is supposed to keep this news a secret for the first twelve weeks. I cannot keep a secret for anything. Seriously, never tell me a secret. And you people who know me and are all, “That’s not true! I told you a huge secret that one time and you kept it.” I didn’t. I told EVERYBODY. They just didn’t tell you. It’s a family trait, actually. Our family motto should be, “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but…”
The logic behind this waiting period is that 20-30% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage in the first trimester (and 65% of statistics are made up on the spot). Other people keep the secret for longer because they don’t intend to go through with a pregnancy under certain conditions revealed in genetic testing. No judgment from me. However, I’m not superstitious. I don’t think that my telling people about the baby I’m carrying will cause something to happen to it. And Odie and I have agreed that we will not be terminating any pregnancies. We know the age-related risks, and find them scary, but we’re in it to win it. And that, as they say, is that.
I believe in the power of prayer, I really do, but not to the extent that I’m nervous Kelle Hampton’s minions will pray me up an SN child to teach me a lesson. Okay, maybe a little.
I’ll bet you’re wondering how Odie reacted, knowing as you do how ambivalent he’s been about a second child. It went down like this. I took the test around six a.m. Odie had finished showering and dressing, and was sitting on the bed beside Baby V, helping her wake up. I knelt down on the floor in front of him and said, “I know you are going to have mixed feelings about what I’m about to tell you.” He looked apprehensive and said, “Okayyyy…” and then I spilled the beans. He burst into a giant grin, said, “Really?!” in a very excited voice, then hugged me and told me he was happy. After that, he was more subdued, even moody for a few days. But he came around. We’ve known for a week and a half now and today we talked about names. And by “talked about,” I mean I suggested some and he hated all of them.
Another reason I’m coming out with the news that I’m pregnant immediately is because I want to write about it. I had completely forgotten about what this early part of a pregnancy is like, for example. The brief span before sick and fat. The quiet time when the little being growing inside my body isn’t communicating with me yet. It’s easy to forget it’s there, which was impossible last time because it was the first time. Now that I have a child, I spend most of my non-work time thinking about her and caring for her. Sometimes I get through my whole day, collapse in bed and realize I haven’t thought about my little apple seed at all. No offense, little apple seed. Mommy’s just busy. Fitting a second child into my life is going to take some time. Happily, I have that.
I do have one pregnancy symptom already. Fatigue. Goodnight.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Election Day, Finally!
I’m so glad today is election day. I’m ready for the ads to be over. Of course, I’m doing my civic duty and voting, despite my lack of faith in the process. I teach rhetoric, at least I used to, so I know all of the slippery slopes and the ad hominem arguments and the bandwagon appeals the spin masters throw at us. My years of training in rhetoric and composition make it nearly impossible for me to watch or listen to an advertisement without seeing the techniques. Sometimes I find myself laughing in disbelief at what I believe to be obvious and transparent manipulation, only to discover that most people actually buy this stuff.
I remember when Proposition 8 was on the ballot in California. It was the Proposition to define marriage as a union between one male and one female. The commercial I saw every day depicted a young girl, coming home from elementary school and announcing to her mother: “Today in school, we read about a king who married another king, and when I grow up, I can marry a princess!” The mother’s face clouds over with horror. Subtext: teachers in public school are teaching your kid to be gay.
That’s right, we’re handing out hockey sticks to the girls, and ballet shoes to the boys, and your tax dollars are paying for it. Sometimes, I don’t have time to get to all twelve of the English verb tenses in my English class, because I’m so busy pushing the state mandated socialist-homosexual agenda. If I don’t teach little girls to grow up and marry princesses, who will? Even though most princesses are required to marry people of royal blood, or at the very least someone with a private school education, who am I to kill a little girl’s dreams?
Absurd as it may have seemed to a thinking person like myself, the ads were extremely effective. I heard and read regular people expressing their concerns about homosexuality being taught in school and their belief that Proposition 8 would prevent this terrible travesty. And it passed. In my bleeding-heart liberal state of California, home of Los Angeles and San Francisco and Berkeley, it passed.
This election, it’s all about how one senatorial candidate wants to mandate abortions for everyone and give illegal immigrants all of your money while the other is going to outsource your job to China or India and use the money she saves to buy another private plane. Then there’s the hotly contested run for governor. One candidate is a liar who will raise your taxes, create more unemployment and destroy education, and the other one is a liar who will raise your taxes, create more unemployment and destroy education. That is, if you believe the ads playing on tv and the radio all day every day.
Repetition. That’s another persuasive tactic. If you hear something often enough from enough different places, it has the ring of authenticity. Candidates running for office today are lucky. Most people have neither the time nor the inclination to read anymore. Forget looking up facts or authenticating claims made in advertisements. I don’t think Jon Stewart’s rally restored sanity, although I liked the effort. It can be summed up in one of my favorite signs seen at the rally, “I don’t agree with you, but I’m pretty sure you’re not Hitler.”
Now I have to get back to lesson planning. Those princesses aren’t going to make THEMSELVES gay.
Share this: