The news was confirmed.
Holy crap, I'm pregnant!
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I'm 41, I haven't used any birth control since my daughter was born over 5 years ago and nothing ever happened.
But it happened.
Now.
When I visited my doctor, he asked, "Was it planned?"
"No, not at all," I replied.
"Well it was planned if you didn't use any birth control," he smartly retorted.
Now here I am, 10 1/2 weeks into the pregnancy, with a 1.5 inch fetus dancing happily in my uterus while I battle nausea and bloating.
There are the cravings. The garlic knots bathed in olive oil from the local pizzeria under the subway. Pizza, Grandfather's style. Bread -- hunky chunky rolls. Dark chocolate. Organic milk.
Even my baby bump is starting to show.
Some of my friends and family know, some know nothing, intentionally so.
At 41, I'm electing to do the testing for Down's syndrome, mental retardation and for about 20 Jewish Azkanazi diseases that no one has ever heard of, like maple syrup disease (What the heck is that? Do you get that when you eat too many pancakes?!) To top it off, I'm a carrier of a genetic disorder that killed my brother at 20 years old. My children were lucky to be born healthy and disease free, but I remember what it was like being tested when they were still blips on the sonograms, waiting up to two painstaking weeks to get the results.
My husband and I fight constantly, I am so moody that I cry hysterically at least once a day for at least one hour, and I don't know what the hell I got myself into.
I want the child-to-be to be healthy, that's for sure, but I am scared shitless. Our marriage and finances are on the seesaw constantly, and I don't know how I'll handle having a personal life and a career with an extra kid around.
Somehow I'll get through. Whatever doesn't kill me has to make me stronger. Something like that.
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