To tell, or not to tell, that’s always the big question in the beginning, isn’t it? There are arguments to be made for both telling and not telling: what if something happens? Then you’ve gotten everyone all riled up for nothing. Or: well, if something happens, I’d sure like everyone to know what we’re dealing with so they can offer support. I’ve always found myself in the latter camp. Plus, I’m just kind of an open book. I’m not a big secret-keeper, and I like to be able to talk openly about what’s going on in my little world.
So, out with it:
I am 44 years old and knocked up. Oh, believe me, I can’t believe it either. But the proof is in the pudding.
We actually didn’t think it was possible, what with all the cancer treatment Michael went through two years ago (specifically, extensive pelvic radiation; apparently, though, that only affects fertility temporarily! Who knew?!), plus my age – isn’t my fertility supposed to have plummeted by now?
So this was not in the cards for us, or we didn’t think it was. Nope, those days were behind us. And it wasn’t easy for me to make peace with closing that chapter of my life, but I did it, and for the last six months I’ve been enjoying the freedom of not being pregnant or nursing for the first time in ten years.
Mostly, I’m scared. Did I mention I’m 44? Or that we already have six kids (I swear, I shoulda been Catholic; I don’t think atheists usually tend to procreate so prolifically)? There are a million and one things to worry about; it really feels like the odds are not in our favor for this to turn out well. I’m well aware that it might not even last very long, but for the time being, I’m pregnant.
So, uh, yeah.