The Chronicles of Alien Development — Week 13

Well, secret’s out. Two days before Thanksgiving, we shared our news with our parents and worked our way down the phone tree of friends and family. This picture announced our alien’s arrival, a surreptitious use of the now infamous “$8 dollar pumpkin.”

My husband wanted to tell all the peoples. Like, literally, ALL the peoples. When his tattoo artist asked me how I was feeling with a knowing look, I knew the excitement bubble burst.

I was more reserved. I couldn’t wait to tell my mom and our close friends, but with each additional tell, my energy waned. Of course, for half those phone calls I was still battling the glorious combination of burping, farting, and rapid swallowing all in an effort to avoid retching. Probably not my best moment. All that aside, though, I think a part of me wanted to hold on to the not so real realness of my pregnancy a bit longer.

I’m not afraid anymore, although I know there are hurdles left to leap. And Lawd knows I need to start learning baby things from the many mommas in my life, like what the hell is a Boppy (sp?)?I certainly don’t want to keep the news from anyone. In fact, I’m already using my “with child” status where advantageous, like avoiding X-rays at the dentist’s office. My reticence concerns my husband, who may start opening conversations with strangers with “We’re pregnant.” If I’m honest, I’m not all that surprised in myself.

I’ve always been a “one and done” storyteller. In college, my roommates would vie to be the first to hear tell of drama in my life, knowing if they were second in line, the recounting would be boring and brief. I’m a passionate storyteller. When excited, stimulated, or especially when pissed, I animate my stories with elaborate full body reenactments and sarcastic quips that vividly communicate what I’m feeling and thinking. But, it’s like the first telling uses up all of my emotional energy. With each subsequent telling, my conviction wanes, until the telling becomes something like “We’re pregnant. Due in June. Excited! (insert obligatory smiley face) Don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. Thank you.” Doesn’t make you want to buy me a Boppy, does it?

At this point, I kinda just want everyone to know already. I don’t want to have to tell anymore. As much as I like the spotlight, I actually get squeamish when it’s all on me for something I actually care about. I don’t know how to say “Thank you” with enough gratitude, or “Yaaaaahhh!!!” with enough exclamation marks. I’m fighting the urge to go back in to the cocoon of my husband, my dogs, me, and the alien where there’s only one person touching my belly. I guess at least now when my belly rolls over my yoga pants nobody thinks I just fell off the wagon.

This was a big fucking secret. One we kept for a solid eight weeks. And now it’s not a secret anymore. And as much as I adore the overwhelming joy that has come our way with sharing this secret, I kinda miss it being just ours. Now it’s out there. Others have already started sharing their opinions about whether we should find out if it’s a boy or a girl, what names we should consider, whether or not I can safely drink during pregnancy (God bless my fellow win-os), how much weight I should or shouldn’t gain, the merits of my massive boobs, etc., etc. That’s a lot of sharing. I’m not sure I’m ready for all that sharing.

For me, all that sharing means a lot of defending. Why we don’t want to know if it’s a boy or a girl. What name we’ve already chosen and why. That I’m a genetic counselor and know good and damn well what the recommendations on alcohol consumption are. That I don’t want to be a blimp when this kid comes out either. And that it’s just plain weird for that many people to talk about my boobs. In public. I’m not sure I’m ready for all that defending.

I like telling strangers that I’m pregnant. They all have precisely the same reaction:

Them: “Congratulations!”

Me: “Thank you!”

Them: “When are you due?”

Me: “June”

Them: “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

Me: “No, and I don’t think we’re going to find out. Life’s last big surprise and all.”

Them: “That’s so cool. Well, congrats again.”

Me: “Thanks.” (insert genuine smile)

I get that it’s kind of messed up that I’m more comfortable telling strangers my big news than those that love me most. I get that strangers share too, and often without any concern for your feelings. But, I don’t have to care about their feelings either, so I’m completely comfortable shutting that shit down. I care what the people in my life think of me, of us, of how we pre-parent, and how we’ll parent. I already feel a little guilty that I don’t know what a Boppy is or why it’s “essential.” Shouldn’t I know that?

I want to be good at this. More than I’ve ever wanted to be good at anything. So I care…a lot.

I know this mom shaming (sorry, I meant sharing) thing will get worse. At least, it will in my head. But I can’t go back to only being pregnant in my house, with my husband, and my dogs, who all think I’m awesome because I’m “gestating an alien.” I’m now pregnant in the world.

So, since we’re all about sharing here, let me give the world a little piece of advice. Share genuine joy. That’s it. Nothing else. Not your own feelings on the matter, not your suggestions for names, not the item you think is most crucial to neonatal development, not even your opinion on what my ultimate cup size will be. Shoot joy at us with all you’ve got, because I am going to name my kid something you don’t like. I will buy baby crap I don’t need and you told me not to put on my registry. I am going to have the best breasts you’ve ever seen on a pregnant woman, and you are going to be jealous. Basically, I’m going to piss you off. You will disagree with me. I will fuck up. But if I can bask in all that joy instead of wallow in all that shame, just imagine the kind of mother I might turn out to be.

I’m pregnant world. Now you know. Prepare yourselves.