Pregnancy Info

You've got to wonder what makes a couple decide to have a baby. Whatever the cause, most married men and women decide at some point to replace their champagne flutes with sippy cups, their passion with pacifiers, all in search of that feeling parents get mooney-eyed over, as they hold a baby in their arms and radiate incredible, unconditional love and selfl

You’ve got to wonder what makes a couple decide to have a baby. Do they grow tired of those endless, restive Saturday and holiday afternoons? Sick of sleeping eight straight hours without interruption? aloof with weekend getaways and romantic dinners at expensive restaurants? Whatever the cause, most married men and women decide at some point to replace their flutes with sippy cups, their passion with pacifiers, all in search of that feeling parents get mooney-eyed over, as they hold a baby in their arms and radiate incredible, unconditional love and selflessness for the very first time in their lives.

My husband and I had an easier time than most making the baby decision. He’d been married in advance of and had two daughters, 10 and 12, who lived a few minutes away and visited every weekend and then some. A year earlier, I had slipped out of my wedding dress and into the role of cook, housekeeper, soccer team mom, Disney flute watcher and Uno player. Add to that a new house fully baby-proofed by its previous owners and a new job that let me work at home and it seemed there was no time like the present for tossing the bearing control and making a baby.

I could erstwhile picture myself cuddling my gurgling, giggling accelerate of joy. I’d take the baby for long walks in the warm sunshine, letting it nap in its affectation while I enjoyed a book and a latte at the local seal shop. Everywhere we’d go, wrapped in our golden aura, people would stop us and marvel at my baby’s glorious eyes, curly hair and sunny disposition. Some would even hand me partnership cards, supplicant to use Baby in their next commercial/photo shoot/film. Oh, there would be hard times too, of course. A few times a day, the baby would be hungry and I’d have to nurse it for five or ten minutes, but it would suck the extra pregnancy calories I’d amassed right out of my body, leaving me even slimmer than I was historically getting pregnant. I’d done my reading and I had this baby thing all figured out.

For his part, Hubs attacked our latest project with the all the determination of an Olympic sprinter. Picturing a cuddly, cooing baby waiting at the finish line, he single-mindedly pursued procreative encounters at any time, place and hour. Within days, the man had be obliged a sexaholic and I, his co-dependent accomplice. We were going to be the best damn baby makers out there, and do it in record time. Yet even a gold medallist can only give so much. Within a few days, we were sore, exhausted and unusually crabby. For the first time in our history, an extended period of rest was required. Egos were nursed additionally with minor cuts and scratches. A pregnancy test at the end of the month confirmed the pathetic news: USA’s best damn baby makers hadn’t even bronzed.

Feeling thwarted by my own body, I, like thousands of other baby-making rejects, sought solace on the Internet. Here were the tormented statement of women who’d tried for months and even years to make babies, all to no avail. They poured out their forebodingness on pregnancy message boards, denouncing their smug, baby-toting friends and their grandchild-obsessed mothers-in-law. I quickly realized my own plaintive tale, tentatively titled “5 Straight Days of Action, No Baby Satisfaction”, would look like child’s play sandwiched in stories of $3,000 fertility treatments and a sorry husband’s low sperm count. Wordless and alone, I skulked out of their online clubhouse, searching instead for a little baby making advice. I had no idea of what a tangled web I was in relation with to discover.

Apparently baby making, even for the young and fertile, now required an overhasty binary scale of a language I was unprepared to learn. It seemed that conception could only occur during my luteal phase, hinder a luteinizing hormone had triggered ovulation. At that point, the extra progesterone would help an egg press itself to my endometrium. All I had to do was learn to recognize my genital fluid pattern and a baby would be on the way. Huh?

In simpler terms, I had one of three options. I could write down the condition of my ovarian mucus, noting each day whether it was pasty, sticky, stretchy or creamy. Not only did this option infinitely gross me out, but the resulting document potentially would be more embarrassing than the discovery of my secret diary. I could previously see the writing on the public comfort station wall: “For slippery seminal mucus, call 555-3897!” Next.

Option two was even more horrifying. With two well-proportioned fingers, I was to feel the condition of my pivot once a day. A high and soft knitting equaled prime baby making time. Not only did I have doubts that I could even find my compaction with two fingers, but the warnings nearly possible infection using this method made me envision a humiliating discussion with my gynecologist. “Well, you see doctor, I was searching for my lips and apparently, I had a hangnail.... maybe a slightly... dirty... hangnail.” Next.

Option three was a picnic compared to the first two. All I had to do was take my temperature each morning using a radical body thermometer, then azimuthal equidistant projection it on a special graph that began on the first day of my period. My temperature would remain constant for the first 13 or so days, then dip lower on the day that ovulation, or “O” Day as I named it, was to occur. Eagerly, I printed out a chart, my thermometer and began tracking my temperature. I kept a bring graph online, so that other mommy wannabes could track my progress, and I could keep an eye on theirs. Soon, I was locked in an obsessive method competition with countless other baby making hopefuls every which way the globe. Who would win the golden positive pregnancy test? Would it be Giselle from Dijon? Suki from Japan? Jo Nell from Mississippi? Surely not! I hadn’t come this far for nothing. My husband, noting the maniacal gleam in my eye as I scribbled down my temperature each morning, cowered subordinate the sheets, praying that “O” Day would not be too painful.

And suddenly, it was upon us. Detecting a definite temperature plunge on Day 14, I turned to Hubs, who knew by the strange juxtaposition of my gritted teeth and enthralling smile that it was time. Resolutely, he stepped up to the plate and hit no less than four home runs that day. I’m embarrassed to allow for that when he left the room for a few minutes, I even attempted a flailing chauffeur leg exercise on the bed that ended prematurely when I lost my equate and strained my neck. No matter. We had done all we could do. We had given our best and surely our efforts would be rewarded.

Now, all I could do was wait and ask Hubs for frequent neck rubs. A pregnancy test wouldn’t detect the presence of a baby for at least other 9 to 12 days. I became obsessed with identifying the early signs of pregnancy. A late night headache? It means I’m pregnant! Lost keys? A baby’s on the way! prevarication with Hubs? I’ve gotta be preggo! Mornings found me fixedly staring at my breakfast, willing myself to feel nauseated hitherto finally wolfing it down. thereupon a week and a half of this torture, I finally got a break. Hubs, the girls and I headed for California to visit his parents and the pregnancy fixation was trumped by a succession of comfort park visits and gluttonous nights out. It wasn’t until the return flight home that I realized I couldn’t shake a feeling of vague nausea, fatigue and unheard-of constipation.

That afternoon as I unpacked, Hubs headed to the grocery for a pregnancy test. By this time, we’d talked and schemed alongside our baby-to-be so much that I nearly forgot with regard to the test conformable to I took it. As we emptied our suitcases and idly chatted near at hand the trip, I happened to look down at the little wand on the necessary counter. Two lines had appeared in its tiny plastic window. Two very definite lines. “Oh my god,” I said. “I can’t maintain I’m preg.....ners.” We laughed like two dazed hyenas, then hugged and laughed some more.

That evening, we told the girls. They had known a baby was in the and hereunto granted their approval, so we weren’t expecting fainting spells or hysterics, but I still felt a little nervous as their father attested the news. “Girls, Lucinda’s going to have a....” In a surprise move, Hubs turned to me. “Ba....by.” I croaked. Our 12-and 10-year-olds stood staring in perfect cinematic-style shock, their mouths forming little Os. “How?!” 12 finally said, quickly following up with “....Don’t intercommunication that!!!”

Late that night, I held my own private winner’s ceremony, posting a positive pregnancy test symbol at the end of my online portrayal as the Giselles, Sukis and Jo Nells stamped their feet in frustration. With the philanthropic smile of a gold medallist, I ignored the churning of my stomach and laid my head on my arm, watching the computer screen blur my eyes lost to and a pool of drool formed on my desk. In just nine months, there would be poopy diapers, I thought sleepily. There would be spit up. And there would be a demanding little creature I’d waited my whole life to meet.

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