Baby, Baby, Baby (Feb 10th)

March 9, 2018September 13, 2019 notsosexinthecity

Part 1: Baby, Baby, Baby (Six Months Ago)

Part 2: Baby, Baby, Baby (Four Months Ago)

Part 3: Baby, Baby, Baby (One Month Ago)

Bear bought a lottery ticket today. He does that sometimes and I never know why. It just seems like a pointless waste of money to me. But, then again, I’m the kind of girl who gets an actual little flurry of excitement in the pit of her stomach when she buys a £1 scratch card, just because it’s so damn exciting.

I should probably get a life.

We made jokes. That’s what we do. We joked about what we would do with the money if we were to win it. There’s the important stuff first — making sure Mum is okay. Times two. Because no matter how much we might hate them at times, mum’s mum. There isn’t enough money in the world to show gratitude towards a woman who actually pushed a miniature version of me out of her vagina. I was two weeks late. I was also a heffer. And I didn’t shut the fuck up. Ever. I never slept. My Nan had to walk me around the block in the middle of the night to get me to shut the fuck up, and she got mugged doing it one night too. I was the baby from hell.

But, Bear and I made jokes. On 10th Feb, 6:31 pm precisely, we made a little jokey bet:

Why? Because we’re sick. We are SICK individuals who turn their potential infertility into a laughing game. Whatever works, right? Poor Bear. He’s still getting used to my really sick sense of humour. Let me tell you something; I have the WEIRDEST sense of humour at the LEAST FUNNY times. It’s getting worse as I age. Bear is the most shocking person I know, and when he shows me his shocked face, I know I’ve gone over the line.

Also: it says PINK. I like pink. I’m not being gender-stereotypical … whatever it is, but pink, to me, kinda signifies a baby girl. Like, if someone said to my Nan, “Baby girl,” she’d go into knitting overdrive, pink absolutely everything in sight.

Two hours after I hastily scribbled down our own little personal bet, I felt a period-pain like twinge. I commented on it. It was such a sharp little jab, I “ouched” out loud. Bear asked what was wrong. I told him I had a period pain. He said, “Oh” and nothing else because he really doesn’t know what to do with me when I’m on the run-up to shark week.

“It’s not my period. I only finished the last one two weeks ago.”

I wondered if I might be ovulating. Sometimes I think I can feel when that happens, little popping twinges, like little, sharp jabs that cripple me just for a second, going back to normal like nothing ever happened swiftly afterwards. The post-miscarriage internal scans (from the Hubby era) told me in half-Deutsch, half-English that I had a couple of little cysts on my ovaries. The Deutsch lady pointed them out on the screen in front of me. They looked like little holes to me. Nothing has ever been mentioned about the cysts since then, and it’s not like I haven’t had enough medical professionals having a good root around in my vagina.

Before Bear went to bed, I popped to the toilet. I was wearing Bear’s ONLY white pair of underwear — the only white pants he has left. I started phasing the white/light ones out, replacing them with black and grey ones that I’m comfortable stealing. I no longer wear my own underwear in bed, if I wear underwear at all. I just wear his. It drives him mad. I don’t care. I’ll never stop.

There was a stain. Only a little one. Not easily figured out. I’ll come right out and say that I wasn’t sure WHERE it had come from. Like, I honestly thought I’d shit myself. (I know, right?) Thankfully, I hadn’t lost control of my bowels. I’d started weird spotting. Spotting that kinda lasted for two days and was barely noticeable at all if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d been wearing white underwear.

And so it begins …

“Bear, I’m kinda bleeding a bit. Ish. I think. But not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I don’t know really. I’ve had a quick Google and I might die from cervical cancer or it could be implantation bleeding and I’m pregnant. Or half-pregnant. Ish. Or, of course, it might be nothing and I’m just a bit stressed out.”

“Shut the fuck up, really?”

“Yep, for reals. Google said so.”

“We’ll keep an eye on that then, shall we?”

“Probably a good idea.”