Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Holy crap, say WHAT?

So, three days ago, I found out I'm pregnant. Holy shit! WTFOMG and definitely not LOL (not yet, anyway).

Let me clarify: I am no young woman caught off-guard by her fertility, though I was once. I'm married and approaching --ooh, dare I say it? Ugh, it's such an ugly term-- MIDDLE AGE. I'm thirty-fucking-eight, y'all. So, it's not like, you know, DISASTROUS or anything. Perhaps for the child, but certainly not for us.


Motherhood grosses me out. Kids --particularly toddlers-- gross me out. Breastfeeding grosses me out. How enormous I'm hoping I don't get grosses me out. Judgy-ass parents who want me to co-sleep and breastfeed till my kid is 16 while I'm homeschooling them gross me out. Snooty yuppie moms pushing Cadillac strollers in Lincoln Park (and, more recently and ever more terrifying, in MY neighborhood) that don't even smile when you compliment their not-even-that-cute-anyway babies gross. Me. The hell. Out.

So, naturally, my first reaction to peeing on a stick and seeing that line appear so fast it made my head spin around and around 6 times, was this:

"OMG, YAY! OMG, NO!!!!! Oh no... MY LIFE IS OVER!! My freedom is gone!!! Holy shit, it's just like ALIENS (one of my favorite movies), awesome!" and there was a lot of sobbing.

My husband was delighted, but circumspect. He wanted to be overjoyed, but was freaked out by my horror and dread.

My mom was out of her mind with joy, then scornful: "Oh, Estefani. Cut that shit out. This is boolchet. Grow a pair, okey? Por favor. You wanted this." (My mother is from Guatemala, and speaks with an accent, and has a filthy mouth and doesn't give 5 shits what you think. She was BORN to be a grandmother. More on her later.)

Me: "Nooo I diiiiiidn't!! Not yet! I wasn't reeeeeadddddy!!" More sobbing.

My mom: "Not yet? Cabrona, you're fucking 38! If not now, then when? When I'm DEAD?" (FYI: my mother has been on her deathbed since I was around 6, or whenever it is we are first capable of experiencing guilt.)

OK, so before all of you oh-mylanta-what-is-wrong-with-you-I-loved-every-second-of-being-a-mom types start readying your commenting fingers to give me a piece of your sanctimonious minds, know this: first, this is NOT the blog for you. It will only make you angry and then you'll have to "use your words" on me so that you don't kick something, thereby setting a "bad example" for your precious and unique snowflake and b: I got over it. I'm pretty thrilled now. Pretty durn thrilled. And scared, and all the other usual crapola.

But still grossed out. Because that's who I am.

SO-- if you want to read a mommy blog (EW) full of things that you're definitely not "supposed" to say (or even think!), then read on, because I am made of not-okay. If it makes you laugh, great. If it makes you feel like somebody understands your rat-bastard ass, that's AWESOME. If it makes you feel superior, well... I guess that's okay, too, but if you take it to the comments section, know that I will likely tell you to fuck right off. Not because I'm pregnant and hormonal. But because I really want you to fuck right off.

Enjoy! And thanks for coming along on this sure-to-be-bumpy (har har) ride.