Met on net. Start to date. One year in. It’s not too late. Hold my breath. Two years smile. Really happy in March. Up the aisle. My Hub-in-boots. A lovely man. You want kids? I’m not a fan. November 2010, he says I’m ready. We talk some more, make sure we’re steady. A leap of faith, a step off cliff! I’m getting old, he’s getting stiff! I mean in his back what were you thinking ? Am I too old? Should I be drinking? Will it be this month? Will we have a win? Maybe baby? Let the games begin.
Welcome to the adventures of maybe baby and hub-in-boots. A girl has got to have an outlet. It was enough to get him to yes once, to walk up the aisle (without actually saying anything). At 38 I was holding my breath but he was there in March last year, good to his word. We’ve been married for 10 months, and I’d say very happily for most of those. Apart from the moving house bit. So he said I do. And we did. And we’ve had a fun half a year being together and moving in. We’ve been living it up.
But then was the next big hurdle. I turned 39. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. We had agreed a long time ago to have kids. The trouble with hub-in-boots is always timing. Happy to do it “in the future” just not now. In November he stepped up to the plate and said he was good to go.
It is a strange strange feeling, after years of being single dating girl, to actively seek the very thing you avoided. A pregnancy. Even the word still freaks me out. People have talked about the guilt you get becoming a mother, but seriously? I have reconsidered every little thing since we’ve decided to start trying. I’ve got pre pregnancy guilt. I should be on the vitamins a month before we start. I’m googling like a mad woman. (And let me tell you some of those sites are dodgy dodgy dodgy). And bloody Catholic school education has a lot to answer for. Everything is about not doing it (not that I listened of course), so its impossible to get your head around the flipside! But he’s just got to yes, of his own accord, no nagging, and I’ve been at yes for about 18 months. So I can’t flood him with all of my questions and fears and hopes and anxieties and information. I’ve got a diary and I’m counting the days. Maybe baby, that’s what the net is for. Let’s vent.
It’s a grand adventure we’re embarking on. I’m excited. He’s happy to be getting quite a bit. I’m monitoring the timing, in my own casual kind of lets just google my fertile dates kind of way. He looks at me oddly when I occasionally lie in bed, post you know what with my legs in the air and my hips on a pillow. It all of this really necessary? I don’t know. I’m a bit of a dill about these things. I LOOK like a bloody lunatic. I’m just trying to quietly quietly maximise our chances. I hope like hell we don’t have trouble. I know so many IVF’ers our age. I hope we’re not doing the rounds of medicos in a year’s time after a 12 months of trying. Life just isn’t structured right anymore – there’s a total mismatch between our roles, lifestyles and fertility. Throw in career aspirations, travel and a couple of degrees, and all of a sudden it feels too damn late. Chancing it. Dicing with destiny. I am wishing someone told me to freeze my eggs when I was 30.
It’s funny this game we’re playing. It’s also funny how no one really tells anyone that they are trying for a baby. Do they? To me, it just doesn’t seem to be discussed. Perhaps because my circle of friends are either already well and truly kidded up or well and truly still up to their necks in dates, mosh pits and work commitments. I mean, what if you tell people and then you can’t get there? What if everyone is asking? Nudge nudge wink wink. I ALMOST told family members, but then didn’t.
Maybe baby’s adventures with fertile googling, charting, overall stupidity and paranoia, and general non baby related tales of hub-in-boots to follow. In the meantime, I’ll continue my quiet ‘hello how about its’ moves, reading random emails from random websites about monitoring your fertility (to much of which my inner 13 year old goes GROSS!), and continue my ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy with hub-in-boots. Unfortunately my academic brain has turned it into a research project with a deadline, and I’m reading the latest scientific research and trying to establish what our chances are. I’m like a compulsive gambler with the latest form guide. I want to intellectualise it, as though having more information would mean better odds. It is probably all about control. Who knows. I would like to rush out and buy one of those ovulation monitoring kits (kind of, but don’t they make for awkward conversation at the checkout?), a basal thermometer (what the?), and TRY not to freak little hub-in-boots out. Lucky for me he’s virtually always good to go, but I must say those supposed fertile windows always seem to co-incide with a late night when I’d rather be getting some precious sleep! The poor bugger didn’t know what hit him last night – he’d been asleep for an hour when the doco I was watching ended, and I suddenly remembered we’re on day 14 and it’s time to party. It’s a lot to think about. I’m so paranoid I’m going to miss a “window” I’m afraid I’ll wear him out.