Monday, July 4, 2011

Leggo My Preggo... No, I'm Not Pregnant

When I was a little girl I dreamed of wearing a white dress, walking down the aisle with my dad, kissing my very own knight in shining armor, and having long-haired little girls with purple dresses.  I wasn't exactly sure how the process worked, but I imagined it would be something like this: a boy would appear, children would be delivered, I'd cook perfect meals, and I would teach them everything about the world.  I suppose this quasi-perfect-life-fantasy developed from worshiping my mother who never shed a tear while I ate cereal for breakfast and watched Nickelodeon (Before started airing shit like Drake and Josh or iCarly... we're talking Doug and Rugrats.  Hell, even I remember Mr. Wizard.), listened to me bitch and moan about messing up her perfect mashed potatoes with her gross concoction of red gravy (Why couldn't we have the brown kind? I mean, it's way more delicious), let me pretend to be too tired for worshiping on Sundays, and had a cool boyfriend that taught me how to ride a bike.  I never even heard say anything bad about my dad, and that took, well, a lot of strength.  I never wore a white dress... it was ivory.  I found a "knight," but my mom walked me down adobe like stairs to a beach before he and I kissed.

What can I say? I may have become a feminist, but I never totally abandoned my dreams.  Besides, lots of feminists get married (Okay, so I don't have a statistic. Sue me.).  It's patriachal in origin, but love and tax benefits are very irresistible.  We (Jeff and I for those of you who have not read previous entries) have no little running around yet.  But again, I've held on to that dream too.  It's a little different... quite different actually.  And the pressure to have a baby is insane.  There are cute babies all over Facebook, your husband (I love you still) wants a baby but he doesn't understand the intricacies of your vagina let alone your hormones, and then there's the rest of your family... thank God for my mom--I think she's the only one who thinks our baby-making should be held off longer than I think it should! Oh, and I cannot forget the dreadful beasts: Anxiety, Depression, and Fibromyalgia... and all the glorious legal drugs that come with for a small (ha!) price.

I can never have the perfect pregnancy (unless the pregnancy Gods decide to bless me... wouldn't that be awesome!).  There will be no surprises/beautiful accidents or tears of joy unless of course I have to spend several months without my Fibromyalgia medication and little to no sleep, little to no SSRIs or SNRIs, crying spells, and peeing on sticks (Does anyone actually pee on the stick? I mean, I've tried, and I always resort to the Dixie cup method.  Maybe I'm just that uncoordinated. Oh and that was like a year ago.  Seriously, no Julie/Jeff babies for at least a year.).  Here's hoping we get it on the first try... second? Please?

Unfortunately this does not include the pre-trying anxiety (P.S. I hate the term trying.  It's weird and gross.).  I already feel guilty: I'm on the verge of twenty-five and I have high cholesterol (The heart disease Gods hate my family--maternal and paternal sides.), and fucked up wiring all over my body.  These are not things I wish to share with my future offspring, but I have no choice.  It's all up to chance, and their chances are higher.  I know I shouldn't worry about such things, but I do.

People say you shouldn't, but yet as a future/wannabe good mother, I do.  And I think a part of me should--not this much, but some.  And for those of you who think I should just not worry, my brain is not a sink or a light switch-- I can't just turn it off.  Fuck, I'm in therapy and I take anti-depressants.  My brain doesn't work like yours.  Hell, it doesn't even work like it's supposed to work.  I suppose it's kind of like a leaky faucet.  But I digress.  The pressure to have babies is bad enough... the pressure to create a temple for said fetus/baby is ever-worsening.  No alcohol.  Little to no caffeine (Shoot me now!).  Lots of giant vitamins.  No Klonpin.  Probably no Pristiq if I don't totally lose it.  Oh, and I have to eat healthy food but get fat.  And people wonder why pregnant ladies can be cranky.  To make things worse, the news releases warnings about un-pregnant women who take SSRIs the year before they get knocked up increase their future child's chance of having Autism.  Who sees it?  Your husband who then wonders what is Pristiq (It's an SNRI in case your wondering)?  Then you get upset, cry, send outrageous text messages while driving (Stupid on so many levels, I know), and he gets upset because your upset, and then you cry more because your vagina doctor told you the SSRI, Zoloft, was the safest anti-depressant to be on while pregnant.  And then you cry some more because you can't even take that because it made you suicidal.

Despite all this, I still want a baby.  Two preferably-- one boy, one girl.  Of course, I will love one, two, three, four, boys, girls, a boy who is really a girl inside, vice versa, etc.  But, seriously, can we take some of the pressure off?  I mean, I haven't even mentioned the great breast feeding debate.  Let us live our lives... sure, if we plan stop taking the birth control, we should probably lay off the alcohol, cigarettes, and as much legal yet mind-altering medication as possible, but don't make us worry about the months before we actually stop taking the birth control or slapping on the condoms or shoving in of diaphragms and sponges.  We give away our bodies for nine months to someone we barely know but still love (This doesn't include the few months of preparation and weening off medications for those like me.).  Isn't that enough?  Or should we just start at birth, constantly preparing for our supposed intended life duty?  I'm going with NO.  I don't mean to discount men, especially my husband.  But seriously, my body is going to turn into a weird blob, and I won't even be able to eat all the Don Taco I want... or have caffeine!  And we all know your body is never the same after you birth a child-- you either have a kangaroo-like pouch or some extra looseness... So seriously, let's turn down the pressure a bit... and stop making my feminist of a husband curious about things he should not even be worrying about or mentioning to me.  And don't tell me he doesn't have to read it or just not say anything to me.  He's a family-orientated journalist.  He's going to say something... to which I get upset because I'm a chick with depression who wants the best for her future fetuses and babies.

And this doesn't even begin to cover the stigma of depression itself... I guess we can throw causing Autism in with it. 

God, I hope they inherit my nice olive skin tone, thick hair that will never gray, and the part of my brain that understands calculus and kicks people's asses at Scrabble.  Maybe that will make up for the rest... I mean if I worry about them now...

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