Life is good. My son is finally potty trained.
In 2002 my husband left me. I took my one-year-old son and moved in with my parents. I went though some rough times financially, emotionally and professionally (I do have to admit that they were very patient with the girl that showed up for work and just stared at the wall for eight hours). I came out of the experience reborn.
I moved into my own apartment. I made custody arrangements with the ex, finalized the divorce, and we stayed on pretty good speaking terms. Our custody is arranged so that we both spend equal time with our son (we live reasonably close to one another), yet still have somewhat of a single life. It allowed us both time to become who we really are on our own. Life is getting better. My son is being potty trained.
Time marches on. I got myself a boyfriend – also divorced, dad of two long-distance children. On weekends with my boy we play family and weekends without we make last-minute plans to beaches, mountains and national forests. We move in together. Time goes on. We have the BIG TALKS. We want the same things – pursue careers, save to buy a house, one or both of us going back to school. Children are not an option, as he had a vasectomy some years ago after his second son was born. Fine with me – I hated being pregnant anyway and the sound of a newborn’s cry sends chills up my spine. My son is approaching pre-school age. It’s a very fun age. He can carry his own stuff and pick up his toys and mind his manners. He’s not a baby anymore – he’s a little boy. I’m excited. Life is good. And the boy is almost potty trained.
Time marches again. Now we’re making plans. Talking about getting married. Did I mention that I lost quite a bit of weight after the divorce? I’m the size I was in high school. I’m incredibly excited. We’re talking sliding down the scale from a 14/16 to a 4/6. I feel and look better than I have in a while. Life is great. And the boy is potty trained.
And then, sometimes, they come back. The sperm, I mean.
I’m pregnant.
I just bought some new size 4 jeans. I just made plans to jet off to the beach in a couple weeks and drink pina coladas for breakfast. I just saw the scars my boyfriend still bears from his vasectomy. And I just got rid of the diapers.
I know I’ll be happy eventually. I don’t really think of children as a burden, no matter how excited I say I am that my boy can carry his own stuff. I love him more than anything. But there’s no denying that the first year is hard. With a capital “H”. And I thought I was done with it, so I’m shocked. I’m in shock. I mean, I just got done with those damn diapers.
This morning I put on some fancy clothes. My boyfriend asked, “Why are you all fancied up? You look nice.” I replied, “Well, I’m going to be too fat to wear them soon so I thought I’d wear what I could.” Of course, I started crying at the end. He held me and stated again that there was a major difference between getting fat and being pregnant (something I know intellectually but can’t get emotionally yet). And he held me and petted on me while I cried. And I could feel him laughing at me.
We went ahead and picked out a name. This weekend we’ll start buying diapers. Life is good.
