Fear and loathing…

Part one: Fear

I realise I write this blog in isolation. There aren’t many women out there who feel as I feel. In fact, I’m pretty sure that were this blog read by anyone in particular, and should that “anyone in particular” be brave enough,  I’d be shunned or insulted or trolled to death sooner than one could say “Tasmanian Devil”.

The fact that I’m alone in this only makes the brief stints in nightmare land I am experiencing lately that much more difficult to understand. You never hear women talk about feelings of fear during pregnancy. You never hear people say: I swear to god, I realised he would be here in less than four months and the blood ran to my feet.

Over the last week or so fear has been smacking me around at the oddest moments. I am happily floating in a euphoric cloud (believe me, when you make it out of the first trimester alive, everything is euphoria), he’ll land a swift boot to my tummy and the duvet will raise through his efforts. He’ll move something. Outside of my body will be affected by him. And the whole Fuck Everything And Run adrenalin kicks in. This little thing is real, y’all. And he’s scarier in his current capacity than anything human has ever been to me.

I have 15 weeks of this to go. Do you think I’ll make it?

Part deux: Loathing – Just STOP it already!

“You’ll see, when you have the next one, how easy this one actually was…”

“When number two comes along…”

Give it up folks. It ain’t happening.

And before you give me that knowing bloody look, the one that forces me to scratch red lines into my thighs to avoid punching you, please understand… I beg you.

I do not live in a world where this type of thing is planned. I live in a world where *I* look at *you* funny when you tell me you’ve been trying for months. I live in a world where people who “plan” children are either fully fucking loaded and can buy a school to ensure their child’s education and future or shouldn’t be allowed to sign legal documents on their own behalf.

There’s no middle ground.

Schooling, employment (or rather UN-), the sheer number of little cell people that will be entering the world at the same time as what you think is the most unique spermatozoa to ever squirt onto the face of the earth… it should all be frightening us (every single one of us) to the point where we zip up the old vaginas and stick a staple in the old nut sack.

But it doesn’t. I am the minority, I get that. Most do not see this as the most heavily over-rated adult (dare I say female) experience ever. People plan. They want offspring.

We didn’t. And I’m going to do better at the not planning next time. There will be no number two (unless the number two to which you refer is a giant crap, made possible gloriously without the aid of Kellogs High Fibre Cereal, at the end of this story) so please, for the sake of our friendship/my sanity/your sacred existence… stop.

I’m finally close to being completely happy with one, thank you. And he’s getting everything. The best of me. The best of us. It will not, nay, cannot be shared.

Chat soon! Leave comments! No judgement here. :-)