We weren’t officially trying.
No. Under no circumstances were we officially trying.
Officially trying would have meant some sort of commitment on my part, to think about the future. (Not something I am fond of. You only have to look at the numerous red letters that fall with a thud on my doormat every day to understand that.)
Officially trying would have been stupid and irresponsible. (Something I seem to do well, without even officially noticing, actually.) We had only been together seven months. Officially trying would have meant we were officially stupid.
We were officially stupid.
Waking up far too early on the morning of the 14th of June, heart hammering, head glistening with last night’s makeup and a half eaten pizza stuck to my face, was not something I had noted down in my planner. (I don’t own a planner.) It was Sunday morning. Sleeping was officially noted down in my planner. (See last comment.) Reaching for my phone and finding the battery had gone was not a surprise. Jumping out of bed and landing feet first on an upturned plug, was a surprise.
For the love of all things holy. (To set the scene you must shout this at top volume, while hopping around on one foot, clinging the other and repeating at high speed a very rude word. A very, very rude word.)
So you’ve gathered by now we weren’t officially trying right?
So imagine my shock then, if you will, when I eventually stopped cursing the universe, turned my phone to ‘calendar’ and realised with a shaking hand, I had been incredibly mistaken during the throws of passion, about the dates, the evening previous.
The Irish one had spent the weekend climbing mount Snowdon and had come home happy and horny and ready for some loving! I had spent the weekend paranoid he was going to fall off a cliff, down a manhole or off the top of a mountain so was also happy he had returned in one piece! I wasn’t particularly horny as I had also spent the weekend cramming chocolate down my throat like it was going off the market. (mmm chocolate!) But at seven months in, with the I love you’s still to be uttered, he still got what he wanted, when he wanted. (All women know that once the ‘I love you’s’ are out of the way, it’s your decision. Until then, It’s in his hands. So to speak.)
So as we weren’t officially trying. (In case you missed that.) The Irish one, well, he was meant to, erm, ?!?! reverse. (I cannot make it clearer than that really, without being crude. And his mother may read this!) We were only having sex at the beginning and end of the month. I know, I know, I can hear you now – tut, tut, roll eyes, by the age of twenty nine I should know better. Good job I’m not a sex ed teacher.
Climbing quietly back in to bed, (somehow the Irish one had slept through the commotion. Yet he still can tell me how many times a night I have trumped? ) and flicking through the dates of my cycle, it struck me that we had fulfilled our congenial rights as a couple who live together (again, his mum might read this!) slap, bang, on day 14.
Big hairy soggy Bollocks.
It sounds like a full on, hit me up the side of my head cliché, but I just knew I was impregnated. I just knew it. I sat there staring at the Irish one while my mind worked on overdrive and a mild panic started to culminate in my bowels.
I should probably point out at his point, I suffer with the odd night terror and have a habit of sitting bolt upright at 3am (unbeknownst to me, I am still asleep) and randomly telling him things like;
‘Darling, there is a man stood at the end of the bed.’ or
‘Darling, I think I just murdered the dog.’
Not the best things to be hearing in a pitch black room in the middle of the night. (I have to admit, sometimes I do it for comedy value. Although I would never tell him that.)
So when the Irish one came to and noticed me staring at him, wide eyed, looking a bit demented and in a bit of a catatonic state, he shat himself.
‘What?’ Startled expression. ‘Who is here? Who have you murdered?’
‘Are you even awake?’ Bored expression .
‘Im pregnant! Im bloody pregnant! And I’m having a boy! A real life boy!’ (We had also watched SHRECK the night before.)
‘Shut up!’ Rolls eyes.
He went back to sleep without incident. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of boy’s names. (I liked Micah at the time.)
Two days later…
‘How was your day Lexy?’
‘Im pregnant Irish one’
‘Do you want a cup of tea Lexy?’
‘Can you have tea when you are pregnant Irish one?’
‘Shut up Lexy!’ roll eyes.
He drank his cup of tea without incident. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of girl’s names. (I liked Lola at the time.)
Two days after that…(FYI no matter how early the pregnancy test says its accurate from – 2 days post sex is still way too early! – won’t stop you trying though!)
‘Lexy what are you doing in the bathroom love? You have been in there an hour.’
‘Having a poo darling, why?’ (Code for; six pregnancy tests darling why?)
‘You’ve been in there an hour!’ (Say’s he who has an hourly shit daily!)
‘I’m coming out now’ (After this one last test.)
The conversations went on like this for the next few weeks. Me counting back the days in my head, constantly. And him ignoring me and watching the football, constantly. (I can’t stop moaning can I?)
In the month of June 2009, pregnancy test markets across the world soared. Ok, well maybe not across the world. But certainly across Eccles. (Which is where I live. Just in case you haven’t gathered.) I must have bought and weed on that many sticks, the woman in the chemist thought I was a bit of a not-right. She even asked me at one point if they were all for me. (No I’m buying enough tests to send to third world Africa! Of course they are for me! Whatever happened to discretion. Hellllooo?) The sympathetic smiles soon turned to worried glances, which in time turned to frowns and eventually ended in her having the tests ready and slamming them down on the counter with the force of a small wrestler the minute my unkempt head would appear around the door.
Why she was so bothered by me I don’t know. I mean, surely my contribution to your profits this month is quite high? I thought, at the very least I deserved a freebie.
Unfortunately, she didn’t agree. Each time I visited, I searched every shelf and read each box meticulously. (Actually, this is probably why she was getting annoyed. No shop keeper likes a lurker. Especially a nutcase one.) Guaranteed early result!! 98% accuracy guaranteed!! Ultra hormone sensitive!!! Were all advertising slogans etched on my brain. 2 blue lines – positive. 1 blue line – negative. 1 pink square positive, no pink square- negative. 1 smiley face- positive, no smiley face- negative. (Although, in all honesty I find that last one a little inappropriate and insensitive. What if you don’t want a smiley face? That smiley face then becomes smug doesn’t it?) All results were always negative.
But as I don’t like being wrong, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up because, I just knew. (To be fair though, and in the interest of complete openness and honesty, I had just known for the past 6 months too. Hence the Irish one not being too arsed.)
I was sitting in my favourite Chicago coffee house a few days later droning (I see I was quite droneful looking back) on about how sure I was, that this time my mistake had been valid, while repeating my endless tirade of how I knew I was pregnant, when my best friend finally lost her rag. I was one whole day past the point of no return. I was having period pains, (not that I was about to admit that.) and god love her, she suggested I try a very well known digital brand. Now, I hadn’t tried this particular brand before as it was fairly new on the market and my local establishment of drugs-R-us didn’t stock it. (So, looking back, grumpy pharmacist lady did have a right to be grumpy actually. She had a shop full of not-right lurker’s and crap tests!)
I rushed to the local high street chemist like a woman possessed, NEW DIGITAL TEST!! 99% ACURATE!! (ooo!) UP TO SIX DAYS EARLY!! (Double ooo!)
I purchased four. Well, you can never be too sure. And I may need them again next month. (Not that I will make another mistake, honest.)
During my very many conversations with the Irish one leading up to this epiphany of ‘the digital age’ he had made me promise that if I was going to do a pregnancy test, I had to wait for him to be at my side, that we would share the joy/terror of a positive result together. (But look, ok, technically I didn’t keep this promise. But technically I didn’t break it either. Each and every time I took a test I would stand next to a photo of us on the mantelpiece (I didn’t pee near the mantelpiece! What are we animals?) to get the results. All the while telling my unborn child, that daddy was here. In spirit.)
But ok, yeah, I had bent this promise (satisfied?) on so many occasions and received negative results that I felt this may be why they kept coming up negative. Maybe god could see me, (BENDING) the truth and was keeping the actual truth from me. (Catholic guilt.) So, on the evening of the 2nd of July I waited. I knew in my gut this would be the positive result I felt I deserved at this point, and I didn’t want god teaching me anything. So I waited.
However, I did not set a scene. I did not wait until he had relaxed upon arriving home from work. I did not make a casserole, (chance would be a fine thing) put on some soothing music and light a candle. I did not casually mention it to him half way through a foot rub. I was like a woman possessed. I all but peed on him the minute he walked through the door.
‘Honey I’m home!’ (Ok, not really but I’m setting a scene here!)
‘I bought a pregnancy test Irish one.’
‘I haven’t done it yet’
‘Good! You are NOT pregnant!’ Quite frustrated at this juncture, he was. (sorry I don’t mean to sound like Yoda.)
‘I like, totally am. You will see, I am, I know I am, I went online and….’
‘Do the bloody test’
Ten minutes later. Staring us up in the face as clear as day from the digital wee stick.
‘You are one to two weeks pregnant’
‘Told you I was officially pregnant’ – Me.
‘Holy shit you’re officially pregnant’ – Him.
‘Bollocks’ -Doodle. (Dogs can sense these things. He knew then, I am almost sure, his reign of all things below 2 foot high, was coming to an end.)
And that’s where it began.
9 months (well 10 actually, but never mind.) later. My little Boy (a real life boy! Or girl, you know whichever..) started to make his/her entrance…
And all hell officially broke loose.