The day I found out, April 6, I went to school and came home and went to Amy’s.  When I pulled out of the driveway, this song came on that I’d never heard, and it seemed really spookily fitting, the chorus anyway.  But I didn’t know who sang it (maybe DMB?) and didn’t know the title.  It was reassuring, though, you know, like . . .  a sign.  And on my way to my first doctor appointment, I heard it again, and decided that yes, it must be DMB, and hearing it AGAIN MUST be a sign.  Especially since I’d kind of put out the BatSignal to have a sign sent from the dead friends, which, creepily enough, has worked in bizarre ways more than once.  And the sign/song itself clicked together when the other day, American Woman came on the radio, and I immediately flashed to hanging out over the river and having one of the dead friends singing "American Woman…. stay away from meeee…."  Um, not because he wanted me to go away, but because I was in Canada, and an . . . American woman. You know. Stupid stuff.

I looked up the song today, and funnily enough, it’s NOT "Miracle baby" which I thought it was, and didn’t want to be my sign because that sounded way too double-Z Cheezzy. The song is behind the cut:

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So, for our plan of not telling people, I’ve actually told quite a few.  All women, with the exception of my husband and my dad, and all women that would probably need to know if something bad happened. Working in a K-8 school, where 95 percent of the staff is female, that means I’ve told maybe a dozen people, tops.

The last person I told was an ed tech that works with one of my students.  She had been out on maternity leave, and the first lunch back she sat next to me and said "So, I hear you’re not coming back . . . do you have any plans?" and my coteacher sort of snorted and said "OH yeah,she has plans" and looked at me, so I leaned over and whispered to Rachel "Yeah, I’m pregnant."  She just about jumped out of her chair, she had such a physical and excited reaction.  I told her it was hush hush mostly (and mostly its the kids I don’t want finding out) but yeah, I’m pregnant.

Today she came with us on a field trip, and while the kids were doing a laser thing, we talked about it more.  She told me that one of her friends had just miscarried at 9 weeks (I’m 7) and she felt awful about it (Rachel) because they had told everyone, started buying stuff, etc etc.  And I agreed that it really was early, but I was only telling a few people, etc etc.

The more I’ve thought about it, I’ve figured out why I’ve been compelled to tell the people at work.  I spend the bulk of my day with them, for one, and it’s helped to have some sympathy when I need to go pee, again, or when I’m tired and leave as soon as possible, or whatever.  But also, these are people that would find out if Something Happened.  I know they would.  I know now that one of our regular subs miscarried recently, and I don’t know because she told me, but it got around. Same with a student teacher from last year.  And I know that if the sub (the intern moved away) told me now that she was expecting, I’d react . . .  differently.  Maybe too eager. SOmething.  Because she has a History, and doesn’t know I know (I never knew she was pregnant until she wasn’t) and it would be different.

By telling people now, early, I am getting such a thrill of the pure happiness that people are sending me.  If something happens, I will have at least had that experience, which is only available once, if you’re lucky.  Announcing your first pregnancy, even in these hopeful and nervous first few weeks, is really EXCITING.  Everything is full of possibility and hope and good luck, and I know that there are people sending lots of good energy to me and the squidlet from all around the world, and that is so cool.

I feel like I’ve let my guard down a bit, but what ‘guard’ is there?  Not telling won’t guarantee a 40 week perfect pregnancy.  Telling won’t make certain a devastating loss.  What’s meant to be, will be.  I’ve always lived my life thinking that, and it won’t stop now.

We still won’t tell the MIL and SILs until Mother’s day.  It makes a great gift, and it will be immediately after our first ultrasound, where, stastically speaking, the odds are 90 percent that we’ll see a heartbeat and celebrate that.  That 10 percent, if it happens, it happens.  I can’t do anything to prevent it, I can only proceed assuming everything is okay.  Which I’m beginning to feel more and more confident that it is.

The good vibes don’t hurt, though.

Today was the first appointment.  I went by myself, as it was just a medical history and form filling out deal.

If you remember, I had originally planned to use my DO at the family practice Dave and I go to.  I figured it would be easier to stay in the same practice, she seemed nice, etc etc.  But then when I had that 45 day period and the faintest hint of a line, and the negative blood test, and she never called back and I was a mess, and I thought "Fuck that."  Instead, I called my friend Jess who had been raving about her OB/GYN since we lived in the same apartment building, what, almost ten years ago? (!! TEN YEARS?!!)  She first used them for endo treatment, then she had the twins by C-Section, and the singleton followed as a VBAC. She said they were great, and I trust her opinion.  Boy, am I glad I did.

For one, the one thing I really hate about our GP office is the waiting room.  It’s a big room, linoleum tile floors, fluorescent lights, and wooden chairs, the type that you’d put at a kitchen table.  While it’s uncomfortable, the worst part is that the room is ALWAYS filled with sick people of all ages.  Gagging babies, coughing old folks, teenagers with mono, etc.  It sucks.

But the OB/GYN practice? Holy mother.  Carpeting, soft padded armchairs, lamps abound.  No sick people this morning, no one was there (my appt was at 7:45) and when I left, there was one middle aged woman reading a magazine.  No open sores, no coughing and burping into her sleeve, just …  reading. Joy abounds.

Plus, the staff seems nice (who I met, anyway) and they have OBs, NPs, and CNMs.  I felt instantly at ease, and that’s important, I think.  I also felt a small thrill, because one of my milestones was to make it to the first appointment, to get in the office and see it formyself, and not have to call back in tears before my first visit.

The first odd thing about the visit was having strangers congratulate me.  I mean, my family has, my friends have, a great portion of the internet has, but that’s different.  Those are the people that insist you don’t look fat, and that you’re smart, and that you’re funny and good and all of that.  But to have strangers, people you’ve never met, smile and say "Congratulations, your first?" well, that was just cool.  Some sort of rite of passage, I think.

The second odd thing was at the end of the medical interview, when the nurse started making a pile. Hmm, I thought, that’s a big pile of forms…. OH WAIT. Not forms.  Propaganda!  I got magazines, 2 babytalk, one that is full of Lennart Nilsson pictures by month (so, my favorite).  And coupons (whatever) and a Desitin sample, and information of what Maine fish to eat, and inormation on a thyroid study and how do I carry all of this out?

IN MY BRAND NEW FREE DIAPER BAG, THAT"S WHAT.  It’s the "Enfamil/Lipil Breastmilk Storage Diaper Bag, No, Really."  Okay, I added the No, Really.  But seriously! That’s what it said!  Of course, it also came with an 8 oz can of Enfamil/Lipil formula powder, I guess "Just in Case the Breast is Best Thing Doesn’t Pan Out."  Can you HEAR me rolling my eyes?  Even if, for some reason, I would need to use formula, I don’t want it sitting in my house for 8 months, so I’m going to take it to the soup kitchen downtown.

Anyway, walking out of the OB/GYN office with a DIAPER BAG is like wearing a sandwichboard that says "KNOCKED UP!"  I was instantly relieved that parking is in the rear of the building, as the office is located dead center of both SILs, and across the street from Bad Niece and her drug dealing boyfriend.  Anyone of those who saw that scene would know, INSTANTLY what was up. (Hmm, now that I think of it, maybe I should give the formula to one of my grand-nephews, since they are bottlefed . . . .)  I called Amy and told her about the onslaught of Stuff, and remarked that "I can’t look directly at the diaper bag, it’s too freaky!"  I’ve come around, and after filtering out all the crap and tossing it (heh, yeah, Sears Portraits here we come . . . not to snark on those that do Sears stuff, but in a family of photogs, it’s not a valuable coupon) I’m feeling a little like Dale Dribble: "I’m on the grid now! YEAAAARGHHHH!!!"

ALSO! IMPORTANT BULLETIN FOR THE NYC’ERS!  I am still planning on coming the last weekend of June, I;ll be in the second tri, the train (Acela) will be perfect for traveling, and I can’t wait to see all of you and some naked gay puppets.  As I told Muse, "I need to expose the baby to naked gay puppets to counter the exposure to my inlaws."   So, there you go, the  Gretchen+Squidlet  Final Metropolitan CouchSurf ’05 is on.  I plan to work out the details in a week or two as far as tickets, arranging lodging, etc.  Woohoo!

I’m a pretty lucid dreamer.  I dream in color, I can always remember tiny details of dreams, and I’m always an active participant.  So far, I’ve had two pregnancy dreams, both of which, in the end, make me roll my eyes at how I am, EVEN IN MY DREAMS.

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That stands for 5 weeks 3 days.  I’m still in the part where I count the days, because every one that I am pregnant feels like such a gift.  The panic has gone away, some, and June’s post was reassuring in an "I might as well give in" kind of way.  Sort of like wondering where your allergy meds are as your car is going off a cliff, you know?  This worry is only the beginning.

I’m tired, for sure.  I’ve even had people who don’t know comment at around 2-3 that "Are you okay? You look exhausted!" so I feel like I have tangible evidence that this is not just an anomaly.  I haven’t been too sick, but at 7 each evening, I tend to get the hot sick prickles, if anyone has those.  This is followed by the weird esophageal cramping that is like the precursor to a puke, but remember, I don’t puke. (Not since ’96, anyway. The Chicken Incident.  Nothing like hurling into a government subsidized toilet while the two mentally retarded sociopaths you are working for, sleep.) Then I swig some ginger ale, and hope for the best.  I think the evening thing is related to my vitamin schedule, as I take them at night and one is a B Complex, and B6 is found to lessen nausea.

To veer away from too much panic, I’ve started a paper journal for the squidlet.  I picked up this journal months ago, red leather with a wrap around cover.  I haven’t had a paper journal in years, but this one drew me in, and was on sale for half off.  The only other thing I can do is daydream about the baby stuff we’ll want (I really hesitate to use the word NEED) even though it makes me feel like a materialistic hoochie.  There’s a consigment shop right around the corner from our house, though, that is for baby and kid stuff exclusively.  While there is some stuff I’d like to have new, just because, I’m sitting on my hands to keep from going over and popping in to see what kind of stuff they had.  If they had a used Snap-N-Go (a stroller frame for an infant seat, because the systems seem like such monsters and not that great when I see one) for instance, I could pick that up.  And even though we will probably cosleep, I want the Jenny Lind crib and changing table in white.  It’s the right texture for my room o’ textures ‘sewing room’ (can I stop calling it that now?) and while I plan to cosleep, I’d like to have that option for naps and such, and who knows, maybe cosleeping won’t work for us. (But I doubt it, the biggest obstacle will be the damn cat, whom we already cosleep with and totally hogs the bed.  We are trying to train her to sleep at the foot, but her favorite place is wedged between humans. Sigh.)  I think I’ll want a Pack and Play for the first floor, and for taking to my folks house and the beach and yard and such.  And Amy has a bassinette we can borrow, instead of buying one or a cosleeper.  I also definitely don’t want a Diaper Genie/Champ/PLastic piece of Crap Collecting Crap.  I’d rather dispose of any diapers as soon as possible, if we use disposable, thank you very much.

I was telling Amy how I also wanted a rocker or glider for the room, because I like the idea of sitting in it and looking out the window to the backyard and reading stories or nursing or just hanging out because Squidlet is awake and Dave needs to sleep because it’s a work night.  I got all emotional at that, and tried to backtrack (not only do I NOT PUKE, I am also NOT a crier.)  "I mean, we can sit in it and I will read it Henry Rollins’ poetry! And sing Nine Inch Nails songs! And dress the baby in black onesies!"  Of course, the hormones have taken over, and had me craving this ‘diaper stacker’ this morning. I am a weak, weak woman. Sigh.