Yesterday I attended a conference in Manhattan. How strange it was to be going into the city for something other than fertility treatments! Not only that, but I took the same train DOWNTOWN that I usually take UPTOWN to go to New Hope. The symbolism of that was not lost on me.
In this conference of approximately 200 people, mostly women, not a single one was visibly pregnant. Like, when does that happen? Oh, of course not when I’m emotionally distraught and seeking solace, but rather when I’m in a good (and pregnant) place. Of freaking course. You know if this was mid-July, there’d have been at least 4 pregnant chicks. And they’d all be seated next to/in front of/behind me.
Anyway. I went with one other coworker who knows my, ahem, situation, so I decided to dress in an outfit that didn’t necessarily show, but didn’t necessarily hide my little bumpage. I swear, it’s even grown in the couple of days since that last picture. Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t help but think, yup, pregnant.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I thought about this all day long. Every time I got up to refill my herbal tea or stand in the bathroom line, I was thinking, “Does the person standing next to me think I’m pregnant, or just chubby?” I even took pains to push the bump out, especially when standing, so that no one would think the latter. Of course it doesn’t matter. Of course no one probably noticed or cared in the least. But to me, someone who has yearned for this privilege for years, it did matter. I wanted to finally feel special. Because there’s a teeny tiny voice in my head that’s saying, “What if this is all you get? What if it ends soon?”
I know, “SHUT THE HECK UP, TINY VOICE!” I mean, truth be told I’m feeling really confident about the whole thing. But I’ve never had a bump. It’s a weird feeling. On some level I feel self-conscious, especially if anyone around me is struggling or hurt to see someone with a bump. I feel like it should come with a disclaimer, something like “I was infertile for a long, long time. Please don’t be mad at me.”
At work I’ve been dressing in baggy, loose clothing and I probably just look like I’ve been hitting the donuts too hard (again, not that anyone probably notices, but still). Today, emboldened by my outfit yesterday, I wore a tight black sweater and a pair of maternity corduroys that I scored at H&M for $5. Really, I wore them because they’re very comfortable, even if the belly part is a bit too big for me and kept sliding down. That made me feel silly. But still… they were comfy. In the tight sweater from a side view, I look legit pregs. Straight on, I just look lumpy. Obviously no one has said anything… I’m definitely not at a point where people would feel sure enough to ask. And I’m not sure what to do when they do… I’m terrified to acknowledge this pregnancy, yet proud of it at the same time. It’s a conundrum.
I think I will end up out of the closet next week when we move desks. All this time we’ve been talking about and planning for me to move in with my team, so I have to imagine there will be some questions when I don’t wind up sitting with them. I don’t want to be the girl who “just, like, can’t deal with all that cigar smoke,” because that’s clearly not a popular mindset in this industry. I might as well tell the truth about why I’m not going to be sitting with them. I wish I had another ultrasound on Monday just for sanity’s sake, but oh, well. I guess I just have to trust that this fat belly is proof enough.
One more fun thing today: Eric’s office got treated to a bunch of BBQ sample items from a company who’s trying to get their business for catering. He was telling me about the amazing mac ‘n’ cheese, brisket, and the like (God, do I love me some good brisket). Anyway, he was saying how we need to go there once I’m able to eat real food again… then revised his statement to say, “Screw that, we’ll have to have them cater in the delivery room.” This made me laugh. So far, the delivery room menu we’ve planned includes (but is not limited to): bagels, a tray of brownies, a chocolate cake, a pizza, eggs benedict, and now a heaping order of brisket and mac ‘n’ cheese. Oh, and ice cream. But the point of this is not the food, it’s the fact that we’re planning for the delivery room. I can picture it. And it’s exciting me.
On my way home last night I dragged my coworker to a gluten-free pizza place I had found online and boy, was it amazing. I’ve really been missing pizza. The crust was good – not as good as real crust, but definitely worth my while. Worth the $5/slice. Yup, that’s New York.
Oh! And weird coincidence yesterday. So I was on the bus ride home when I got a phone call from New Hope. I should mention here that no one bothered to call or email me with next steps or results or anything, despite the fact that I sent two inquiring emails. A response to the second just said, “We will contact you in a few days with further instructions.” I mean, can you imagine if the lab hadn’t told me all was well? I’d STILL be waiting to hear from them. Anyway. Phone rings while I’m on the bus, dumb stupid iPhone battery is down to 7%. It’s Dr. Zhang himself, the man behind the entire study, and someone who I haven’t personally dealt with for more than 45 seconds. He asked if anyone had called to congratulate me on my pregnancy yet and whether I had time to talk. When I explained that I was in public, on a bus, and with a dying phone, he promised that one of his associates would call me today. Here it is 8:30 p.m. and no phone call. Whatever. I did think it was nice that he called at all.
So that’s all for now. I’m sure in a couple weeks I’ll look back and laugh at my silly self trying to work this minuscule bump for all its worth. I need more patience. I’ve never been good at being patient.
Come on, second trimester… hurry the hell up!