I’ve always been vaguely pro-choice. Basically, I just didn’t care what women decided to do with their own bodies. It didn’t really seem like it was any of my business. I was detached. Not emotionally invested at all. Get an abortion, don’t get an abortion, not my decision. Didn’t affect my life, so I just stayed out of it.
Well, Karma decided to get me back for being selfish and self-involved, because it’s possible that I am currently carrying a bean that will develop into an alien that will shoot out of some part of my body in nine months.
I am never this late for my period, and I threw up this morning.
This is not good.
I do not want children. I am not maternal. I am not just, “not ready for parenthood right now.” I am not a baby-name-wielding, bottle-vs-formula-deciding, parenting-book-reading human being that’s waiting for the right moment to hear people chanting my name as I’m wheeled into a delivery room for a fun-time endless amount of pain. Motherhood is not my bag.
I am the fun, unstable aunt who shows up to parties and tells people who are stuck with their own gremlins stories about my ridiculous life choices. I entertain little monsters. I do not raise them.
And yet here I am, very possibly with child. A pregnancy test is sitting ominously on the sink in my bathroom, waiting for me to take the plunge. I am so nervous that I can’t get my body to release any urine so that I can either be devastated or throw a gigantic party.
And if fate decides to spite me, I’m going to get all these congratulatory messages as I’m sobbing into my cat’s fur.
Schrödinger is going to be less than thrilled.
Yes, I named my cat Schrödinger, and he’s the only baby I want.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I did everything I was supposed to do to keep this from happening. It’s not even like I’m shacking up and/or having fun with a new piece of ass every five minutes. I only sleep with one guy, and not exactly on the most regular of bases.
I am terrified. I can’t get an abortion, but I can’t be a mother. I cannot do it.