An Inconceivable Truth

Over the past couple years that I’ve been considering single motherhood I’ve had plenty of fantasies about the moment I first learn I’m truly, officially, unquestionably pregnant. I’ve imagined the excitement, the champagne cork popping, the happy phone calls and creative ways I’ll tell people.

Never, ever, in all the rainbow-and-unicorn daydreams did I picture myself sobbing and wanting to barf. I didn’t foresee totally not believing the EPT test – walking back and forth, in and out of the room for 45 minutes picking up and putting down the treacherous stick with the little ‘+’ sign, faint but unmistakable. I wasn’t prepared for the wracking sobs in the doctor’s office, where I unattractively stammered and snotted and quivered, while the nurse shook her head at me and admonished, ‘Well, you got a positive read on the home test, what did you think?’

What did I think? I thought it was wrong, of course! I thought that it was a mistake, that it was another cruel joke of nature, that if I let myself believe it then I would be devastated later on when I learned that it just wasn’t true. Seven months of trying were NOTHING! Mere seconds of my life. I need more practice time, I was just getting good at it. I need more time to think about how I’m really going to do this – what am I going to do about childcare, and how am I going to answer those tough questions when Alistair is older, and how the heck am I suppose to not think about this every single time I do everything now? I got in my car outside the doctor’s office, put on my seat belt, and thought, ‘Oh my god, if I had a car accident now it could kill the baby’. I had to spend the afternoon working from Starbucks, and I couldn’t have a delicious Caramel Macchiato. I chose the sandals with more support instead of the cuter ones because, well, better for the back.

I can’t live like this for nine months. And then, after nine months, it just gets WORSE! Then the little helpless person that you’ve done your best to nurture and shelter within you is out in the cruel, cold world, and there are all kinds of horrible things and horrible people that it can be exposed to. I can’t protect him from germs, and bullies, and abduction, and credit card debt, and heartbreak (those aren’t in any particular order of badness, although I think people really do underestimate how awful credit card debt collectors can be).

I am now held to a higher standard. Society will care about what I put into my mouth, how much exercise I get, what plans I am making. Then I will be judged by feeding decisions, diapering techniques, sleep habits, discipline, nursery colors. Because I am single, I will be scrutinized more carefully; the absence of a ring signifies an absence in a child’s life, and makes me less of a parent even though I have to be more.

In all the time I’ve pictured the process, the experience, thought about holding a child and everything I had to give, never once did I reconsider. I worried about finances, and legalities, and a million other potential things, both big and small. But I never prepared myself for paralyzing, head-splitting, nauseating fear. I didn’t think about how foreign the words ‘I’m pregnant’ would sound coming from my mouth, how ashamed I would be of myself for being hesitant to utter them out loud, because I’m not deserving or prepared or capable or knowledgeable.

Where’s the glowing? Where’s the maternal pride, the sense of accomplishment at a job finally successfully completed?

Fear. Stark, naked, irrational, and all-encompassing. That’s what motherhood means to me today.