I’ve felt nervous about announcing our pregnancy. We are over-the-moon excited! And no, it wasn’t a surprise (sooooo weird to be asked…but it’s sure easier to respond to that question here than at the grocery store).
But—after seeing the backlash that the Duchess of Cambridge is facing for baby numero tres, people-pleaser me is anxious about the reaction to baby numero cinco. I don’t have a team of nannies or crown jewels to sell if things get tough. We’re moving in a couple months, and Cee’s health is always a wild card.
This summer it’s been lovely to hold our little secret, without having to worry about reactions or raised eyebrows.
From the moment we found out, David wanted to tell everyone—friends, family, acquaintances, random people at the gas station. I kept pushing to wait until after our 20 week ultrasound. Because I’m afraid.
The people I’m afraid of telling generally fall into two categories: those struggling with infertility, and those who think five is crazy.
We know so many dear and lovely people who want to be parents, and for some reason it isn’t going as planned. Is it greedy to have this troupe of kids when others can’t? If you look at the ragtag bunch pouring out of our van, it’s hard to imagine that we can relate to couples who are waiting. But we can, and I dread making someone feel worse.
It can be surprising who falls into the “five is crazy” category. For the record—five *is* crazy, but not necessarily bad-crazy. We aren’t sucking up all the earth’s resources by having more than one. Our kids don’t own anything Under Armour and probably won’t participate in scores of activities, if those are the sorts of things you need in order to have a decent childhood. But they have figured out how to grind up sidewalk chalk, mix it with water and paint with it. And they do always have someone to wrestle with. So there’s that.
“Alicia—you don’t own any makeup and barely manage to comb your hair on a daily basis. Are you going to tell me you actually care what people think?!?!”
Good point. I’ve tried to make Responsible Decisions my whole life. I don’t care what people think about my wheels or my clothes, but pokes about my deepest most personal life choices do make me queasy.
Queasy like popcorn and cardboard.
I do not get Duchess of Cambridge sick with my pregnancies, thank goodness. But I *do* do a lot of gagging. If I’m hungry, if I smell the wrong thing, if I think about the wrong thing. Like popcorn. Or cardboard. There’s no rhyme or reason to the queasiness, and it’s not always consistent.
For a couple weeks, I couldn’t eat much besides (readers with weak stomachs may want to scroll down) mayonnaise toast with a side of blueberries. We went through a lot of blueberries. And mayonnaise.
Things are better now, but I still need to nap to survive.
The other day I swatted a fly and tried to scrape it off into the garbage can, which induced waves of gagging. The kids just laughed. In fact, one kid proceeded to exclaim, “Fly guts!!!” randomly throughout the rest of the day to skeeve me out. To be fair, that was before we let them know about the new baby. At any rate, there are a hundred things that I used to be fine with but now make me want to die.
It’s hard. But it’s worth it. Five *is* crazy, but it’s not bad-crazy. I mentioned yesterday that the kids are super excited. We talk about names, what life will be like, what the gender might be—all the time. And suddenly I get a little more consideration and respect with the kids. Well, at least fewer body checks and requests to be a horse. That’s a win for sure, even with having to give up popcorn.
Day 1: I’m baaaaaack!
Day 2: The House Sitchiation
Day 3: An ER Adventure
Day 4: First Reconciliation Head to Head
Day 5: Packing Struggles
Day 6: This Is Us Bookless Club
Day 7: Just Take Me Now
Day 8: Hair Trouble
Day 9: The Crutch of Comfort
Day 10: The Whole Truth About My Summer Break
Day 11: Popcorn and Cardboard