Leggo My Preggo – Part Two
My work crush lived in Big Piney, so her work schedule was always a little more flexible. She never had to attend the daytime “mandatory” meetings for example. It wasn’t that odd that she was gone for a few days, and she was scheduled in a different department so I never really knew if she’d be there.
She wasn’t there on my next work night, but my other work bestie was. We might as well give these two names. We’ll call my work crush Elway, and work bestie we’ll dub D2.
D2 lived in La Barge, which was close to Big Piney. A little farther away. She knew I was pregnant.
Oh Heck.
She was actually a pretty good friend. She gave me space to talk about it, and didn’t belittle me or make me feel like it was impossible. She also honored my grit, and she didn’t sugar coat anything.
We talked off and on all night, as we worked our shift. I told her I was nervous to tell my mom. I was already steeling myself inside to prepare for her reaction. I didn’t know what it would be, but I was pretty sure I was not going to hear the word “congratulations.”
That was fine. It wasn’t anybody else’s celebration, and I didn’t need anyone to be happy for me. That was a really good thing because outside of a very small group of people, EVERYONE felt welcome to voice their doubts about me out loud.
It’s actually really interesting, because when you tell anyone that you’re pregnant, they can’t help but tell you how they really feel about you. They tell you everything they don’t think you’re capable of. They tell you how weak they expect you to be, how fragile, how breakable.
It’s already so very difficult to be an eighteen-year-old. Everyone assumes you’re an idiot. Everyone assumes you’re incompetent. Everyone assumes that your priorities suck. Everyone assumes a lot of things, and there were so many times that it didn’t matter how much courage, desire, determination, or capability I had, people couldn’t see past what they believed about people my age. I can’t tell you how much harder that makes it to get your footing, or how much anxiety comes from feeling like you constantly have to prove yourself.
I was up for it though, and if you weren’t for me, I didn’t need you.
I was grateful that D2 knew, even though there was only one way she could have found out. I wasn’t really upset. Work would have to be told eventually, and some of what we did would probably need to be accommodated at some point.
I was so excited to think that I would have 9 GLORIOUS cyst-free months. That’s 9 months without feeling like my insides were being stirred like spaghetti in the bowl of my pelvis with a sharpened fork.
I was also hoping that maybe the pregnancy would change my metabolism. I’d heard so many stories about how each baby “rewires” you. I had sincerely hoped.
My weight had fluctuated between 220-250 since I’d “moved” to Wyoming. I didn’t have the best relationship with food at this point. I’d binge eat, then I’d starve myself. It felt like the relationship with food I “deserved.” That wasn’t going to cut it with a kiddo though.
I wanted to be a good mom. I wanted my child to feel so much love. I wanted my child to be cherished and cared-for. I wanted my child to appreciate things that truly matter, and not end up entitled or mean.
Back then it seemed like whether you were a good mom or not was mostly a matter of fate, not something you have active control over. A good mom was strong. A good mom loved no matter how hurt she was. A good mom gave whether or not she had any spoons left. A good mom sacrificed, and worked. A good mom was compassionate, soft, and warm. A good mom handled the worries, so children didn’t know the monsters were even close. A good mom would protect her child, listen to her child, put her child’s needs first. A good mom would accept her children as they were, and love them anyhow. A good mom would show up, and give encouragement and guidance. A good mom would hold you when you’re scared, and you feel like giving up. A good mom would set boundaries, and help you deal with life’s disappointments. A good mom heals you even when she’s sick. I had a very clear image of what a good mom was, and I HAD to be one.
I went home after work, and made myself breakfast, and took a shower. I ate and smoked, and knew I needed to call my mom. I waited until I new the Old Witch would be up, then headed over to use her phone.
When I got there, she asked me if I’d called my mom yet. Seriously?!?
I told her that’s why I was there, and she told me she knew that, and that I knew where the phone was. She told me to use the one in her bedroom so I could have privacy for as long as I needed, then she left the house.
I screwed up my courage for that phone call. It had to be done. Who knew? Maybe she would be happy for me.
I pulled out my calling card and worked my way through the familiar menu. She picked up, with a flat emotionless “Hello.”
My heart sank. My heart raced. I felt my throat tighten, and fought to swallow to fight off the feeling, so there wouldn’t be a catch in my voice.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to sound friendly, casual, cordial. “How’s everything going?”
“Your brother had a baby,” she reported, sounding inconvenienced and irritated. “She’s gorgeous, and his girlfriend’s doing well.” She gave me the usual details like she was reading a grocery list, like she HAD to tell me, and she was getting it over with. She was sharing the news, not the joy. She wanted me to know that part wasn’t for me. That was what I deserved to miss because I left and because of the mess I made before I did.
She made sure I new what I wasn’t invited to be a part of. Nobody would be sending me pictures, or birth announcements. This was it.
Then she told me that my cousin was pregnant- the one who’s husband tried to screw me when I was 17- the one I’d always been terrified of.
She told me how hard of a time my cousin was having, and that she’d had to move into my mom’s house for better care because her husband was “worthless.” She was having terrible morning sickness, and losing weight, and my mom was so proud of how well she was taking it. Her warrior script had started. Her dues were being paid. That’s how it works.
Her due date was 6 days before mine.
Then my mom told me that she didn’t have all day, and she asked why I called.
“I called to let you know that I’m pregnant.”
I was correct in assuming that congratulations were not in order for me. He was dripping with disappointment. She asked how I could screw this up this bad. She told me I needed to give up this shenanigans and come home to face the music. She told me I was being stubborn and stupid. She told me I would have to get an abortion, that I was an idiot if I didn’t. She told me not to expect any support from her. She already had her hands full.
I hadn’t expected anything anyhow.
Survivor Literacy 
What do you think?