Yesterday I had written a long, 800+ word post about the subject I’m going to tackle again in this post. And then the fucking computer ate the whole fucking thing, so I flipped it the bird and stomped off in a huff. So here goes.
One thing I have discovered about myself as of late is that I have a dangerous PMS cycle. I’m good for 2-3 months, a little bit of bloating and fatigue, mild irritability, but nothing real shocking. Then we hit the BAD MONTH and I’m sitting on my hands so’s I don’t strangle the Boss Man, eating small children and fluffy cute animals alike (dipped in chocolate, natch), demanding human sacrifice and generally struggling to not burst into flames. To avoid being caught unaware of the impending doom, I started charting so I could see it coming in advance and evacuate a 5 mile radius in time. The upshot is that I haven’t murdered anyone. The downside is that when I am off my cycle, it becomes an immediately noticed event, by N and I alike. This last cycle I started out two days late. No problem. Three days – N is giving me questioning glances and enjoying fucking my brains out to encourage commencement of my anemia. Five days- He’s getting that anxious look and I am irritably fending off interrogation about my feminine status. Seven days, and I am starting to get worried. I’ve not been a full fucking week late before. I started worrying about the state of His vasectomy. Everyone and their goddamned grandma has a story about So-n-So’s cousin/best friend/sister’s roommate’s uncle and how they have X number of kids after their vasectomy failed. (My favorite is “I know a girl who has her tubes tied and her husband got his snipped and they have two more kids!”) They are compelled to tell you these stories once they find out that you have made taken the “final” step in regards to birth control. Apparently it’s supposed to help you feel secure about your sterilization. I dunno.
It was on the night of the eighth day that I started to think ahead if I was pregnant. And it was an unpleasant navel gazing session for sure. I was alone in a hotel room in Bismarck, three and a half hours away from Nick, realizing that I am so far beyond where I thought I was property-wise that I’m desperately scrambling for at least ONE landmark.
If I were to become pregnant again, I’d want an abortion almost as soon as I found out. That’s just the straight truth. (I hope that those of you reading who are “pro-life” don’t hate me after reading this.) My last pregnancy was hard towards the end, and all three labors were absolute hell. I have three kids that still require fairly intensive parenting and I am up to my eyebrows in crazy just trying to deal with them. I don’t think I could handle any more. Not without some magic pills. We did what we could to make sure that didn’t happen again, so I think we covered the bases and have every right to have a serious issue with an unexpected pregnancy.
That wasn’t the revelation. The revelation was realizing that I wouldn’t get my abortion. No. N would make me carry the pregnancy to term, knowingly using my psyche against me the whole way through. He knows that I would start off resentful of Him and the baby, but when I saw the heartbeat for the first time I’d relent a little. Feel it move for the first time, and I’d thaw a little more. See the baby bouncing around on an ultrasound, I’d repent of my hard-hearted ways, and by the time I gave birth and held the child in my arms, the last little rind of ice around my heart will have fully melted and I would be hooked. He’s seen it happen with my third pregnancy (although I didn’t desire an abortion then). I’d find a way to make everything work, and add another on to the brood. There’s always room in my heart.
When I realized this, I felt angry, betrayed, resentful and indignant. I was upset that He would veto me on someting so personal and individual as reproductive rights. How dare He treat me like a broodmare or heifer! Like…property!
I talked to Him about it, and said that I had figured out that I wouldn’t be able to get an abortion. He nodded perfunctorily, like He knew all along and was just waiting for the slower people to catch up. Again with the brief flame up of indignity, but it didn’t last long. Can a person be angered by their apathy?
I don’t know when He jedi-tricked me out of being able to make my own reproductive right decisions. I know, I know, that whole “rights” thing and all, but seriously? I’m the one who would be pregnant, I am the one who would be nursing, I’m the one who would be raising the child in the first few years of it’s life. And yet, somehow, I can’t even find it in me to give the argument the most cursory try. I just accepted it with a little gall and moved on. It barely fazed me.
What else am I just going to roll over and take? What other little line was erased when I wasn’t looking? What hidden part of me was slowly converted while I was off playing Suzie Homemaker for Him?
Where am I?