On Friday my husband left for a two week trip to Vietnam. This week is going to be unpleasant, for reasons I have detailed before. I fear that I will be a genuine crazy person by the time he gets back. You know, hearing voices and carrying a bag of rice around pretending it's my baby. SHHHHHHHH! DON'T WAKE THE BABY! So be prepared to stage an internet intervention if you notice me going off the rails.
My husband's trip is part of a two-year MBA he is almost done with. I can still remember the day he decided to do this program. He'd been accepted and was figuring out whether he actually wanted to do it. He needed to make his mind up as we were about to leave for a conference in England and it would be a pain to send the paperwork in from abroad. It was our first month of trying to get pregnant. He was worried I'd think it was selfish of him or just plain unwise to embark on this plan when we were going to have a baby. We'll work it out, I told him. He ran across the street and dropped his materials in the mailbox. A week later my conference was over and we were doing a bit of traveling. We were in Oxford having dinner after a day of being appalled at the number of tourists clogging the streets ('cause of course we were not mere tourists clogging the streets ourselves) and I was apologizing for being cranky all day. It's just that I can tell I'm not pregnant and I'm weirdly disappointed, I whispered, trying not to horrify the nice couple at the next table. He murmured something comforting that did not comfort me at all. Little did I know how often that scene would be repeated.
A year later, Mr. Bunny suggested that I avoid getting pregnant for a month, because if I did, he wouldn't be able to go on this trip he just departed for. I laughed. If he thought I was going to waste any opportunity to try to get pregnant, he was crazy. And for us, I assured him, perfectly timed intercourse would produce the same result as avoiding getting pregnant. The following month I had my chemical pregnancy and learned that BFB was a few weeks in. Now the trip and BFB's baby have both arrived.
Having bothered to articulate all that, I am now wondering what the point was. Milestones. They suck. This is not news. I guess the following things are emerging from my ruminations:
1) For those of you who have been at this for longer, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine enduring the misery of everything I've been through in my year-and-a-half multiplied by any number at all. Uh, except 1. That I can imagine.
2) I'm still a little stunned that I have to go through this. I think I tend to revisit these events as a way of convincing myself that this is really happening to me. And maybe as a way of explaining to myself why it is that I am SO FUCKING UNHAPPY ALL THE TIME.
Gotta go--Basmati just woke up from her nap.