I put the stick down and prepare for a very long three minutes. But it's already there.
´Pregnant 3+'
I had bought the test while simultaneously laughing at myself for my paranoia. Not so paranoid after all, but ... still laughing. I smile all through the shower. I smile all the way to work. I smile when I drop the bomb on a friend. It's a shocked smile, a not-yet-quite-believing smile, but a smile. I'm having a baby.
Used to Scotland, the doctor tactfully asks: 'Is that good news or bad news?' 'Unexpected news.'
My parents don't even bother with initial shock and go straight to happy. They'll make great grandparents and they can't wait.
My friends and family are great friends and family. Touching messages with congratulations and compliments. So many compliments in fact, I get to blush a lot.
But there are questions too, of course. And assumptions. That I didn´t pay enough attention in sex-ed.That it was a hard decision. That I kept it because I'm approaching thirty and perennially single. That I kept it because I'm approaching thirty and felt a duty to take responsibility for my actions. That I kept it because of those pesky hormones taking over my brain. That I spend my days hoping the father changes his mind. That the father is an asshole.
Strangers and acquaintances also make assumptions. That I have a partner. That the discovery that I don't necessitates the immediate production of a commiserating expression. That the father will, of course, change his mind.
It's 2011 and I did nothing wrong. A series of events with a calculated chance of 5 in a million of getting me pregnant got me pregnant (where's the lottery?). The rational explanation of my subsequent decision exists, but it's misleading: it was post-hoc confabulation about an image that smiled me all the way through the shower.
It's 2011 and I'm having a baby.
And it's 2011 and the father gets to make his own decision on whether he's having the baby too.
It´s 2011 and I´m a Pringle!
´Pregnant 3+'
I had bought the test while simultaneously laughing at myself for my paranoia. Not so paranoid after all, but ... still laughing. I smile all through the shower. I smile all the way to work. I smile when I drop the bomb on a friend. It's a shocked smile, a not-yet-quite-believing smile, but a smile. I'm having a baby.
Used to Scotland, the doctor tactfully asks: 'Is that good news or bad news?' 'Unexpected news.'
My parents don't even bother with initial shock and go straight to happy. They'll make great grandparents and they can't wait.
My friends and family are great friends and family. Touching messages with congratulations and compliments. So many compliments in fact, I get to blush a lot.
But there are questions too, of course. And assumptions. That I didn´t pay enough attention in sex-ed.That it was a hard decision. That I kept it because I'm approaching thirty and perennially single. That I kept it because I'm approaching thirty and felt a duty to take responsibility for my actions. That I kept it because of those pesky hormones taking over my brain. That I spend my days hoping the father changes his mind. That the father is an asshole.
Strangers and acquaintances also make assumptions. That I have a partner. That the discovery that I don't necessitates the immediate production of a commiserating expression. That the father will, of course, change his mind.
It's 2011 and I did nothing wrong. A series of events with a calculated chance of 5 in a million of getting me pregnant got me pregnant (where's the lottery?). The rational explanation of my subsequent decision exists, but it's misleading: it was post-hoc confabulation about an image that smiled me all the way through the shower.
It's 2011 and I'm having a baby.
And it's 2011 and the father gets to make his own decision on whether he's having the baby too.
It´s 2011 and I´m a Pringle!
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