So I was having a conversation with Diana about those little moments when you were totally acting like a crazy pregnant lady, but you didn't know you were pregnant yet -- but, looking back, how fucking dense could you be?
(Well, originally we were talking about how my TiVo cut off the last minute of last week's Gilmore Girls season finale and how I called her in an ABSOLUTE HYSTERICAL PANIC to find out what I missed, but obviously, this is the perfect segue into Other Crazy Things Crazy Pregnant Ladies Do.)
Diana recalls sitting on the couch, eating Little Debbie Star Crunch Cosmic Snacks and "crying my eyes out reading The Green Mile."
Before I knew I was pregnant, I rented 13 Going On 30 and watched it one night that Jason had to work late. He came home right as the movie ended to find me sobbing on the couch. And when I say "sobbing," I don't mean the usual sniffly-snuffly girl cries, like how I cry at the end of Steel Magnolias ("BUT MAH DAUGHTER CAAAAAAN'T!!"). I mean a full-on heaving cry, complete with audio, like how Ben Stiller cries at the end of Something About Mary.
For anyone who has never seen 13 Going On 30, I would like to point out that ending is very much a happy one. Nobody dies or reunites with their estranged ghost dad or shoots Bambi's mother.
So when Jason walked in to find me on the couch, face in my hands, shoulders shaking and mascara running down my neck, because I was just so damn HAPPY for Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo, he was Very, Very Confused. And Sort Of Concerned.
And I could only explain that yes, I was crying because I was happy, but also because I didn't think the movie had done well enough at the box office to merit a sequel that would show nothing but Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo being happy and married in that happy house that looked JUST LIKE THE DOLLHOUSE HE MADE FOR HER WHEN SHE WAS 13 AND ALMOST DIDN'T APPRECIATE UNTIL TOO LATE and then the tears started again and I made Jason sit on the couch and hold me for awhile.
And it never once crossed my mind that maybe I was pregnant.
Diana's husband knew something was up the instant she suggested baking chocolate brownies with chocolate chips. He suggested that maybe she should take a pregnancy test, because honey, you hate chocolate, remember?
Jason suggested the same thing the night I puked in a restaurant bathroom at the mere sight of his beef tartare appetizer. (Thankfully, he left that incident out of his review of the evening.) I laughed at him and ordered another martini, because boy, please.
To be fair, the 427 negative pregnancy tests from the past year or two left me a tad bitter. Or very bitter. Okay, extremely bitter. But, as Diana put it: You still think you'll KNOW. Like, you'll have this moment where you're aware that LIFE has been CREATED.
You expect pregnancy to begin with some sort of cosmic hunch -- a vague new-agey feeling that your body is incubating a tiny little miracle and ta-da! Your skin will glow and perhaps a halo will descend from heaven and alight on your holy, mothering head.
Instead, your skin breaks out and you cry when there's no pudding and most importantly, you don't feel any different at all.
And it's the perfect introduction to pregnancy, which also turns out to be Not At All What You Were Expecting Either. It's worse. It's better. It's totally fucking weird, yo.
But at least, once you know, you don't feel like such a freak for crying during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and eating an entire package of salami.
I take that back. You still feel like a freak. But you have hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll return to a less freak-like state at some point. Maybe by the time the kid goes to college.
But in the meantime, everybody ELSE better fucking respect that fucking halo resting above your life-giving, freak head, because this shit is HARD.