Throwing darts in the dark

When I was younger, pregnancy seemed like an inevitability. In fact, more than that. Particularly when I was a teenager, the rather frightening world-view peddled by my mother, my school, and Just 17 was that pregnancy was an explosion waiting to happen. As though not being pregnant was a biologically odd, unstable state, and you just had to lose concentration for a moment, you just had to stop actively doing everything you could to stop being pregnant, you just had to daydream for one crucial moment, and BANG! your bodyclock would go off, and you’d be popping out children all over the place.

Naturally, there are upsides to this. One of which being that I was incredibly picky about the people I slept with. The other being that I was always something of a contraception fascist.

However, the problem with this point of view, is that it does rather set you up for inevitable disappointment once you do start trying to have a baby yourself. Obviously I know that it takes time. Naturally, I know that it’s not automatic, and it’s best to allow a year, and that it taking a year doesn’t necessarily mean that anything’s wrong. But since we started trying for a baby, something odd has happened to my brain. It has become perfectly possible for me to simultaneously believe two completely mutually exclusive things. Hence, I am simultaneously able to believe that these things take time, and thinking that it’s good to have a few more months (more money saved, etc. etc.) whilst also already mourning for my inevitable infertility, and feeling anxious at the years of misery, IVF, and eventual adoption that (obviously) lie before me.

I was lying in bed the other night, and said to Jack, "The thing is, it’s like… it’s like throwing darts in a darkened room."
His reply was cautious, but then, he’s used to my slightly odd analogies, "Ye-es…?"
"It’s like we’re in a pitch black room, throwing darts at a dart-board… and," I was growing in enthusiasm, "And we don’t hear whether or not we’ve hit the bulls eye until a month later."
Jack stroked my arm in a consoling way, "Mmmm-hmmm."
"And! You don’t get to know how close you were. You just know ‘yes’ or ‘no’. So you don’t know if you’re getting better, or worse. You’ve no way of knowing whether you’ve been going for years, and every month you were nearly there. Or whether actually, your darts aren’t even hitting the dart board at all…." By now, even I could feel my analogy being stretched to breaking point. "Or something."

The funniest thing is my fluctuating moods about it. The first month, I was a walking timebomb of baby-fever. I thought about nothing else. And then, when my period was due, I suddenly became petrified. "I can’t actually be pregnant!" I thought to myself, "This is madness! I’m not ready! Someone should have warned me this might happen!" Then I was simultaneously disappointed, relieved, grumpy, happy, and sad when my period did turn up, and it turned out I wasn’t. The second month I was quite happily distracted by Christmas. The third month I started calm, and ended in an absolute fever of counting days and wondering.

I had never really considered that trying for a baby would be such an occupation of my time. I don’t know what I thought, but I always kind of imagined it would be quite passive. I remember my Mum once saying to me blithely, "Oh, you don’t really know you’re pregnant for a few months. You miss one period, and don’t really realise, then you miss another one, and you finally think, ‘when was my last one?’ then you do a test and there you are!" I suppose I imagined that I would stop using contraception, forget about it, then only remember once I realised I was pregnant.

But then, I’ve never been one for doing things half-heartedly. So, first off, I went and got some folic acid before we went on holiday. Even that felt like quite a statement of intent. I walked up to the cashier in Boots feeling as though I had a flashing light going off over my head, "HELLO. MY NAME IS RUMTUMTUGGER AND I WANT TO HAVE A BABY." I half-expected the cashier to give me a meaningful look. But of course they’re used to all that. I then ended up in the hilarious place I am now, where I have to keep the folic acid somewhere obvious enough so I can remember to take it… but also have to hide it every time someone comes round. This means I end up sticking it at the back of the bathroom shelf, and covering it in a little protective fortress of shampoo, soap and shower gel at least twice a week… With some visitors this is more imperative than others. I reckon the more clueless of Jack’s friends would be fobbed off with a, "Oh, those? Just some multi-vitamins." They probably wouldn’t even notice that the bottle has a picture of a baby’s face, and a pregnant stomach on the front. The more sharp-eyed of my friends, on the other hand, would be straight onto me like a shot, and no half-arsed, ‘They were the only multi-vitamins the shop had’ would shake them off track.

Folic acid out of the way, I went to see the doctor. Apparently I needed to get tested for rubella and chickenpox. The doctor gave me a coolly assessing glance, and looked back at my notes.
"How old are you?"
I felt suddenly nervous, "28."
"Okay. Fine." Yessss! I passed. Whatever the test was…
I said, "So, is there anything else I should be doing?"
"Oh no. Just try to relax. Don’t worry about it."
"I mean, for example, I know I should be taking folic acid."
"Oh… yes. Well, take that."
Great. "Right. Er….thanks for all your help."

Even before then, I’d bought a couple of books. Then found I had a similar situation to that with the folic acid. Where could I keep the damn things? I ended up slinging them in one of the storage boxes under our bed. But even then, I still worry when people are round, just in case. Because there’s no way out of that, is there? What do you answer when people say, "Rumtumtugger? Why do you have a book called ‘Your guide to getting pregnant’ by your bed?"

I’m not sure if buying the books has helped, actually. I mean, it’s good to know more about how it all works, but after the evening when I was first reading one of them, I went through a phase of regarding every single person I ever met as the most extraordinarily unlikely biological fluke. I mean, from what I can find out, getting pregnant is an occurrence that is incredibly unlikely, and beset by seemingly insurmountable biological obstacles at pretty much every single stage. I’m amazed we haven’t died out completely. I realised that everysingle person who crams themselves into my tube carriage in the morning, every single member of every football crowd, is a statistical near-impossibility, and a walking miracle. I was glad when that phase of mine ended, as it was exhausting.

And even before then, I discovered the underworld that is the online baby discussion forums. A world not entirely dissimilar to wedding planning: a hidey-hole where obsessed and slightly hysterical women can get together and post messages with the aim of becoming more obsessed and hysterical, and eventually losing touch with reality altogether. (I am being a bit snide. There is one I use relatively regularly, and I do find it helps. But, rather like the books, I also wonder whether it hasn’t also made things worse. It’s a double-edged sword. It’s good to have somewhere to go and rant, and ask silly questions. But I’m also aware that it doesn’t exactly help with my ‘why don’t I try to relax for a few months and see what happens?’ stance.)

 The thing that is really hard is what feels like the constant barrage of questions. It must be the case that people asked me about having babies before we started trying to have one. But I don’t really remember it. I have developed a very convincing conversational riff in response, particularly at work, where I don’t really want to reveal my intentions for perhaps obvious reasons. I have used many variations on the theme: “Who, me? Ha ha ha…. Oh my god, no…. I’m waiting until medical science has developed such that Jack can carry the babies to term…. Oh, god, well, I might, but not until I’m forty…. Well, babies look nice, but I think I have other things to do….I want one with an off-switch!” In fact, I have developed so many variations that I am beginning to worry whether I might be a bit too convincing. I was caught off-guard in a conversation over Christmas about size of families, and said, “I think I’d like to have three children.” I noticed a member of my team gawping at me in disbelief, so hastily said, “Well, I have two siblings… but then I may not be able to have three if I leave it as late as I want to. Perhaps just one.” Seamless, I tell you. Seamless.

Over Christmas I made the fatal error of drinking a glass of water instead of wine at an evening do with Jack’s family. Jack’s hugely glamorous cousin, with her one year old slung over her arm, gave me and my (nicely rounded with pre-Christmas food) stomach – I swear – a knowing glance and said, “Oh, are you on the water, rumtum?” I felt like shouting, “I’m not pregnant! I’m just chubby!” But I didn’t. I decided to get drunk, to prove a point. Which was very mature of me.

Even outside work, it feels non-stop. At a family party over the weekend, we were saying how little we get together, and my grandfather said, “Well, we might see each other at the christening!” Even my mother, of whom I had honestly expected more, and whose behaviour over these things is normally impeccable, was cooing over an incredibly adorable little girl, and turned to me in a rush of wine and family feeling and said, “Rumtum, when are you going to have one of those?” I felt as though I was going to fall over, but managed to smile through gritted teeth and say, “Oh! Plenty of time for that!”

What this has also made me realise is a not-entirely-pleasant side of my character, which is this: I’m really not very used to doing things I’m not good at. I’m in the very happy position of being rather good at most things (directions, losing weight and all sports being notable exceptions). This has all sorts of benefits. But the downside is that when I do find something I’m not good at, I tend to react in a not entirely mature way, which normally involves becoming grumpy, deciding that the thing in question is ‘stupid, anyway’, and then abandoning it. I found myself grappling with similar feelings after our first month, and had to confront the unpleasant truth: I’m competitive. I’m impatient. I’m used to succeeding, and succeeding very quickly.

So I can’t help feeling un-nerved by the three months that have already elapsed. It’s the beginning of something, and I don’t like not knowing whether there is a happy ending. I don’t like not being in control. I don’t think I’m used to it. But at the same time, it’s exciting. Jack and I came back from India feeling as though we were on the brink of a whole new part of our lives. Whatever happens to us it’ll be demanding, and exhausting, and confusing. But I feel very lucky to be in a place where I have the luxury of deciding, as we did, that we wanted to start trying for a family now, just in case. I feel so happy even to be thinking about having children with Jack, and I do feel very blessed. I just have to hang onto that feeling no matter what the next year holds for us.

with love,
therumtumtugger
xxxx