You guys remember learning about Schrodinger’s cat?
Yeah, me either. I mean, I vaguely recall something about a dead cat in a box but as for the rest…well, college is a hell of a time, kids.
Luckily, college is pointless now that we have Google and as it turns out, a quick search unearthed that Schrodinger’s cat is indeed a dead cat in box that is also simultaneously alive. Due to something, something, blah, blah, blah, a bunch of smart science junk. But the point is, the cat is both dead and alive until someone opens the box to find out.
I bring this up because it is the perfect metaphor for when you are trying to get pregnant. See, now that our toddler son has gained some independence and is sleeping like a dead cat in a box through the night, my husband and I decided we want to ruin our peaceful lives by starting over with a new needy nipple-shredding newborn. And so every month, we shed our Snuggies and have really giggly sitcom sex. And then for a few weeks every month, I’m both possibly pregnant and possibly not pregnant, with no way of knowing until someone (preferably a doctor but I’m not picky) checks inside the box.
(Get it? Cause “box” is slang for “vagina”? How have I not won a Pulitzer yet?).
Yes, for those few weeks, all possibilities are possible. And it’s the worst. As much as I want another baby, I can officially say that this is no way to live your life. It’s like being permanently in limbo and all my time is now spent debating and justifying every choice I make based on highly limited knowledge.
“Hmm…maybe I shouldn’t drink two pots of coffee this morning. In case I’m pregnant. Then again, I might not be pregnant and drinking all this coffee increases the chances I won’t murder someone today.”
“A glass of wine probably won’t hurt even if I am pregnant. Right?”
“I may not be pregnant yet so I can’t justify eating this ENTIRE bag of Doritos. Can I?”
“Two glasses of wine probably won’t hurt. I mean, these are small wine glasses. Smaller than normal. So technically, it’d be just like having one glass of wine.”
“Protein is good for growing fetuses so I should definitely order two cheeseburgers. Just in case.”
“If I mix this third glass of wine with coffee, they cancel each other out, right?”
It’s like you know the jailer is probably coming soon but maybe he got lost on the way and won’t arrive until next month. Then again, she could already have snuck past you and is living in your uterus. So LIVE IT UP before your freedom is taken away! But not really cause you may already be imprisoned!
It’s exhausting. Especially when you already have a kid and know exactly what to expect when you’re expecting. I fooled myself the first time with dumb, naïve platitudes like “I can survive anything for nine months!” and “It’ll all be worth it when they’re born!”
But the thing is…
- You’re not pregnant for nine months. You’re pregnant two weeks past FOREVER.
- It’s worth it six months after they’re born. The first six months you are just a feral animal surviving on stale Triscuits and instinct.
As unromantic as it sounds, I also want to be pregnant and out of limbo just to get the whole thing over with. I know I only want two kids, so once I safely pop out another gigantic Viking baby, I can shut down the whole damn factory and forget I even have inside lady parts. (That is, of course, until menopause kicks in and takes an entire decade to slowly strangle everything down there to death).
Of course, I shouldn’t complain too much. I mean, I’m just trying to get pregnant. It could be much worse.
I could be a zombie cat stuck living in a box.