[That Awkward Moment When I Found Out I Was Pregnant]

Falling pregnant within four months of getting married was never part of the plan. In fact, we figured it was an impossibility. But the universe had other ideas, as we found out over the festive season of 2011.

Friday 23 December 2011
It’s the Silly Season, Dirty December and the Significant Other and I are heading out for a night on the town with friends. Our venue of choice – Boulevard on Durban’s Florida Road.
But first, the agony of trying to find something to wear.  I’ve noticed a bit of podginess over the last few weeks, but put it down to my new relaxed job, which allows me to engage in strange pursuits like having lunch on a normal daily basis and not working flat out throughout the day without a suitable bite to eat.
Speaking of nosh …  I’ve been dealing with some hectic food episodes of late. This morning while out grocery shopping, a momentary change in the weather, from bright and sunny to dull and rainy as I exit the store, makes me think of warm comfort food.  Suddenly I have an uncontrollable urge to get finger and elbow deep in something really traditional like bacon bones, samp and beans – a favourite, but not for this hot and humid, summery time of year in Durban. I head back into the store anyway, almost robot-like, to grab the key ingredients, before calling the Hubster to let him know I’m on my way home to cook up a pot. And of course he thinks I’m insane. 

A week or two ago we were out at Moyo on a Sunday afternoon enjoying a sundowners session with some friends (complete with traditional unqombothi / Zulu beer sampling). One of the girls starts talking about her mum’s infamous breyani and how good it is. Fast forward 24 hours and I’m at work on the Monday, unable to concentrate. There are voices in my head, reminding me of yesterday’s conversation and telling me I need to go out – now – pronto – and get a big plate of breyani to wolf down, or I might actually die from deprivation. So I drive around and end up getting ripped off into paying 60 bucks for a takeaway portion of the stuff. But at least it hits the spot. The voices in my head are happy. I update my bbm status to reflect the weird craving I’m dealing with, which of course attracts a slew of responses from girlfriends. “Oooh, are you sure you’re not pregnant?” “You know what cravings mean”, etc, etc. I tell them to shove off and stop dreaming.
Back to the original story. I don’t know if it’s the THREE plates of samp and beans I had earlier, or the fact that I’m sporting a bit of extra weight, but I’m feeling really uncomfortable out in the club tonight. I’m downing cocktails and ciders, and becoming increasingly bloated. I secretly loosen the top button on my jeans, then launch into a bitch session with my girlfriends about how much weight I’ve gained and how bad four months of marriage has been for me. And how I’m secretly peeved that my hairdresser asked me about the boep I’m suddenly sporting.
We have a grand time anyway.  I get very sloshed. Verrrrry. And the next day, for the second time in as many weeks, I find myself questioning whether old age is finally creeping up on me, because I feel as if I might actually die from the hangover I’m experiencing. I can’t move. Everything hurts. I am severely dehydrated. My head feels as if there are little gnomes hammering away on my temples. I promise I will never consume alcohol ever again for as long as I walk this mighty earth.
Yes, I made this promise 2 weeks ago, but this time I absolutely 100% mean it.

Sunday 25 December 2011 (Christmas Day)
Yay for Christmas Day! I’m excited about spending time with family, but I’m also flippen exhausted. I blame the bender from Friday night. And the fact that I was up at 5am on Christmas Day, just staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep any longer. A few hours later, it’s off to church we go with the in-laws. It’s a hot, sticky day and despite my best intentions to focus on the priest’s message in that stuffy church, I get a sharp nudge from The Hubster, which makes me realise I’d fallen fast asleep in the middle of mass. Oops. But I can’t help it. I am soooo unbelievably tired.
At the in-laws’ place I can’t fight it any longer. I quietly extricate myself from company and throw myself on a couch to catch some zzz’s. Aaah, bliss at last.
When I wake up about two hours later I unknowingly walk straight into a conversation I’ve grown used to over the years. My dad-in-law is mid-rant about how he really wants – no, NEEDS, a grandkid from us because he waited 7 years for us to get married and he hopes the granddaddy act won’t be delayed for as long. I tell him to talk to his other two sons, both younger than my husband, because it ain’t gonna happen soon with us. That does little to quell the conversation. Pretty soon, mum-in-law joins in, as do gran-in-law, brothers-in-law and cousins-in-law.
“You guys are dragging your feet. You need to start trying for a family. We want a baby now.” Blah, blah, blah. Bearing in mind we’ve been married for all of four months and I am tired of telling them it might not be that easy for us to just pop out a baby, I have no choice but to turn beet red before taking up our best man’s offer to get away from everybody and get stuck into the bottles of spirits and shooters in the kitchen. After all, it’s Christmas Day and these incessant baby-making pleas are only making me feel rather less festive.
Later that night we head off on a drive down the coast to join my family for Christmas at their holiday home. I’ve been thinking about my sister-in-law’s delish crab curry and grilled prawns all day – a highlight of my annual festive food fest. But the minute I step into the house and smell the seafood, I feel as if I might throw up. I have some later, but get very irritated and melodramatic when anybody else attempts to eat the stuff within 2 metres of me. “Get away from me. Why does that fish smell so unbelievably strong?” I ask, while holding my nose and feigning a barf session. My mum is quietly watching all of this and knowing, as mums do, that something was definitely up with her youngest.
The next day we head off to the new Wild Waves water park and my complaining continues – this time because I was up at 5am yet again for no reason, and I’m hungover despite having had very little to drink on Christmas Day, and why are my boobs so sore, and I’m so fat, and look how I’m popping out of my swimming costume, but oh my gosh I am so hungry, pleeeease can we stop for food, and who had seafood for breakfast because I can smell it seeping out of your pores?!
Still, we have a fabulous time at Wild Waves, enthusiastically throwing our bodies down water slides all day and having a real blast.
The days that ensue are a bit of a blur. By Wed 28 December I am feeling the effects of the usual Christmas over indulgence. We’re back at home and I am dragging myself around, feeling unbelievably nauseous, fat and sorry for myself. Why did I eat so much? Why did I drink so much? Why do I never learn each year?
We head off to the auto service centre that day to drop off The Hubster’s car for a few checks and changes. The smell of oil and traffic fumes seeps into my nose and I get more and more miserable. Later we’re walking along a pavement when a beggar walks past, and I honestly feel as if my nose is shoved deep within his armpits because I can smell every last note of his intense You’re the Tyre body odour.
I tell The Hubster I have to get something for this nausea as soon as possible, because it’s our New Year’s weekend away in a few days and I hope I’m not coming down with something. He jokes and says, “Maybe you’re pregnant babe.” I shoot him the evil eye.
“Whatever dude. You know that’s not possible right now,” I shoot back.
And surely it isn’t? I’ve had a benign tumour (a prolactinoma) on my pituitary gland, the master gland that produces, like, most of the body’s hormones, for about 15 years. Long story short, it messes majorly with my cycle and all together it’s pretty prohibitive to pregnancy.
So no, wise guy, I am not – and cannot be – impregnated.
We’re in the pharmacy later and I pick up some anti-nausea stuff. We walk past the pregnancy tests, which are uber cheap, so I throw one in, and then throw another one in so The Hubster and I can have a laugh later at his sheer stupidity.
We get home and I pop some anti-nausea meds. And then I retreat into the bathroom to pee on a stick. And then I walk out because the last time I did this there was one blue line and now there are two dark blue lines, so I need to check on the leaflet what this means. [Yes, I am real smart, I know.]
The friggen leaflet says it’s a positive. Stupid leaflet. Stupid broken test. I show my husband, who by then is engaged in an Xbox battle and able to offer only 0.5% of his concentration to me.
“I think it’s a faulty test,” I say to him, but also to no-one in particular. “Lemme do the other one.”
More peeing on a stick and this time there’s a dark blue circle and a cross because it’s a different brand of test, so now I need to check what this one means.
And it says the same thing.
Positive.
Oh my fuckity fuck.



I show The Hubster this one, and while he doesn’t actually stop his Xbox he does look at me for at least 10 seconds and says “Well then.”
Yes, that is all.
My breathing has become fast and my heart is racing and my head is spinning. I tell him we need to get to the doctor like now so we can do another proper test, because these home tests are only like 97 or 98% accurate and we can’t afford to be in that 2 or 3% that could be wrong.
So a few hours later we find ourselves in the doctor’s rooms, and hearing it from somebody in a white coat just makes it sound all that more believable.
“Congratulations. You’re going to be parents.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
[Update: 
As it turned out, I was 2 months along when we found out. Ryder Luke Meth was born on 16 August 2012, a healthy boy unscarred by mum’s hedonistic lifestyle before she knew of his existence. I thank God every day for my little blessing.]
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