So I am dreaming, and it’s a messed up dream. We had just bought a house for a steal of a price because the man who lived there had hung himself on the curtain rod in the main living room. Weird things start happening there, things being misplaced etc. Then I come home one day, and there is a mannequin hanging from the same curtain rod in black knee-high boots with the word DANGER written down the back of them. I am frozen, staring at it. The phone, which is somehow already in my hand, rings. I answer it and its our Realtor and she says that she had been trying to reach us for a week to tell us -zoom lens- THE LOCKS HAD NEVER BEEN CHANGED.
Then, as clear as day, I heard my mom say, “LINDSEY!” so urgently that I woke up. I grabbed my cell phone because I felt like there would be a call from my mom or that something bad had happened and it blinks back to me two pieces of information: it’s only 7:00 AM and my babymama is ovulating.
And that is how I started my day.
I had a doctor appointment today and the nurse is going through my prescription list to weed out the old ones and she asks me about the prenatal I was on a year or so ago. I told her she could take it off, and a little menu comes up that asks her why and she asks me if had finished the course, or didn’t like it. I told her that I wasn’t pregnant so I didn’t take it.
“So you have a little one at home?” she says.
“No. No little ones. It didn’t work”
“Well, that happens. Some people get pregnant if you look at ’em sideways, others, well, you could put a kindergartner in there and they couldn’t keep it alive!”
I don’t know how to respond to this, so I just smile.
It’s hard to tell you what it’s like to move through your day knowing that you have to try and inseminate someone at the end of the day. Each time it is like the first time, it never gets any less emotionally draining or awkward. I mean, we have been saying to ourselves that this month would be easier, we would be more prepared, less rushed and frantic and bumping into each other to grab our shoes and my purse and . . . go inseminate someone.
It’s not any easier.
Our babymama’s boyfriend isn’t a real fan of us. I mean, let’s face it, you wouldn’t be either. He is contractually prohibited from having sex with his girlfriend for about two weeks a month, and soon (hopefully) she will be cranky and swollen and and tired because she is carrying a baby that isn’t his. Um . . . sorry? Thank you?
I can’t take on his feelings, I don’t have the capacity for it. I can’t continue to apologize for my broken uterus, like it is some plate that used to be your grandmothers that I threw in fight. I mean, if we are keeping score, my uterus owes me, dude. It’s my uterus that was such a dick to start with.
There is no cohesive thread to this post, by the way. Don’t look for it. I don’t know what the dream meant. I don’t know why I heard my mother calling me. I don’t know why having a baby is so hard.