Jeff keeps asking me questions. Pregnancy questions.
Asking me. And all I can say in return is, "Sorry, love, not know."
It's dawning on me that I don't know anything about pregnancy. What's more, it's dawning on me that I actually need to find out.
You see, after the first few cycles of failure, I never let myself think too far ahead. My only goal for two years was to get pregnant, but somehow it never occurred to me to learn anything about what to do if it happened. Oh, sure, I've picked up a few things from the pregnancy-after-infertility blogs, but, I mean, there are basics I don't know. Like, for example, what the doctor will be seeking with his magic wand on the 10th. I've heard words like "yolk sac" bandied about here in blogland, but I have no freaking idea what one is. (Is it a gloppy yellow sphere, like in my free-range breakfast eggs?) And when should he be able to see a heartbeat, if there is one? And can I eat gorgonzola, take a bath, take my allergy medicine? How long will it be before I need pants with a drawstring waist? (Oh. God. I hadn't even imagined maternity clothes before. How can I not have thought of this?)
My level of unpreparedness knows no bounds. Imagine what will happen if an actual baby comes out of this. Yegads. Do you think, somewhere along the line, I'll get my head in the game and learn to breastfeed and change a diaper? Maybe?