I have had the extreme misfortune of reading a number of articles about accidental pregnancies, and even found a book entitled Accidentally on Purpose: A One-Night Stand, My Unplanned Parenthood, and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made. The author is a forty-something woman who has a child with her twenty-something hook-up, and this is the unlikely story of how everything worked out.

Now, do not misunderstand what I have to say about this; I rarely feel envy, in that, I do not want what you have to the point of you not having it. I often simply want whatever you have, too. Another copy of it, or something, but I do not begrudge you or anyone much of anything.

So, it’s not that I wish this woman had her kid without the support of the source o’ sperm. I just wish I had that, too.

I read an article written by a guy who was describing a recent pregnancy scare with a woman who was not a girlfriend, but rather, a friend with benefits kind of gal. He wrote: Is it possible not to love the mother of your child?

Hey buddy, I got a couple guys you can talk to to figure that out.

I doubt there’s much public sympathy for me since I’m in the awkward (and painful, if you want to know) position of not knowing exactly who the father is, but remember, if I was Catholic, all’s I’d have to do is go to confession, and all is forgiven. Perhaps you, random reader, adhere to a faith with a slightly crankier God who will be unsatisfied until I suffer a bit. So be it. Besides me, though, the kid is an innocent. I want the father in the picture not because I harbor a secret love and hope that we will end up together, but rather because it is in the best interest of the lima bean.

We’re all adults. We made a bit of a mistake. Something unplanned happened. Let’s buck up and be grown-ups.

No, instead, I will be writing a book entitled: My Gross Error of Judgement That Will Haunt Me Forever, Even Though I Love My Kid More Than Life Itself. I’d love *love* love to be wrong about this, but I just have a feeling that no matter who the paternity test proves is the daddy, his involvement will forever be reluctant and court-mandated, you know, one of those situations where he won’t miss a chance to get a dig in here and there. The picture he will paint of me is of someone who has nearly ruined his life! (I know I don’t need to tell you this, but I didn’t have to beg either one of these guys.)

Seriously, I’d give a kidney to be wrong about this.

So the only solution I see is to continue to work on a good title for the book, and have a laugh whenever possible. Salud! (I’m not drinking anything stiffer than some lime-ade with club soda, don’t worry!)

The food situation is getting kinda serious.

I don’t want to eat because I don’t particularly care for the throwing up thing, first of all. (Anorexia truly baffles me.) And second, I’m always uncomfortable after I eat because of heartburn or a general feeling of malaise. This is no good. I’m keenly aware of the importance of eating properly, now more than ever.

This turn of events is yet another example, example #7,958,319 to be exact, of just how my life has done a 180. Anyone who knows me knows that I love food. I thoroughly enjoy eating. I love the social aspect of it, I love the tastes, I am just a big fan of food. Food is good. Food was good.

Now I’m just extremely wary. None of it looks good. Nothing sounds good. Lots of things smell perfectly awful, in fact. There are aisles at the grocery store I can’t bear to go down.

[The one exception to this is sushi. I could eat trays of sushi. And if one person drops me a note letting me know that I can still eat sushi! The vegetable sushi! the top of my head might flip off. I want sashimi tuna. I want spicy tuna rolls. I want shrimp, all of it, raw and fabulous, mired in wasabi and soy sauce.]

I loved food, and now I don’t.

I know I promised a list of things that I’m cranky about, but I’m oddly not in the mood to be cranky.

I evaluate all foods based on how easily they might come back up.

With regards to yesterday’s musings about the i-before-e rule, Eric very helpfully shared the rule as he learned it, and I quote:

Okay, putting on the pedantic hat for a minute, the rule I learned was “I before E, except after C, or when sounding like “A” as in neighbor or weigh.” That seems to cover both instances in your post. One variation I’m particularly fond of, though, is this one, “I before E, except after C, we live in a weird society.”

Many thanks to Eric!

Ok, this is your last chance to close this page, reader, because once again, it’s going to get graphic.

So I’m hanging out at Jen’s house with the chicks, and we’re sitting around the dining room table, yakking. I’m having a little iced tea, which seems to help my stomach, and I indulge in a banana. And we’re yakkin’, yakkin’, yakkin’ and I realize, I am going to be sick. I couldn’t get out of the chair fast enough. More of the same from the other night, vigorous vomiting. I’m sure it must have been a real pleasure to listen to me hurl and heave, too.

So now I’m pissed that the second trimester that everyone said was going to be better seems to be just be getting worse. I find the randomness of this a little unsettling. What if I’m on the bus? The train? What if I’m in an office or a store, and I DON’T make it to the bathroom in time? What if I’m in a restaurant, and the one-stall bathroom is unavailable?

What? If?

I guess the only thing to do is to carry a few plastic bags with me everywhere, and make sure they’re very handy. No stuffing them in the bottom of the bag.

After I regained my composure, girl time continued and finished up with a trip to the Gap over in Boystown. Love. Boystown. I picked up a few more maternity things off the sale rack, so that’ll be handy. Jen’s bachelorette party is next Saturday night, so next we cruised the sex toy (and other stuff) stores on Halsted. This might be a gross stereotype, but in my experience, the toys and whatnot are always better in the gay neighborhoods. Shops geared for women and straight couples seem to want to be demure; they don’t want to seem too in your face. Gay shops are no holds barred. Something for everyone, I suppose.

Jen and I were talking about her recent trip to Amsterdam, and I remembered going to its Red Light District when I was in college, on foreign study, nearly 20 years ago. What is so funny is that the Red Light District is a freaking tourist destination. It’s totally benign, whereas, if you wander into any neighborhood with drugs and prostitution in America, you did so by accident, and you’ll want to mach schnell back the way you came. But both my traveling companion and I were both kind of bug-eyed about the whole experience. I can’t speak for Crystal, who grew up in Detroit proper, but I know I’d never laid eyes on a prostitute before. And the famous coffee houses really held no allure for me. I was a relative innocent. So, 20 years ago, a really racy sex toy store probably would have flipped the top of my head off.

We can handle Halsted now, though. In one store, I happened upon the corsets and longingly fingered one, but Jen ruined it: “It’ll be a long time before you can wear that again.” Again, the injustice of finally becoming really comfortable with my sexuality, confident enough to enjoy lingerie and whatnot, and . . . having to put it on the shelf for a while. Sigh. Sex can be so much fun, but right now, I feel about as sexy as . . . something really un-sexy. I’m out of sorts about the physical changes I’m experiencing, and that whole spontaneous vomiting thing kinda makes me feel even un-sexier, if that’s at all possible.

But at the same time, I have to say, I have the perfect set of boobs going. They were just fine before, but I got a visit from the booby fairy, and these things are freaking fantastic. I wore a dress yesterday that didn’t make me look particularly voluptuous last summer, but yesterday, it was like a freaking showcase for ‘em.

Tune in tomorrow folks, when I’ll be doing a formal recap about all the stuff I’m feeling bitter and angry about so I can get it off my (perfect!) chest and get on with my life. I have to find some way to express my considerable anxiety about our future, and this seems more constructive than hunting a certain someone down and forcing him to listen to my grievances. (If there is ever a custody dispute, I figure that won’t work in my favor.)  

The belly is its own appendage already. Michelle said yesterday that this is getting more real, which sounds obvious, but is very apt. Michelle also helpfully pointed out that actually the kid will probably like me just fine for the first 13 years, and there’ll just be a decade of that thinly veiled irritation and disdain that says: I can’t believe you’re still alive you’re so stupid!

Anybody else use that rule: i before e except after c? See veiled above. Just wanted to point that out.

Chicago seems to be on an every-other-day warmth schedule. I guess I’ll call it officially spring since I’m almost positive that it won’t snow again. I think the winter was especially rough on the squirrel population because we don’t see many. And, if I were to write an ode to Ruby in the springtime, it would be entitled: The Triumphant Return of the Squirrel Hunter. Or, The Squirrel Hunter Returneth Triumphant!

I love our little springtime strolls. I love the squirrel sighting, and how she immediately assumes the crouched I’ll-sneak-up-on-it position. It’s tough to be truly stealthy at 95 lbs and somewhat aromatic, but I gotta hand it to her, she’s doing a masterful job. The squirrel always escapes. Sometimes she will wait patiently at the base of the tree, silently, as if the squirrel may just happen back down.

I indulge these little reveries. It’s a stop-n-smell the roses time, which is not unpleasant in a neighborhood (i before e rule broken AGAIN) that is actually rather beautiful. Often neighbors will happen by and I’ll have a chance to chat and catch up. After a bit they ask me, kindly, how come I’m just hanging out . . . ? And I point at Ruby, her focus positively laser-like, intently watching for squirrel.

Yesterday, she was studying something in a patch of grass, and a woman passed us in the opposite direction. Ruby looked up, and I could see that she thought this was me? Walking away? I called her, and the relief was almost palpable. She does the same thing at dog beach. She loses me momentarily, and I can see her looking for me. I call her, and if she could, I think she’d say, there you are!

A couple weeks ago, my mother commented that I was just going to have to suck it up and buckle down to get some things done. At the time, I thought, I just can’t. I’m not sure if I thought someone else really would swoop in here and wash my dishes, do my laundry, run my vacuum and rally my spirits, or just what.

But, none of that is going to happen. Also, a man isn’t going to suddenly want to be a father to his child. And I will still have to do my own grocery shopping, still have to lug my own bags up two flights of stairs. I will need to be more aggressive about finding a job that will complement motherhood. Turns out, no one is going to find that for me, either. Dammit.

What’s more, and this is a big one, no one who is heavily invested is going to think I’m a great mom. The only person who can really speak to that probably won’t really be able to judge whether I was a great mom for 25 or so years. I’m also not sure what I expected in that department. Billboards? And what’s kinda funny is that some friends have said they think I’m going to be a great mom–but for some reason I dwell on the silent ones and interpret their silence as disapproval. At dinner the week before last, Tom asked me if I’d seriously considered adoption. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but now I’m a little tee’d off, and intend to address this with him.

I have been conducting a lengthy pity party for myself. I realize I really was waiting for some kind of serendipitous intervention, divine or otherwise, that would save me and the kid from me. My mother was right. I need to suck it up. No one said this was going to be easy. In fact, someone said very specifically, this is going to be really hard and thankless. And the thing of it is, I had a choice. I still have a choice. And I choose this. I choose you, little stowaway, baby bean, tiny squirrel. I choose the colic (if you decide on that), the impending sleeplessness, the near poverty we will endure for a bit, the lifetime of sacrifices on my part to ensure a lifetime of opportunities for you. I choose your terrible twos. I choose the barely disguised disdain of your teenaged years. I choose to be who you blame for your absentee father (temporarily–I trust you’ll come to see reason eventually), and I choose your insufferable know-it-all college student self. I choose to do a lot of stuff I don’t want to do–except for Disneyworld. I’m holding fast on that. I haven’t decided about Disney movies yet, with the accompanying orgy of consumerism. I’ll let you know.

Be forewarned: graphic descriptions of bodily functions in this post.

Ok, last night? Violent, projectile vomiting. WTF. I’m laying in bed, reading, la la la, and I get to feeling a little funktafied, so I turn off the light and plan to ride out this bout of queasiness while sleeping. I can’t describe the difference between queasiness (theoretical sickness) and the real thing, but after a few minutes, I realized that I was probably going to be sick.

Now, I think when I was little, I just barfed all over my bed and hollered for my mother. And when I threw up in college, it was beverage (ahem) induced and somewhat spontaneous. It seemed prudent to get up and wait for the inevitable in the bathroom, and I didn’t have to wait very long. It felt like everything I’d ever eaten was making its triumphant return. After several waves, I was left with the dry heaves. Is there anything worse than the dry heaves? (Probably childbirth.)

At some point, I kinda wondered if I was going to stop heaving, and I gave some serious thought to calling my mother. What I thought she could do for me, I don’t know. It occured to me that dry heaves are kind of a mental thing, like the gag reflex just gets going and doesn’t stop even when there isn’t any more material to heave. So I forced myself to swallow hard, take a deep breath and rinse out my mouth.

I have no idea what I ate or what I did to cause my system to react so violently. I notice that since my physical self is busy gestating the stowaway, it doesn’t not suffer fools gladly, which is to say, whatever I eat is digested in direct proportion to its nutritional value. If I eat something with very little nutritional value, my body wants to evacuate it pretty quickly. Last Friday, I was downtown, and wanted a slice of pepperoni pizza and a fizzy, cold fountain Pepsi. About a half hour after my indulgence, my digestive system, in so many words, said this is garbage. Away! And the thing about downtown Chicago is that it’s tough to find a public bathroom. I had to hike a block and a half to the closest one.

Predictably, the day has been less than stellar. Physically, I feel so yucky, so bad, I seriously wondered if I can really do this. I opted to be honest with a prospective employer about my pregnancy, and my honesty got me nowhere; the recruiter said they could come across with a verbal offer by the end of the day, and I haven’t heard from  her since. So, how does this work people? Do pregnant women not need jobs?

I took the dog for a long walk, and even took myself for a short bike ride in an effort to throw some endorphins at the problem, but I was still feeling very, very low. Just to keep things interesting, I decided to dwell on the absentee father for a bit, followed by a review of my shrinking wardrobe. I might own about 10 things total that fit, and I’m not exaggerating.

And I marvel at how alone I can feel when in fact, I am not alone at all.

About halfway through the bike ride, I thought, wow, I am sacrificing everything: my body, the luxury of selfishness, job opportunities, any chance at romance for the immediate future, and more than likely, it’s all for a kid who will spend the next 20 years trying to pretend they don’t know me. For the first time, I really let myself think about not going through with this, which made me cry. So, even if I did terminate, I would just spend the rest of my life dwelling on this anyway, mired in certain regret.  

Well, the queasiness has subsided quite a bit, but I’ve got a little more heartburn than I’d like. Tired, but that could also be a consequence of the storms last night. It’s not the actual storm that ever wakes me up, it’s the 95-lb chicken dog. She’s never been a big fan of the supernatural. Ben didn’t concern himself with those kinds of details. As long as someone wasn’t trying to get in his house without an express invitation, he was right with the world.

I like remembering Ben. He was just a funny dog. We had 12 years together. There at the end, I knew what he was thinking before he did.  

Ruby and I made it through tonight’s walk with only one attempt at eating something dead on the ground (on her part).

As for the non-fur child (aka the stowaway), for some reason I trolled the internet for information about private schools. I haven’t decided any of the details about giving birth–epidural? mid-wife? But I’m thinking about the merits of private school in six years. I haven’t been feeling really high on my public school education lately. I still feel like my background in history and social studies is woefully lacking. I remember one teacher, he was legally blind as I recall, I don’t remember him every providing any instruction. He’d sit in the front of the room with the lights dimmed.

I can’t believe this, but I’ve kinda gotten sucked into that reality show, America’s Next Top Model. I don’t know why. There are quite a few international contestants, moreso than the usual reality show, I think. These girls from eastern European countries, African countries, it’s like they’re not as ruthless although their circumstances seem to be harder. American girls, on this show anyway, are kinda brash, some of them to the point of an unattractive cockiness. I felt oddly happy that one mean girl got the axe a couple weeks ago. Why do I care about this?  

Yet again, Ruby found something in the alley, something flattened beyond recognition, but most probably something dead and hideously unpalateable to reasonable people and animals, and it was all I could do to lure her away. It clearly took all her powers of self-control to leave it and do what I was telling her to do.

And, yet again, when we got home, I tried to tempt her with a little snack, little corner of my PBJ sandwich, and yet again, she regarded the offering with suspicion and only very reluctantly took it.

WHY is eating dead stuff so much more appealing???? These are the days and times when I remember Ben (dead dog). He would have NEVER eaten something in the alley. Oh hell no. And I never had to beg him to take any kind of bread product. He loved him some bread. Of course, he never came when I called his name, either, and I’ll never stop being charmed to death that Ruby actually acknowledges her name.

Don’t misunderstand me. She’s a great dog. I just don’t understand the dead stuff thing.

The funny thing about Chicago is that you go for months without seeing much of your neighbors, and then the weather breaks, and then each walk can be a social occasion. Although I don’t consider this a real break in the weather-I doubt it broke 50 today despite the most gorgeous sunshine-I correctly guessed that if I went for a walk with Ruby, we’d get some social time, see some folks we haven’t seen in a long time.

First, we ran into our neighbor with her two smallish, fluffish dogs: Lou and Greta. Greta loves Ruby. Loves. She’s not quite a year yet, so she’s still pretty excitable. She ricochets. I don’t remember whether her human and I could actually hold a conversation amid the dog chaos. But that’s ok.

Walking Ruby isn’t actually exercise. Her preference is to carefully smell her way down the block, which means I look like I’m loitering. I figure, it’s her walk. Her sense of smell is something like 200 times mine, so, if she wants to smell every blade of grass between here and Wrigley Field, I should indulge her when time permits.

So we loiter down the street, and meet another dog whose owner is clearly not amused with this weather. Girlfriend was wearing a down jacket (North Face, I think) and a winter hat. She didn’t appear particularly friendly, and neither was her dog: as we passed them, her dog strained at the leash, attempting to lunge at us, barking furiously. Alrighty then.

Next, we rendez-vous’ed with Frankie, the French bulldog. I happen to love French bulldogs. If I were the kind of person who paid for dogs, I’d probably have a collection of the darned things. I love their short, stocky stature, like lots of dog crammed into a little dog package. And those ears, those big bat ears seemingly out of proportion to their relatively diminutive features. Also, meeting French bulldogs gives me a chance to practice my very rudimentary French. (French bulldogs respond to my French the same way my German Shepherd responds to my German, which is to say, not so much.)

We headed back towards home up the other side of the street-I figure she’s already smelled everything on the west side of the street, so let’s have a go at the east side. I was hoping Greta the weimereiner would be out in her yard, but she was on a walk with one of her dads. I chatted briefly with her other dad. Greta’s not quite a year; they used to have Grommet, also a weimereiner, but he passed on to the great dog park after a nice long life.

Onward. Ruby smells, I loiter. Up around the corner, I thought I saw another neighbor who I hadn’t seen in a while, but it wasn’t her. It was a dog we haven’t seen in a while: Emma, the wheaten terrier. We’ve been running into her ever since she was a tiny, tiny puppy. Now she’s the cutest eight months ever, and chock full of puppy energy, which seems to confuse Ruby. You know how older dogs are; they play sometimes, but nothing too crazy.

Back up the other side of the street, past the house on the corner with the two bulldogs. Most often when I pass, a bulldog is sitting in a chair on the front porch, like his person. Tonight, he sat quietly in front of the front door, looking out onto his domain. He watches us with mostly indifference as we pass. I rarely see them out and about, and in the over two years I’ve lived here, I’ve only had occasion to pet them once.

We did pass a pair of white poodle-ish dogs, the smaller of the two growled menacingly at us, but Ruby ignored them, evidently smelling something wondrous. Sometimes, she pushes her nose into the grass and inhales deeply. What she smells must provide her the lay of the land, the landscape, the way our eyesight does. Her eyesight isn’t good. She frequently mistakes garbage bags or miscellaneous litter for a squirrel or something else worth stalking. If there’s another dog at the back of the yard at my parent’s house, she’s been known to stalk it until she gets close enough to realize that it is merely the basset hound. (A side note, I suggested to my mother that if my sister leaves her basset with them when she moves out, we should rename him Alfonso. His given name is Kirby Quentin, but I don’t think it matters what we call him because he doesn’t respond to anything.)