There is a reason the Spanish word for hope, “esperanza” is so similar to the word for waiting “esperando” – the act of waiting is all about expectation.
Yesterday a final ultrasound confirmed I did in fact ovulate and the lining of my uterus is very thick. The doctor very helpfully told me this could mean I’m pregnant, or it could just mean I’m about to have my period. Which is pretty much what I knew before the test – with seven days to before my next period is due, I am either pregnant or I’m not. Harrumph.
It’s not healthy to fixate on anything, let alone the possibility of a much-wanted baby, but I can’t keep this mind of mine on a tight enough leash, it seems. It keeps wandering onto baby-related quandaries. Like, should I move apartments, as my staircase is quite twisty and probably dangerous for an unbalanced pregnant woman? Also, if I could find a good deal, I could significantly alleviate the financial pressure of taking maternity leave… But then perhaps my parents will want to come over for a month or so after the birth, in which case I will need a relatively big place. Perhaps Rufus’s parents will want to come too, in which case I will need a palace. And if I’m to be in the house so much, I’ll want it to be a nice house, not some dingy affair with no terrace or garden. And probably I would need a lift, given that pregnant women always seem to be dragging an enormous pile of junk in their wake, like tugboats with a haul of neon-coloured plastic toys, bottles, pastel clothes, blankets, nappies etc.
But this kind of thinking has to stop. The tugboat image is not so appetising, I have to admit. But the rest – imagining telling my parents they are going to be grandparents, choosing names, imaging what that sweet little face will look like…. it’s all just going to make the disappointment worse if that period does come.