If you’re keeping IT

“You can get the vitamins on your way out if you’re keeping it.”

That was the first thing the scrawny lab tech at my OB/GYN’s office said to me after confirming what I already kind of suspected: I was pregnant. At this point I was two weeks late and lashing out at neighbors who dared to speak to me. It was like PMS times 200.

“Of course I’m keeping him,” I said, without hesitation. No ultrasound, no gender test—just a gut feeling that the tiny creature making me hot, tired, and irrationally enraged by loud commercials was a boy. (Spoiler: I was right.)

“Sorry! You just don’t look very happy,” she added, clearly untrained in the subtle art of not being a jerk. Was I supposed to jump up and down with tears of happiness running down my face. I was just absorbing the news. I had been off the pill for a year and had not gotten pregnant, so I assumed I was infertile.

“I’m just shocked. And I’m not a really smiley person,” I told her. Back then we didn’t have the term resting bitch face, but I would’ve worn that diagnosis like a badge. Is there a badge for that? I need to check Amazon.

I bought the prenatal vitamins, hit the McDonald’s drive-thru for a single Egg McMuffin, and a bottle of water because I was terrified caffeine would damage my boy. I sat in my car, and took the vitamins and ate. Then I went back to our apartment and called my then husband, now ex, at work to tell him that we “made a person.” After that, I was exhausted, so I curled up on the couch with our cats, and stared at the ceiling in total silence, trying to picture the rest of my life.

In March of 1997, my son was born. He made me a mother. He gave my life meaning and direction, even when everything else fell apart. And it did fall apart, but that’s a story for another day.

And yes, I still kind of want to punch that lab tech in the teeth.