Until a few years ago I thought A.I. meant Artificial Intelligence. Then again, a lot was different when A.I. meant artificial intelligence. I had cheekbones, for example, and my husband and I used to practice birth control in an effort to avoid a U.P. . “U.P.” that’s short for unplanned pregnancy – the thing that greedy little hussy’s have when they get knocked up for a third time. “Ooops!” They twitter as they decline a glass of wine at girl’s night. They say things like, “what’s clomid?” and they have no idea what the words “hospitable cervical environment” mean. In hushed compassion-filled voices they tell you; “I hear so-and-so have been trying. That must be so hard…I can’t imagine.” Believe me you little tart, you walking dispenser of viable eggs, you really can’t imagine it.
But after today, I might walk among them. I might become one of those women that doesn’t need to hide her belly under layers of winter sweaters. I might suddenly delight in going up 3 bra sizes, and contentedly puke my way through the next 12 weeks. My husband might hand me the American Express and say – “Sweetie, I think you should go buy some really, really cute outfits. Get whatever you want, and call me if you find the perfect rocking chair.” He will find a sudden interest redecorating the office, and will be surprisingly adamant that the new rug match the wall colors exactly. I will glow, as I lose sight of my feet, knowing they are housed in adorable, and incredibly practical footwear. I will relish my aching back, and I will make a music mix in anticipation of the day my vital organs get turned inside-out.
Back to today. I am trying to decide what appropriate AI attire is. Something practical and comfortable, for sure. But not dowdy – I am not a sleepless haggard yet. Do I wear my J Crew boots? No, too many laces. Not a skirt – I have no idea what the aftermath will be like. Jeans? No. I have to go back to the office after. I have decided upon beige boot-cut slacks and an olive blouse with embroidered designs. Brown slip on shoes with funky argyle socks and my necklace from the crafts-fair. I am going for the understated, independent look. Grunge grows up and gets a day job. I will clearly be the kind of mother who will have a casual, but stylish disregard for fashion, and whose kids will wear home-made chemical-free tie-dies, and eat only local organic foods. No food from a jar, and obviously I will breastfeed.
As I am getting dressed it suddenly becomes surreal to me that it could all be done in a lunch hour. Years have gone by in a blur of pee sticks, temperature monitoring, medications, herbs, acupuncture, hormone replacements, blood work, ultrasounds, therapeutic doses of fish oil, and exhausting acrobatics of rain or shine coupling from days 11 to 16. After all these tears, tests and disappointments, can it suddenly come to a single LH surge, a syringe and a sterile cup coordinated in between client calls on a Tuesday afternoon?
I am amazed and uncertain that it could really be this simple. In an instant I go from excited to leery. From hopeful to doubtful. The next two weeks will be the longest ever. I’ve already bought 6 pregnancy tests. I paid extra for the “early detection” kind since I know I won’t be able to wait the full two weeks, and yet I am already dreading that glaring, red, single test line and the god-awful sight of the disgustingly cute, wide-eyed infant on the stupid box. The stupid box that sends me spiraling every 28 days. The stupid picture of that drooling, crawling, screaming, beautiful thing that I may never have…
