Going by the date of my last period, I’m five weeks and five days pregnant. According to one website I read, that means the spinal column is in place, and the embryo may have a heartbeat. Already, so much about this baby has been predetermined. Its sex, its eye colour, its predisposition for certain diseases.
Even after I saw one positive test, I braved the first rain we’ve had in weeks to buy more. It was so strange, walking down the street with this enormous secret. I wondered if people could tell just by looking at me. I felt so responsible all of a sudden—so fierce—like a lioness protecting her cub. Every elbow and handbag became a potential hazard, and I put my hand over my belly, protecting the tiny spark inside me from harm.
Once I had the three positive tests lined up, I stopped testing and cried. All these months of beating myself up, telling myself I’d left it too late, eaten too much junk food, drunk too much wine, not been committed enough to the cause . . . was I finally allowed to go easy on myself?
I always felt certain that if I could just get pregnant, I’d know that this was what I’d wanted all along. The problem was that I’d had all those months to stew over the pros and cons. Yes: now that I’m pregnant, I know. This baby is for me. James is for me. The future is laid out for us, at last. It’s a relief to surrender control. It’s good that I didn’t have to officially “quit” diving. The decision has been made for me.
Last night, I cooked James a special dinner. Newlyn hake with black olives, puy lentils, and a baked potato. All pregnancy-safe ingredients. I felt so maternal as I mashed the black olives and spread them over the pale flesh of the fish. I set the table with candles and a bunch of anemones from the garden, and then I laid out the onesie that I’ve been keeping balled up in my sock drawer for the last three months. There was something accusatory about the way the octopus’s tentacles reached out towards me as I laid it out on the tabletop, but I heard James opening the front door before I had the chance to change my mind about it.
“Are those beluga lentils?” James said when he saw the table. Followed by: “Ooh. Candles.”
Then he saw the onesie. He stroked the octopus’s tentacles, and I noticed that they didn’t seem accusatory with him. It was like they were beckoning him closer.
James looked up at me, tears in his eyes, and said, “Really?”
I nodded and laughed, and we hugged, and our kisses were warm seawater, and we were being baptised and reborn. It didn’t matter that there’d ever been any doubt, any obstacles. We’d been rescued from our shipwreck, and we were safe on board a new vessel together.
Today, I’ve been on my own all day while James is at work.
I went for a run this morning, though it was more of a jog. Knowing that there’s a baby inside me is a little off-putting. I know it’s silly, but I worry that I’ll shake it free of the womb lining or jolt it too hard and damage it. I’m focusing on tamer activities now. This afternoon, I did the laundry and took Cola for a walk around the park, although he lay down whimpering most of the time.
It’s weird how life goes on in the midst of something like this. Plates still need cleaning. Carpets need hoovering. My dad had a fall at lunchtime and had to go to the doctor’s. He’s fine, but it was weird chatting to him and not being able to tell him my news. You’re a granddad! I wanted to shout. You’re a granddad to a three-layered embryo, the size of a sesame seed! I told him I hoped his bruised coccyx felt better soon.
James will be back in an hour. Not too much longer until we can daydream about parenthood together again. We’re having leftovers tonight, so I don’t have to do any prep for that. The only thing to do is wait.
And look at my phone.
And check for updates on the Mars Project.
And reread the article that Anouk sent me about the project’s many dangers.
And accept that the dangers don’t put me off. The sesame seed in my womb doesn’t put me off.
Valentina Tereshkova happens to have a daughter, but she still wants a one-way ticket to Mars. Elon Musk, who has five sons, wants one too. Richard Branson has two kids, and has said he’d do it in the last ten years of his life. How he’ll predict that one, I don’t know, but I’ll happily meet him there. Me, Tereshkova, Musk, Branson. Think of the dinner parties.
I haven’t told Anouk what I made of the article. I haven’t told her about being pregnant either. James has promised he won’t say anything before I do. I know she’ll be pleased—but she’ll assume I’m giving up the astronaut stuff. I want to enjoy the pregnancy for a bit longer before Anouk starts trying to scare me again.
As for James, I’m going to tell him about Mars very soon. James is a supportive guy. I’m sure he’ll understand my reasons for wanting to go. I just don’t know if he’ll understand my reasons for not wanting to stay.
I switch off my phone and put it down on the coffee table. I get up from the sofa and plump up the cushions. As I do this, I feel a wetness between my legs. That’ll be the increased discharge I’ve read about. It’s disgusting
