Geriatric Mommy

I guess I'm doing this mommy blogger thing.

“I have nothing to offer anybody, except my own confusion.” ~ Jack Kerouac

I’m 43 and pregnant.

And even now at 26 weeks, I hesitate to write these words, as if the act of doing so will somehow jinx this crazy, wild miracle. My superstition comes from a lot of places: negative past experiences with my fertility and pregnancy; a catastrophic mentality that haunts me from a dysfunctional childhood; a fundamental core belief that I don’t deserve joy or good things.

Back in August, my life was proceeding the way it’s always gone. Adventure and travel were on the horizon. I was looking to book tickets to New York City and Europe and South Africa—it was to be a three-week adventure that theoretically would have happened this past fall of 2021. My husband, Jeren, urged me to take a pregnancy test because I was late for my period (again—more on that later) and my boobs were so sensitive he could barely touch them.

“Just take one, Bridget.”

There was no reason for me to think I was pregnant. Just two months earlier, I’d been told I was in menopause. Just a week earlier, I’d gone to my OB-GYN to talk about getting on birth control because she was worried since I’m so young in menopause, that I would get osteoporosis. I told her I was late again for my period and she said, “That’s the menopause.” And left it at that.

Yet still there had been that persistent inner voice repeating over and over again “you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant…” a steady drumbeat in my subconscious as every cell in my body started reacting to the hormones, the subtle changes that were already taking place, a faint whisper in my heart.

So I didn’t want to take the test because a small, secret part of me was hopeful—and I wasn’t in the mood to be crushed. It had been a rough couple of months on the fertility front and I felt at last I’d finally come into acceptance that having a child just wasn’t in the cards for me. I’d faced biology head on and purchased books with titles like Menopocalypse about the best workouts and diets for a woman in my condition.

“Please,” Jeren pleaded. “Before you book all these flights. You don’t want to find out you’re pregnant in Kruger National Park.”

My husband is endlessly practical and although I was defiant, I knew he was right.

“Fine—but it’s going to be negative.” I said.

No sooner had I finished peeing on the stick and started to say, “See, I told you—“ did the second line start to emerge. The pink line that changes everything.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”

Sitting on my bathroom floor, overjoyed and terrified, I started laughing and crying. My husband came in, shocked.

And honestly—we’re still in shock. Which is why I decided to start writing about it. As anxious as it makes me to publicly talk about being pregnant, like God will strike me down for getting too excited, at some point I have to come into acceptance about the fact that — there’s a strong chance I’m going to be a mom. And I have no idea what I’m doing. It’s terrifying. And even scarier is admitting to myself—and now to you—how badly I want this.

So I guess I’m doing this mommy blogger thing, now. Because I’m a writer and it’s the only way I know how to process the world around me and all of my confusion. I hope you enjoyed your first installment of “Geriatric Mommy.” Stay tuned for more.