Why is it, I go to babycenter.com, and the first headlines to grab my fragile and shaky attention are words of death and disappointment?

Getting some fresh air *brrrr*

“Study shows more women named Terry miscarry” and “If you’ve just turned 39 and are pregnant, hey, don’t get your hopes up!”

And of course, the fucking statistics. OMG! There’s a 1 in 101 chance that I’ll have a child with downs syndrome, a 1 in 5 chance I’ll have an ectopic pregnancy, a 1 in 2 chance that I’ll lose my freakin’ mind reading all this doom and gloom shit. I know, I know, it’s good to have the facts and be an informed person. But, I’m a bit fragile right now.

Give me ONE STATISTIC not in my favor and I’m an emotional train wreck. Having all the data smack me in the face with my own hubris for thinking I can bring a healthy baby to term and live through the childbirth is a bit ouchy.

The very helpful physician’s assistant at my primary caregiver’s office gave me all the appropriate paperwork so that I can fill my head with more angst and fear. Dietary guidelines I should follow, as if eating nuggets of crystallized ginger and buttered toast isn’t a feat in keeping food down. And what to do if I start severly bleeding. Good stuff.

So, send me your good thoughts. Cuz this 39 year old mom of 2.1 is going to do the best she can. And fuck all the negative propaganda from the medical establishment, the bastions of dashed hopes, and babycenter.com. I’ll make up my own diet of hope, good thoughts, and lots of ginger.

I’m knocked up. Again. For the last time. For fuck’s sake.
And all this can be blamed on Kansas City Chiefs’ safety Bernard Pollard, whose shoulder connected with the left knee of New England Patriots’ QB Tom Brady in game one of the 2008 football season, taking out Brady and dashing SuperBowl hopes for the team and fans.

As it was, not giving a damn about either the Steelers or the Cardinals, I did NOT don my Patriots jersey with pride first thing in the morning on SuperBowl Sunday. I, instead, decided to sneak into the shower with my husband.

There I was, innocently washing myself, when we decided to engage in a little pre-game warm-up while the kids were happily playing Littlest Pet Shop in their room. If it were the Patriots, we would be WATCHING the pre-game on the TV. But it was Cardinals v Steelers *yawn*.

Thus it is that through the miracles of mysterious hormonal normalization in women nearing 40, spontaneous ovulation, and bending over to get the soap, we now have a little blastula that I shall name “Oops.”

Stay tuned for more juicy gossip. I’ll be in my bunk, trying not to throw up on “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and sending bad thoughts to a certain KC Chiefs safety.