Having a new baby was umpteen times harder than I expected, and going from a full-time job and full-time school to absolutely nothing was mind-numbing. I began to hate where I lived and question the life I had chosen for myself. Black clouds and uncertainty were the names of the game.
And in February of that year, with a two-month-old and a bad case of post-partum depression, I discovered that I was pregnant. During "that time," I told Caleb verbatim, "If we end up pregnant, I'm going to laugh right in your face." But when I saw that positive pregnancy test, I didn't laugh. When I plugged in the numbers and found out that my due date was at the end of November, I really didn't laugh. And when I did the math and figured out that I would have two children under a year apart from each other, I cried.
I eventually came around on the idea. On my birthday, March 30, I announced to my family that I was six weeks pregnant and that they should expect a crazy household in my neck of the woods for the next few years. Everyone was shocked, but happy for us. Two days later, on April 1, I could not resist the urge to announce the good news on all of the social media outlets. Pregnancy is one of the top two pranks pulled on April Fool's Day, and wouldn't everyone be surprised when this announcement was actually true! I felt it was a truly brilliant plan.
Fast forward about a month, when things fell apart so quickly. Medically speaking, I was diagnosed with a blighted ovum and told that I was no longer having a child. A couple years later, I am totally accepting of the situation and happy that I was able to finally become an adult through this trial. But dang it all, I cannot abide by April Fool's Day anymore. The mere thought of it makes me froth at the mouth, especially when I see people pretending to be pregnant. I am a grinch, I suppose, and I want to tell those folks that I hope they don't have a fake miscarriage of their fake pregnancy.
But, again, I brought this on myself.
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