Part 2
So we make a start. We make lots of starts, because every month there's a reminder that although we may have started we aren't passing the finishing post. He isn't concerned but I've seen him look at me, anxious when I check the calendar and the test in the bathroom cabinet remains unopened.
Still, we've found a house and he's working on keeping me focused on that and does the usual man thing of deferring to me on all matters of décor, except for the business with the lampshades in the bedroom where he just says no, and he makes plans for the garden which isn't big but it's big enough and hey, it's nearly spring. On the day we move in he helps me make up the bed with new sheets and he stands back and gathers up the wrapping from the new linen and throws it onto the landing, shutting the door on the mess.
"So - you want to christen them?" When I don't answer he says "Abby?"
"It's not - I mean, next week, we should - "
"We should what? Are we fucking to a schedule now?"
"Are we what?" I'm pissed because when we first decided to go for this I was all over him like a rash at every opportunity until he started to get evasive and then told me that having him ejaculate on average 6 times a day might actually be counter productive which I knew, thank you very much, although I could have lived without him saying he was starting to feel like a stud bull. I'm stunned too because Luka doesn't talk like that, at least not to me, so gee look, I guess Abby got it wrong again.
"You heard me."
"Look, you know the best chances of - "
"I know all about making babies, but the rest of the time we're making love, aren't we? Or does that not matter any more?" I say nothing and he sighs and sits down, not looking at me. "Why are we doing this?"
"Fighting?"
"No."
"You mean - I - you mean - "
"Starting a baby is what I mean."
I'm trying so hard not to actually dislike him right now because, Jesus, I knew we'd have to figure this one out but I was hoping it would come later, when it was too late to turn back, and I also know that he never sat down with Danijela and asked that question. But me, I'm the addict, see, I'm the one who didn't want kids and now I have to explain myself.
"Because it's what we both want."
"Why? What changed?"
"Everything! Everything changed. I'm sober, I'm . . . I'm . . . I like my life, Luka, I like myself, I think I'm worth sharing now, I'm - "
"You're desperate! And you're scaring me!"
"No."
"You are."
I know what he's thinking. "I know what you're thinking."
"Sure you do."
"Yeah, sure I do, asshole. Abby the addict, grab, grab, grab. Jesus, Luka, my whole life is one long frigging balancing act, you know? Live in the moment but learn to defer gratification, learn from my past but put it behind me, see things - "
"Abby."
" - from the outside and - "
"Abby, stop. I'm sorry."
"I'm not desperate, Luka, I'm impatient. You do understand the difference, do you? I'm impatient because I've wasted too much of my life already, I'm impatient because I never thought I'd want this and I do. Want, Luka, want. Not need, not crave, want. I'm allowed to want, aren't I? And I'm worried. I've spent years making sure that nothing short of the Holy Ghost could get me pregnant and now it's like a fucking bad joke! Nothing."
"Three months, Abby. It's no time at all."
"How long before Danijela conceived?" I can't believe I just said that.
"What?" He can't believe it either. For a second there I think he's going to laugh.
"How long?"
"Jesus, Abby, about 10 minutes I guess - is that what you want to hear?"
"So why not me?"
"It's too soon to talk like this, you know that."
"God, I did it before without even wanting to."
"And it will happen again."
"What if it doesn't?" I'm trying not to cry and he finally comes to me and holds me.
"It will."
"What if it doesn't?"
"I don't care." I'm out of his arms like a shot now. "I mean I do care. I want this too, I do want it, even if I thought I'd got past wanting it, but God, Abby, not if it means losing us."
And that's it, right there. He can tell me he loves me every half hour for the rest of our lives but this, this is what he's about. He wants me and he wants me more than he wants what I thought he had before, and I know then that even if there's no baby I'll live, because there'll be us.
Oh, and we christen those sheets.
It's all in the mind. Right. Except, right. I don't know, I guess it was like flicking a switch, and three weeks later, while I was trying real hard not to look at the calendar he handed me the test and nodded toward the bathroom. Five minutes after that I'm sitting on the edge of the bath trying not to hyperventilate and saying "shit" over and over again, except this time I'm grinning like an idiot.
"Congratulations," I say, aiming for cool and hitting Kid On Christmas Morning, "you're going to be a father." I don't add "again" although it's there, between us. He shrugs, affecting nonchalance.
"I told you so" and then he's got hold of me and I'm not sure whether he's laughing or crying. I think he's laughing, and that's OK because I'm crying. After a moment we look at each other.
"I'm scared." I say.
"Me too."
"Yes?"
"I'll get over it."
"Me too?"
"You too. Of course," he continues, "I'll do the honourable thing."
"Oh, you will?"
"Sure - make an honest woman of you."
"Well, that's very kind of you."
"I know," he sighs "can't escape my upbringing."
"And I'm grateful of course."
"When?"
"Soon. No fuss, no announcements, just us, you know."
"Just us," and he laughs softly and we make the most of our pre-marital status upstairs.
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So we make a start. We make lots of starts, because every month there's a reminder that although we may have started we aren't passing the finishing post. He isn't concerned but I've seen him look at me, anxious when I check the calendar and the test in the bathroom cabinet remains unopened.
Still, we've found a house and he's working on keeping me focused on that and does the usual man thing of deferring to me on all matters of décor, except for the business with the lampshades in the bedroom where he just says no, and he makes plans for the garden which isn't big but it's big enough and hey, it's nearly spring. On the day we move in he helps me make up the bed with new sheets and he stands back and gathers up the wrapping from the new linen and throws it onto the landing, shutting the door on the mess.
"So - you want to christen them?" When I don't answer he says "Abby?"
"It's not - I mean, next week, we should - "
"We should what? Are we fucking to a schedule now?"
"Are we what?" I'm pissed because when we first decided to go for this I was all over him like a rash at every opportunity until he started to get evasive and then told me that having him ejaculate on average 6 times a day might actually be counter productive which I knew, thank you very much, although I could have lived without him saying he was starting to feel like a stud bull. I'm stunned too because Luka doesn't talk like that, at least not to me, so gee look, I guess Abby got it wrong again.
"You heard me."
"Look, you know the best chances of - "
"I know all about making babies, but the rest of the time we're making love, aren't we? Or does that not matter any more?" I say nothing and he sighs and sits down, not looking at me. "Why are we doing this?"
"Fighting?"
"No."
"You mean - I - you mean - "
"Starting a baby is what I mean."
I'm trying so hard not to actually dislike him right now because, Jesus, I knew we'd have to figure this one out but I was hoping it would come later, when it was too late to turn back, and I also know that he never sat down with Danijela and asked that question. But me, I'm the addict, see, I'm the one who didn't want kids and now I have to explain myself.
"Because it's what we both want."
"Why? What changed?"
"Everything! Everything changed. I'm sober, I'm . . . I'm . . . I like my life, Luka, I like myself, I think I'm worth sharing now, I'm - "
"You're desperate! And you're scaring me!"
"No."
"You are."
I know what he's thinking. "I know what you're thinking."
"Sure you do."
"Yeah, sure I do, asshole. Abby the addict, grab, grab, grab. Jesus, Luka, my whole life is one long frigging balancing act, you know? Live in the moment but learn to defer gratification, learn from my past but put it behind me, see things - "
"Abby."
" - from the outside and - "
"Abby, stop. I'm sorry."
"I'm not desperate, Luka, I'm impatient. You do understand the difference, do you? I'm impatient because I've wasted too much of my life already, I'm impatient because I never thought I'd want this and I do. Want, Luka, want. Not need, not crave, want. I'm allowed to want, aren't I? And I'm worried. I've spent years making sure that nothing short of the Holy Ghost could get me pregnant and now it's like a fucking bad joke! Nothing."
"Three months, Abby. It's no time at all."
"How long before Danijela conceived?" I can't believe I just said that.
"What?" He can't believe it either. For a second there I think he's going to laugh.
"How long?"
"Jesus, Abby, about 10 minutes I guess - is that what you want to hear?"
"So why not me?"
"It's too soon to talk like this, you know that."
"God, I did it before without even wanting to."
"And it will happen again."
"What if it doesn't?" I'm trying not to cry and he finally comes to me and holds me.
"It will."
"What if it doesn't?"
"I don't care." I'm out of his arms like a shot now. "I mean I do care. I want this too, I do want it, even if I thought I'd got past wanting it, but God, Abby, not if it means losing us."
And that's it, right there. He can tell me he loves me every half hour for the rest of our lives but this, this is what he's about. He wants me and he wants me more than he wants what I thought he had before, and I know then that even if there's no baby I'll live, because there'll be us.
Oh, and we christen those sheets.
It's all in the mind. Right. Except, right. I don't know, I guess it was like flicking a switch, and three weeks later, while I was trying real hard not to look at the calendar he handed me the test and nodded toward the bathroom. Five minutes after that I'm sitting on the edge of the bath trying not to hyperventilate and saying "shit" over and over again, except this time I'm grinning like an idiot.
"Congratulations," I say, aiming for cool and hitting Kid On Christmas Morning, "you're going to be a father." I don't add "again" although it's there, between us. He shrugs, affecting nonchalance.
"I told you so" and then he's got hold of me and I'm not sure whether he's laughing or crying. I think he's laughing, and that's OK because I'm crying. After a moment we look at each other.
"I'm scared." I say.
"Me too."
"Yes?"
"I'll get over it."
"Me too?"
"You too. Of course," he continues, "I'll do the honourable thing."
"Oh, you will?"
"Sure - make an honest woman of you."
"Well, that's very kind of you."
"I know," he sighs "can't escape my upbringing."
"And I'm grateful of course."
"When?"
"Soon. No fuss, no announcements, just us, you know."
"Just us," and he laughs softly and we make the most of our pre-marital status upstairs.
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