- Are we 100% sure that's a baby? Maybe it's just a burrito that's taking a while.
- Should I get a flu vaccine?
- Is a 1 in 400 chance of Downs something to worry about? Should I get an amnio (which increases the risk of miscarriage)?
- Do we need to bank the cord blood?
- My agent wants new headshots (again). Can I dye my hair?
- Will I stop breaking out like a 15-year-old boy at some point?
- Is the baby going to necessarily die if I deliver it at home?
- If so, do you know a doctor who will deliver it in a hospital for, like, $500? Under the table. (Not delivering the baby under the table, of course. Unless that's how she does it or whatever)
- Does this pregnancy make me look fat?
- You say my likely date of conception is August 11th. You also say I'm at 17 weeks and 4 days. You also say my estimated due date is May 4th. Can you explain the math to me one more time?
Now, I'm no math whiz. Anyone who has suffered through me trying to figure out a tip without a calculator will tell you I should stick to show business (It's a curse). But walk with me for a minute.
10 and a half weeks prior to October 9th is, in fact the end of July... Further, October 9th to the first week in May is 39 weeks, not 40.
This isn't the world's most important issue in the universe, I know. Who cares, right? As long as the baby is healthy and yadda yadda. But, it's... annoying. Math is math, right? It's not a subjective science. August 11th to October 9th, now matter which way you count it is 8 weeks and 3 days. Is this, like, a thing they do for laughs? "I know! Let's totally tell her she's 2 weeks farther along than she is, that way when she goes into labor she totally isn't expecting it! Ha ha ha." Are they using the metric system?
You and your honey go to Liza at the Hollywood Bowl on August 11th. You have a bottle of wine and a bucket of expensive fried chicken. You sit next to a gaggle of happy gays who share their perfectly chilled Chardonnay with you while you all wait for the sound system problem to get solved and giggle (a giggling gaggle, if you will) at Liza when she announces over the P.A. "I'm SHO shorry, you guyszh! There's shomething wrong with the shound shyshtem! I shwear! They're trying to fixsh it!" You do your best impression of Judy Garland at Boston Pops, "They said I was drunk! But it was FOOD POISONING!" much to the delight of the boys all around. After the concert, you drive up the 2 into the mountains to watch the Perseid meteor shower which is kind of a bust because there's nowhere to go anymore where the God damned lights of McDonalds and Walmart aren't bleeding into the sky and drowning out the stars. The next morning you're really hungover and you just want to stay in bed, but you have tickets to see a matinee of your friend's show and it's your last opportunity to see it, so you drag yourself into the shower and get dressed, but halfway through your boyfriend walks in, finding you in a slip with a towel on your head and he gets overcome with manly hormones and decides he needs you right then. Your head is pounding, but you consent. You lie there, reading the spines of the books on the bookshelf by the bed, A Walk in the Woods, The Rum Diary, The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich, while he gets done what he needs to get done. (Later you find out that afterward he thought, casually to himself, "I wonder if I got her pregnant." Ha ha ha. He's so funny.).
That night, you go back on your birth control pill after a 6 month hiatus, a week later than you were supposed to because you just forgot to start it last week...
Also, for the first time in your life, you started tracking the first day of your period each month because back in April you ended up on the bathroom floor, barfing and screaming for 2 hours from cramps so bad you thought you were going to end up on an episode of "I Was Pregnant and Didn't Know It!" (And no, the irony is not lost on you...). So, you just want to keep an eye on when you might expect to be in that kind of pain each month from now on/take handfuls of Vicodin leading up to the big day. You don't bother to use this information to take extra precaution during fun, sexy times because, as has been established, you're not very bright. So, you just HAPPEN to know your last period was at the end of July, making the weekend of August 11th prime baby-making time.
And now I'm exhausted and I still want to know how they get 17 weeks when I get 15.
Maybe I'm having a super baby who just happens to be growing 2 weeks faster than normal. Oh my God, what if I'm having one of those babies like Robin Williams in that movie where he becomes Robin Williams by 4th grade? What if I'm having Benjamin Button????
I know what some of you are thinking: I shouldn't say these things out loud. It's bad luck. But I'm not saying them, I'm writing them. And don't worry, I'll be burning my computer just after I write this, so it's okay. Also, I don't believe in luck.
When I have these thoughts I do my best to breathe and envision a healthy baby playing in a sandbox (is that still a thing?), clutching my fingers, throwing spaghetti all over the place, draining my bank account...
These are the things that go through a pregnant lady's head. Or at least this pregnant lady's head. And I know I can't be the only one. We might as well come out and say it rather than tear our collective hairs out in private. Right? Right?! RIGHT????!!!!!! (Someone hold me)
Incidentally, tomorrow will be our first opportunity to find out if Krumholtz has a penis or a vagina. At first I was sure I didn't want to know. As my father says, it's one of the last great mysteries in life, except, of course, that it really isn't anymore. But I know what I think it is and I know what I kind of want it to be, and while I know I'll be thrilled with whatever it is regardless of it's genitalia, I'm worried that if it isn't what I think it is, I'll be disappointed or something. Or just like, "Oh.... No, no! That's great. That's totally fine. You know, whatever." So, maybe I do want to know.
Everyone is telling me, "It's better to know so you can plan." Plan what? I'm not getting a bunch of pink clothes and ribbons and bows and shit. What if it's a boy and everyone gets him stuff with baseballs and crap on it and later he grows up and resents us for trying to make him fit a gender stereotype? I mean, he's going to resent us, anyway, but shouldn't we do what we can to minimize that?
In all honesty, I'm hoping Krumholtz is laying in a position in which his or her junk can't be seen quite yet so I have some more time to decide if I want to know.
Then again, given that we already know it's a super baby, maybe it'll be holding a sign that says, "Hey, assholes! Joke's on you. I'm a girl! And I LOOOOOOOOVE ribbons and bows and shit."