Time-travelling theoretical Tardis babies
I’m 7 weeks pregnant but, as many women can tell you, getting from here to actually having a baby is no done deal. Depending on what I’ve read, there’s between a 15% and 35% chance that this pregnancy will end in miscarriage or another complication.
And I’m not actually seven weeks pregnant, not really. The official count starts from the day 1 of your last period, whereas conception usually takes places about day 12-14, so the pregnancy clock starts ticking two weeks before you have sex. Your baby is like Doctor Who and can travel back in time.
You hear that, ladies and gentlemen? You could be pregnant with a time-travelling baby right now. Even if you haven’t had sex yet. Does that seem fair to you? I am unconvinced, to be honest.
So, allowing for the likelihood the pregnancy will not continue, and the fact that I’m barely pregnant, and I am in fact so barely pregnant I have been advised not to bother telling people for a few months, I figured that worrying about hospitals and where I would give birth was a good bit in the future. First things first and all that. Survive the first trimester nausea and enormo-boobs of doom and then worry about the birth.
I was wrong. A quick google revealed that, in Sydney anyway, obstetricians and centres book up fast. Every single forum, every advice page, was saying the same thing – book as soon as you know. So I rang my local hospital – the RPAH – to enquire about their birthing centre which has limited space. I did this early, with the pregnancy test barely drying. I did this, in fact, before I had even had a chance to tell the father. I was 5 weeks and one day pregnant.
And, according to the nice lady I spoke to, I was lucky to get a spot. “August? We’re already quite full.” She made it sound as though I had managed to squeak in by a hair as opposed to calling 3 weeks after conception, at the point where many women have no idea they are pregnant and when chemical pregnancies are very likely. I mean, what are erevyone else doing? Do they have the RPAH on speed-dial and call after they have sex? Do they call while they are having sex? Is it a case of “Oh darling, oh oh darling, oh oh CALL THE BIRTHING CENTRE I’M COMING!”.
Now, I haven’t decided I definitely want to go to the RPAH birthing centre. It has a very drug-free feel and I may decide that much like the Ramones, I wanna be sedated. I may decide to go private. I may decide to share my pain and do the entire thing as a form of interpretive theatre at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Fuck it, I may decide to go to Fiji and give birth surrounded by dolphins in the blue lagoon or some such idiocy. The world is full of terrible choices I haven’t made yet, and I’ll get to them when I am feeling slightly less like throwing up on them.
Honestly, I haven’t really thought too much about it. The theoretical baby in my uterus is less than blueberry sized at the moment and I am fighting fatigue and all-day nausea, you will have to forgive my less than total planning for something that may not happen and it if does happen will take place over 6 months in the future. I also haven’t chosen my theoretical child’s name, first school, college, marital partner and grave plot. I know, I am a bad mother-to-theoretically-be. Shoot me. Or send me some ginger biscuits and something to throw up in.