I found out I was pregnant just over a month ago. I did not believe it.
I peed on a stick.
I went to a midwife.
My boobs turned into sandbags.
The smell of barbecue gave me an olfactory orgasm.
My period was 3 months late.

The symptoms go on and I still did not believe it.

I told a few close friends and as they squealed into the phone with joy at the news I quickly said "ya but don't get to excited, 40% of pregnancies end in miscarriage so the baby is probably already dead."

Because I just could not believe it.

I was the girl who wanted to get pregnant by the age of 24. Every year that passed I would say "next year I am getting pregnant." As the decade progressed and the potential fathers cycled through I knew my life would not be complete until I was a mom.

Now, 10 years later at the ripe old age of 34 it may have actually happened and all I can think is "nope, there's been a terribly mistake".

When I was 16 I lied about being pregnant to a boyfriend so he wouldn't break up with me. It worked for about a week and then I had to fake a miscarriage. It was very dramatic. Now I find myself lying about NOT being pregnant and the irony is not lost on me.

I just keep thinking I want one more year.
To enjoy my relationship.
To travel.
To get the book done.
To sleep.

I don't want to be a mom yet.
I don't want to give up my life.
I don't want to get lost in lala land of parenting circles and daycare and what stroller to buy.
I still want to be me.

My partner says "Em, you will be birthing this child by age 35. Enough fucking around. If you want to have kids you might as well do it now. What, you think you can get rich and famous and satisfied within the year?" And he is right.

But I am still scared and sad and confused.

This thing that I wanted so badly my whole life is not really feeling how it was supposed to.

Within 2 weeks of finding out I was pregnant I have:

Ended one friendship.
Written 3 vitriolic emails so full of passionate fury I think I burned my keyboard.
Stopped talking to my father.
Started avoiding my mother.
I need to nap or else I burst into tears by 5pm.
I feel like a fat, hung over piece of shit that does not belong to herself anymore.
I do NOT want to have sex.
I DO not want to talk about it.
And if anyone dares to give me any advice on the matter I will eat your face.

I have no control.

In yoga the other day, my teacher, who I have been studying with for a solid year called me 'Emily'. At the end of class I marched straight up to this 60-year old woman. I stared at her intently. I spoke like a Russian gangster "What's. My. Name?" "It's Emelia, I'm so sorry, I slipped up." She said smiling softly as she washed cups.

"Yes" I repeated with my chin cocked like a gun and my eyes shooting bullets. "My name is E.M.E.L.I.A"

Justice served.

I knew I was in a whole other galaxy when I was lying in bed one night thinking about a 3 year old I know. "What a fucking little bitch" I thought to myself "what an entitled, spoilt little piece of shit. Oooo I want to play horsies. Oooo I want to play princesses. Fuck her!"

The next morning I ran myself and bath and came downstairs to send a quick email to a friend letting them know how they had also wronged me.

I got into it. I could not believe I had put up with this horrible treatment for so long. I could not believe I let myself be bashed around this way. It was my time to reclaim my power and speak my truth and she needed to get some serious schooling on a little song called R.E.S.P.E.C.....

And that's when I heard it.
A sheet of water pouring over my upstairs banister onto my stairs, onto the hallway floor, flooding into my kitchen and office.
THE BATH!!!!!

"Ohhhhhhhhh Nooooooooooo"

I screamed in the empty house as I ran upstairs to stop the tub. I sloshed through water that went past my ankles getting into the bathroom. I turned off the water and unplugged the drain. I grabbed all the bedding off the beds and all the sheets in the closets to sop up the kiddy pool I had made of my home. The water was still cascading over the railing like a waterfall in Hawaii. There were small waves rolling through the spare room.

I ran downstairs to assess the damage. I went into the kitchen. The lights began to flicker and then they sparked out. Water began pouring from the ceiling of the kitchen onto my head. I sunk to the ground. I did not have to cry. The roof was doing it for me. Instead two words were being repeated over and over in my head. "You're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant, you're pregnant."

It was in that moment, huddled in my dark kitchen, on the soaking wet floor, with water dripping down on me that I had no choice but to let go.

The voice said:
You cannot control this.
Stop blaming others.
Stop hurting yourself.
You are pregnant and it is not blissful, or exciting or romantic or fun.
You are scared.
You are annoyed.
You don't get to smoke pot anymore and you never did get to do that "cleanse".
This is happening.

Your life, for the rest of your life is no longer just yours and that is the hardest thing you have ever faced.
You do not feel generous.
You do not feel motherly.
You feel selfish and scared.

The anger I felt towards my friends was me trying to control my radically changing surroundings.
The hate I had for the 3 year old was because watching her get to have such freedom broke my heart.

This is not what I imagined it was going to be like.

If I am indeed what it looks like (knocked up) then- like the water pouring over my railing and onto my floor and into my living room and out onto the patio and falling down two stories until it hits the cement and soaks through till it reaches the cold earth and travels still further down, down, down into the loam until it finds a trickle of itself to join up with again...

...all I can do is get into the flow.

Hey, holy shit out there. I'm pregnant.