I break my pregnancy up into two parts: it started in Seattle, but we were living in Phoenix and remained there until I was about five months along. For the second half, we moved to Shoreline, which is just north of Seattle.

I got knocked up on New Year’s Eve, 1999. Yes, that is how I party like it’s 1999. Mr. Husband’s parents did something totally ridiculous for 500 of their closest friends: they rented the Seattle Asian Art Museum for a party. I had been jogging for about six months at that point and looked pretty good, so I bought myself a very cheap floor-length, velvety-cranberry gown at Ross Dress for Less. Now that I can fit into it again, I sometimes sit around in it while I’m typing on the computer or feeding the chickens.

I wish I had myself for a neighbor, instead of the squares I do have. I also wish I had an editor. Moving on!

I didn’t start drinking the champagne until eleven or so, because I always drink champagne very very fast. So by the time the fireworks popped over the Space Needle, I was pretty lit. I remember mooching many British cigarettes off of Mr. Husband’s friend who was there, and also giving him a chaste kiss at midnight, since his girl had been recently left back in England. I went to the bathroom and found that most of my lipstick had migrated to the left side of my face, because I hadn’t yet discovered that lipstick that is like house paint and doesn’t go motherfucking anywhere until you sandblast it off.

I wonder what it’s like to live in a country that has the word “gland” in it? I know people emphasize the “Eng” part, but I think I am going to start saying “En-Gland.” That will show those…people from the only country who is still talking to us.

Mr. Husband, his friend, and I ended up at the Canterbury, having an impromptu “afterparty.” We tossed back a couple more drinks and said goodbye to the friend and went back to the bed-and-breakfast we were staying in. And you know you have to get your hump on New Year’s Eve. That’s one great thing about being married, right? You always have a date.

I feel like things happened pretty fast. It was normal, happy married-couple sex. I got up though, and something felt off-kilter, right away. Everything was all sparkly for a minute, like when you stand up too fast, but different. I just knew, right away. I have heard of this happening, but I didn’t read about it until later, when I was frantically researching the pregnancy deal.

What I did next was stop thinking about it. It was the middle of my junior year of college, and we were young(er). I was gleefully childless, to the point of being one of those dirty-looks bastards and leaving restaurants with too many kids in them. I had my little cat-babies and was downright phobic about little kids. Plus, with my upbringing, I just assumed if I had any children I’d be smacking them across the room every day. I just wasn’t a very nice person, then, at all.

Five weeks later, Mr. Husband found me on the floor when he came home from work. I was asleep on my back, with my leg still corked up in that hurdle-jumping stretch with my jogging shoes on and everything. He woke me up. “Are we still going running tonight?” he asked, presumably without much hope. I said, “Mmm,” and rolled over. Sweet, comfy carpet.

I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Aunt Flo for weeks, and was taking random naps in comfortable places such as in my desk at school and standing up in the shower. I was being pretty good, at that time. I had had one cuba libre one night when we were playing cards, and one cigarette when I had a January yard sale (January is yard sale season in Phoenix). Apparently, I did not have a drink on the day that the mutations can happen or whatever, because my Frannie does not look at all like a Fiji mermaid.

I did not come fully out of denial about my situation until early February.