Pregnancy is not contagious, and why I hate red lights

When you are a member of the infertility club, you've likely been the recipient of many a suggestion on how to get pregnant. While these nuggets are typically offered by a well-meaning fertile, a precious few of the tips have merit (charting ovulation, for example) but most of them... well, don't (vacations do NOT get you pregnant, for the record). And we've all heard jokes about "something being in the water" when a large number of women in a particular work place find themselves knocked up. But if there's one fact of which IFers are painfully aware, it's that pregnancy is not contagious. If it were, I would not have struggled with hormone shots and follie checks while my friends and coworkers were popping out babies right and left. But I'm getting off track. Let me start over.

Today, DH and I had plans to meet at a restaurant for lunch so that his coworkers could meet Bean. The day started off rough when Bean decided that 3:30 am was the new 7:30 am, and it was time for us to wake up. By 5 am, I was ready to call the local psych ward and request a padded room, so DH blessedly took Bean downstairs so I could get some sleep. I remember gaining momentary consciousness around 7 when DH was leaving for work, and he deposited the car seat with a sleeping Bean on the floor next to my side of the bed. (He can't remember how he accomplished this incredible feat of magic. I'm devastated!) Next I knew it was 8:30, when Bean indicated it was time for his breakfast. As I fed him, I was feeling good about getting some rest until I did the math in my head -- only two and a half hours until Bean and I had to walk out the door for the lunch! Now, the pre-Bean C would have been able to shower, get dressed, put on makeup, dry and straighten my hair, eat breakfast, run and empty the dishwasher, walk the dog, respond to emails, do two loads of laundry, pay bills, wash the car, and organize my purse before walking out the door in 2 hours and 25 minutes. But post-Bean, it's a momentous effort to get myself and the baby simply fed and wearing clean clothes in less than 3 hours.

I immediately jumped into action, not wanting to embarrass DH with a disheveled wife and baby when we met his coworkers (some were new introductions for me). Bean was not cooperating, screaming at the top of his lungs whenever I would put him down. And it's not easy to squeeze into pants while holding a squirming eight week old. My plan was to pump some milk right before we left and bring it with me, as he didn't seem hungry just then so I knew he would be during lunch. But due to the screaming-when-not-held factor, it was too difficult to get a decent pump while comforting the little guy. So I decided to top him off and hope for the best, knowing I could always feed him on the go if I really needed to. Now Bean, like most males, will never refuse a boob if offered. So hungry or not, the little man nuzzled up to the tap. But the danger with topping him off is that the extra milk has to go somewhere -- and it certainly did. I picked him up to burp him and found myself immediately covered in lovely white baby spit-up. Damn the useless burp cloth! It was hard enough to find something to wear in the first place, as I've got that fabulous tummy flab that continues to render most of my closet obsolete, and now it was back to the drawing board. Fortunately, Bean was very pleased with himself at the time and sat quietly while I changed. (Maybe he was hungry after all, who knows.)

Finally time to leave. Although he was smiling when we walked out of the house, Bean decided he was furious about something on the drive to the restaurant (someone else doesn't appreciate my CD collection, I guess), and he commenced screaming. He was so fervent in his cries that I had to keep looking back to make sure no one had jumped in the car and cut off his arm while I was driving. Making it all the more unbearable, he was further incensed when the car had to slow and stop... meaning we hit every single red light as we crawled along the valley. *sigh* But we finally arrived, and as soon as I sat down in the lobby area and could pick him up again, he was calm and cute (remaining so throughout the lunch, thank goodness).

Soon joining us was DH and six of his coworkers -- all men. Now sure, DH works in a male dominated field. But he does have some female coworkers, one of whom I was particularly looking forward to seeing again. I asked where she was, and DH said that she decided not to come. He theorized that she was avoiding the baby, because she'd recently mentioned a fear of getting pregnant and thus incurring daycare costs while she and her DH are in the process of buying an expensive house. So between her and the wife of his other coworker (the one who is not ready for kids -- and exclaimed with displeasure upon learning of the coworker's offer to babysit Bean), there is apparently a misconception out there about conception. Repeat after me: pregnancy is not contagious!

Perhaps feeling insulted , Bean's good mood melted away at the end of lunch, and he cried on the ride home. But luckily the afternoon improved from there. I put Bean in a fresh diaper and sleeper, and we cuddled up together to watch the movie 27 Dresses. We both love love loved it! We laughed (okay, Bean was chuckling in his sleep) and we cried (okay, only Bean cried, and it was gas). The best part was that the movie ended just in time for me to grab the baby and dog and race down the street to hand the envelope to the mailman. That means my next movie will be arriving on Saturday. I'm hoping for The Golden Compass, but Netflix says there's a short wait for it, so it will probably be Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. I know, surprisingly there's no wait on that one. Meanwhile, we still have a second movie at home to watch -- Jabberwocky. I'm trying to race through our movie list before we are limited to flicks that are either animated (and I'm not talking The Simpsons Movie) or involve four effeminate men dancing around a stage wearing bright primary colors. Maybe this infant stage isn't all bad.