Tomorrow is my first obstetrician appointment. If I remember from 10 years ago, I will sit in a waiting room for forty-five minutes and then spend 10 minutes in a room with a desk talking to a nursing student named Tiffany about what to expect and how to take my vitamins. Oddly enough, I would prefer an introductory pelvic exam from the doctor I'm going to be charged for seeing anyway.
It occurred to me today that when this child goes off to college Tom and I will be, respectively, 58 and 50. Midlife crisis time. Tom will want to leave me for an eighteen year old woman. This means that I could conceivably walk into the doctor's office tomorrow and sit down next to my husband's future mother-in-law. If Tom, like more and more men before him, decides to leave his ageing wife for a woman the age of his own child, there is a women somewhere right now pregnant with my replacement. I will never be able to look at other women in the diaper aisle the same way again.
Oh look, I'm carrying his baby and I'm already hating my gestational replacement. Are there no limits to the depth of my insecurity?
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