I was going to name him John Connor. That was not a first and middle name. John Connor was to be the first name. I would correct anyone that omitted the Connor, even if for the sake of brevity. I would correct anyone that tried to call him JC.
Long ago, while stoned and watching The Terminator, I had said,
“I ever did have a kid, and it was a boy, I would name him John Connor. So many corny jokes to be made, fuck yeah.”
“Come with me if you want to pee.”
“Come with me if you want apple sauce.”
“Come with me if you want to get your allowance.”
“Come with me if you want to borrow my car.”
“Come with me if you want me to not make a scene in front of your little friends.”
Now, did I plan to use Arnold’s voice every time? Was I going to beat that joke into submission? Was I likely going to make him abhor one of my favorite movies? Damn straight.
Why that name? I just told part of the why. And I am telling you right now that I was horrified to learn my womb invited company. I was scared. I was resentful. My life, the life that I loved despite often hating the owner of it, was over. I wanted to punch every sidekick Captain Obvious ever had when they would say,
“You are going to love this kid! You won’t regret having it. When the baby is born, you aren’t going to feel like your life is over.”
No, kidding? You think I will love my kid? This here bipolar hasn’t done broke me so bad that I will be over it in a few months, cut it up, salt it down, and grill me some baby steaks? I am so relieved. Thank you for telling me that!
I am pro-choice to the bone, I do not believe a hell waits for women who make certain choices, and I *chose* to stay pregnant. That is why I know I won’t regret having it, roger that? Just kidding! It’s you, man. Your poignant second sentence makes me confident I won’t regret having this thingy.
But here is the thing, y’all, about me feeling like my life is over – it is. *This* life is over. Of course, I will love the kid! No shit, I won’t resent the kid. I presently like my childless world. I presently resent my body for dropping the ball on my usual no-baby diligence. And I have eight months to mull over these alien changes and be fucking scared, angry, and mind-blown, okay?
Man… The things I could not say, and the things they said without listening.
My pregnancy wasn’t a typical oopsie or a romcom oopsie. I wasn’t on the fence about biological children. I had prudently applied deep thought to my unwavering no-baby stance. My life was not in a good place, and I am laughing out loud as I type that understatement. I was doing it alone. I gave my dearest the same choice I had, and he chose,
“Nope.”
I knew immediately that I was going to have a boy. No one can convince me I was wrong. I knew I was pregnant before I was late. I knew it was going to be a boy. And I knew he already had a name. Right after my confirmation tinkle on a stick, that memory said,
“Heyyy.”
When I told my family about the pregnancy, the ones that mattered said the right things. My family has since become smaller, and if you see my stepmother, tell her I will see her next Tuesday.
When I learned I was pregnant, I had just lost a baby kitty. I had put my kitten to sleep. It destroyed me. I was still grieving his death. I had three big fat other cat kids …
And there was so much other ugly stuff going on. I was …
I am bipolar, for now, enough said.
I was going to name him John Connor because those lame jokes were vital. I had to practice them, you know? I had to focus on those tacky little daydreams because I *had* to get myself in the game. The program and I had to color-coordinate on the phone before the big day.
Manners. I would love to teach a little dude some manners. I adore them and they are becoming extinct. I thought about how cute it would be to watch a tiny boy dine continental style.
He was going to hold open doors for old ladies galore while wearing a bow-tie, that’s right. I giggled at the horrible things he would wear and then cringe at in those later years when photo albums came out. The things his girlfriend or boyfriend would say … and then we would high five.
When he showed his smart mouth and said no to my request for help with dishes,
“Come with me if you want to live.”
The classic line worked in so many ways, or I could alter it. And I planned to.
These unrealistic scenarios got me through the devastation, fear, and anger. I could do it. I could do it alone like a bunch of other women do and have… It would be okay, absolutely it would. Because even if it wasn’t, I had an arsenal of hokey Terminator jokes.
My grandmother made it clear that my pregnancy was very bad news. She preferred I have an abortion. She said my aunt agreed. She told me they pitied my future baby. I hung up the phone, then cried a bit. I looked down and said,
“Come with me and you never have to meet that bitch.”
It made me laugh! See, it worked.
Mom and dad knew I was scared, so they put on their giant happy faces and exaggerated their legit happiness. It was what I needed. My step dad was happy for me, too. It was appreciated. So I tell my stepmother,
“Lip-gunk, I’ve huge news, I am pregnant. I am keeping it. I am scared to death, this is nuts, but I am going to have a baby.”
Monotone and said as if staring at a ceiling, she told me I should probably have an abortion if I was so scared. She suggested abortion three times within just a few minutes. Take note that the second thing I had said to her was that I was keeping it. And she insulted my mom by telling me it was a shame I didn’t live closer to them because she couldn’t see my mom giving enough of a shit to help.
I played that conversation over and over in my mind for a few days before looking down at the belly,
“Come with me and I’ll train you to bite that bitch on command.”
No, no. It would never get old. Not for me.
I was pregnant and I had never wanted to be, but I was going to have a baby. I didn’t have heaps of support within the family, but I had the ones that mattered. I had two amazing friends that knew how I felt and respected my feelings while being so supportive it makes me cry. Those two were of the very few who knew I already had the name. They knew the silly story behind it, but they understood why it wasn’t silly.
I cannot stress enough that I *had* to think of the fun, the positive. If I didn’t, my future seemed bleak. I wanted to be as calm and happy as possible during my pregnancy. I read how important that is.
But I felt so ill-equipped. I felt such dread. I was so depressed. So, I had to spin spin spin. The people who had told me to terminate inadvertently helped me with this. They created a defensive, protective connection between me and the blastocyst. By the time the embryo was a fetus, I was down.
And then one day I started to bleed. There were cramps. I tried to be cool. Nature would do what nature had to do… I tried to be calm.
But, no … no, no, no.
I had goddamn overcome my initial goddamn fears. I had battled my goddamn family members and my goddamn ex. I was going to have a goddamn baby and he had a goddamn name.
I put my hands flat on my belly, spread my fingers wide, and I closed my eyes. I said to my belly what I was supposed to say at least a thousand times,
“Come with me if you want to live.”
He didn’t.
thebipolarstoner 