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“And I’m fine.” Adjusting the comic book in my lap occurs between statements. “The only thing I need right now is a little bit of space.”
Which is the same fucking thing I’ve needed for the past ten days and still not been lucky to receive.
Sex either.
It just became a “doctor approved” activity after my gyno visit yesterday.
Unlike swimming.
And heavy lifting.
And drinking coffee.
I can’t even have fucking coffee in the morning!
A suggestion was made about ginger lemon tea, and I may have Klingoned out.
Mom lifts both hands in a surrendering nature prior to bowing her head. “I’ll return to work then. You know how to use the intercom if you need me.”
She swiftly shuffles out of the room, but unfortunately for me, her exit becomes Wes’s entrance. “Need anything?”
“To find out what happens next in Batman: Year Two.” The turning of the page is dramatically done. “Particularly in peace.”
“It gets darker,” Wes absentmindedly announces at the same time he parks himself on the arm of the couch at the opposite end and continues to text. “And is not technically considered part of the canon in which Year One came from.” Rather than look up, he lets his fingers fly across the screen while he continues to ramble, “Still an excellent read.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I sassily snip. “No one will give me five minutes alone to read it.”
Finally, my fiancé meets my gaze. “Problem?”
“With what?” Sarcastically folding my hands in my lap is executed. “Having Hamilton hover? Or Clark? Or Mom? Or J.T.? Or you?” The angling of my head is done for additional emphasis. “Or having to be supervised when hanging out with Calen? Or Vanessa?” I let my shoulders bounce. “Or the fact I’m on admin duty, which is just mindless amounts of paperwork and reading research notes, rather than being hands on with the creatures in our care? Or having to write Steven’s diary notes for his transfer but not getting to see him and feed him? Or not knowing when I get to return to the water? Or if I’ll get to return?”
Wes’s mouth begins to lower in spite of the fact I’m not done.
“Or are you asking me do I have problem with the fact regardless of me getting the approval from my licensed physician about attending the annual Red, White, and Blue event where Evie is already planning for us to officially announce our pregnancy as ‘Red, White, and Due’ that you still want us to cancel once more leaving me trapped in this castle like Belle before the village people stormed the gates to try to prison break her out?”
Responding to me isn’t done due to him answering his phone. “Wilcox.”
It’s like getting pregnant is a literal crime with my sentence to be served out in the world’s nicest brig.
I mean am I excited about being pregnant?
No.
The mood swings, the tender tits, the food aversions and the prenatal meds are all not big sellers of the experience.
Not to mention the seemingly ceaseless fight to keep my position in the R&R department in which I keep having to remind my boss that while I may not be able to dive, I am able to ship assess.
Tend to creatures on the spot.
Identify their breed and species and whether they’re on the endangered list or not.
However, being pregnant – even barely pregnant – is not a liability The Institute wants to take; therefore, my hours are becoming more limited.
My tasks more restricted.
My purpose more narrowed.
Part of me believes that if it weren’t for my husband’s company – soon to be our company – signing the biggest donation checks, I wouldn’t even have a job anymore.
