Getting Preggas Read online

  Getting PREGGAS

  Copyright © 2016 by Charmaine Ross

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published in Australia

  First Published 2016

  www.charmaineross.com

  web: www.charmaineross.com

  twitter https://twitter.com/CharmaineRossAu

  Facebook https://www.facebook.com/charmaine.ross.01

  About the author

  Charmaine’s first foray into romance was as a fourteen year old where she fell hopelessly and eternally in love with her hero as only a teenager can. Instead of watching movies and staying up late, she would go to bed at eight thirty and continue her very romantic, very safe, love affair.

  Since then, she has fallen in love with many heroes, some less safe than what her teenage brain could possibly imagine. After earning a Fine Art’s Degree, a Diploma of Secondary Education and a Diploma of Marketing, she worked as a Graphic Designer in various advertising agencies and as well as in-house marketing roles and is currently involved with digital marketing and everything web in her current position. But she always returns to writing.

  Although she has travelled, she always returns to her home town of Melbourne and lives with her husband, two children and two cats in the ferny-greens of the Dandenongs. If she’s not working on her latest romance and falling in love with yet another hero, you’ll find her reading, watching and basically indulging in her addiction to any story on any media type she can get her fingers on.

  You can find information about her latest releases as well as excerpts on all of her published books here: www.charmaineross.com

  Getting Preggas

  Andy and I have been trying to have a baby going on two years now. At first, we didn’t really notice the months slip past. We thought it was just taking us a little longer than normal to conceive. Then we noticed the increase of baby showers, baptisms, naming days, christenings. Even first birthday parties. Our friends would only speak of breastfeeding issues, nappies, vomit, various bodily functions and sleep deprivation.

  We weren’t even pregnant yet for me to start complaining about back pain, stretch marks and morning sickness. We were exiled to the ‘Outer Circle’, relegated to listening to conversations we couldn’t take part in because we had no idea what our friends were on about.

  There wasn’t even a hint of a phantom pregnancy. Other women tumbled into the esteemed state of pregnancy without difficulty, ditching birth control for only one or two cycles before creating new life. My friend Susan only had to iron her husband’s shorts before she became pregnant.

  Our Children-Gifted Friends — CGF’s — began looking upon us with pity. Their eyes would scream, ‘You too can be as happy as we are with our beautiful bundles of dribble and joy. Keep trying. It will happen.’

  They wore their babies like accessories, packed into slings and pouches, or propped in space-age strollers while they strode along the footpaths in an array of the latest fashion colors, matching shoes and nappy bags. Didn’t you know that babies are the new Prada, dah-link!

  In my frustration I would imagine the CGF’s standing by our bedside coaching us, ‘A little more to the left. No. The right. Quickly now, her temperature is peaking, she’ll be ovulating in three point oh seconds. The stars are aligned, an eclipse is due at four thirty in the morning. One more thrust. That’s it! Good on you, we’ll be expecting a new arrival in approximately nine months, will we?’

  The team would then high-five each other and pat each other on the back. Meanwhile the men would slip out into the kitchen for a beer and the women would help me keep my legs in the air so the wrigglers would reach their target.

  Reality wasn’t much better.

  CGF’s regaled us with tales of how they achieved their screaming successes, or stories about people I didn’t know who became pregnant with twins, or triplets. In fact, it seemed to be done with apparent ease.

  ‘It just takes time,’ they would tell me. ‘Be patient. It will happen when it happens. Don’t stress. Go see my doctor. He helped me!’ Easy for them to say when they’re the ones cuddling their cute little bundles and I’m there treating the cat like a baby.

  Susan and Frank come regularly to our house with their daughter Penny who can now walk and grab things. Susan always reminds me that, ‘It took us barely three months to fall pregnant with little Penny.’

  Andy and I stare across the room at cute little Penny trying to separate the cat from its tail.

  ‘Isn’t she just sooooooo cute? She likes to find out how things work. Very intelligent for her age. You’ll know all about it when you have your own.’

  If I could have swiped the knowledgeable wink from her face I would have. I wanted to tell her that when I give birth to the next Einstein, my child might want to rip little Penny’s ponytail off her head. How’d that be for cute? Instead I picked up Fluffy and tossed him out the back door. He was nothing but a streak of white fur up and over the back fence in two seconds flat.

  I knew Susan was trying to make me feel better. She was my friend and I was being super-touchy. She would be as supportive as she could in between crying babies, snotty noses, bumps, scrapes, falls and sending kids to kinder. Then it would be school, college, university. And we would still be trying for our first.

  Every time we visited them it was a lesson in devastation. Events deteriorated further when Susan gave birth to her second. I gave her the beautiful blue wrapped gift, something I took all day to choose, while she cuddled the warm body of her little baby. My fingers itched to cuddle him, to walk down the hallway and into my car, take him home and just be with him. To see him yawn, just look into his eyes, hear his sounds, feel his warmth, to absorb his tiny living force — a whole person in such a small, gorgeous bundle.

  She didn’t seem to notice my anxiety. Well, why would she when she had the perfect pigeon pair?

  With each passing month I became more and more desperate. The desperation drove us to yet another doctor, a Collins Street Specialist — CSS — Dr Braeduke. He had a reputation; for his patients, it was not a question of — dare I say the ‘i’ word — infertility, but when they became pregnant. He discussed what’s stopping us; low motility, incompatible cycles, lazy ovaries, backward swimming wrigglers (and really would I want a child conceived out of those?). When we worked all that out, we would have the ultimate happy ending, not just the happy ending Andy enjoyed most nights.

  In our first visit, a nurse led Andy to a private cubicle. With the help of Penthouse he filled a small plastic vial. Tests confirmed that everything was normal. Some of the spermatozoa were swimming in circles, but the doctor assured us that it was a normal phenomenon.

  Then it was my turn and that was a little more complicated than being led to a cubicle and watching a porno. That would have been half-way enjoyable. Dr Braeduke poked and prodded my most private parts with what resembled medieval utensils, cold as the ice-age, and found spots I didn’t know I even had. Naked legs held high in stirrups and a spotlight leading the way.

  If the results weren’t so damned conclusive it might have been bearable, something to forget and forge ahead with a babyless life. Instead, Dr Braeduke told me that everything was fine. The tests proved there was nothing wrong inside; egg count typical, hormone level normal. All ready and waiting for my welcoming uterus.

  Home again and we kept on trying.

  Months passed.

  Nothing happened and I was at my limit.

  ‘I hate this waiting room.’ I fidgeted with the magazine that had a special feature on a beautiful hotel right in the middle of
the Dandenongs.

  Andy placed his hand over mine, stilling my nail-bitten fingers, ‘It’ll be alright. We’re not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Of course we’re not. You have to be chronically stupid if you couldn’t put tab A into slot B.’

  Andy waggled his brows, ‘I love it when you talk dirty. I didn’t need that Penthouse when I first came in. All they had to do is ask you to read Ikea instructions and they’d have all the vials filled they wanted.’

  He forced a chuckle out of me, smoothly diffusing my tension. I flopped the magazine back onto the pile, determined not to look at the lady sitting opposite me with the huge, round belly.

  Andy eyed the stack of magazines.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, there’s only Woman’s Day in here.’

  ‘Can you find a Take 5? That’ll get me randy.’

  I found one and handed it to him. ‘If this’ll help you generate some super-charged sperm, I’ll get you a yearly subscription.’

  We were called into the doctor’s room before he could answer. As we sat down, I said, ‘We’re not normal, doctor. It shouldn’t be taking so long. Is there anything else we should be trying to do?’

  Dr Braeduke steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, staring at us over thick black-framed spectacles. I waited, holding my breath for the words of esteemed knowledge I was sure would come.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No? What do you mean, no? We’re doing everything we can. Surely you can see that!’ Andy tugged on my arm. I hadn’t realized I’d started to stand. I settled back into the chair. If Dr Braeduke was surprised, he didn’t show it. Maybe looking at hundreds of vaginas did that to a man.

  ‘I think you’re trying too hard. There’s only so much sperm Andy’s body can generate,’ he said. ‘Stress can play a big factor with conception.’

  ‘You mean that because Andy’s living every man’s dream, I’m not falling pregnant!’ My palm itched to hit him over the head — both of the ‘hims’ in the room. I had to admit, I’d gotten Andy naked, ready and willing every day. Sometimes twice. It was just exhausting!

  ‘I’m suggesting that you could try abstinence.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s taking things a bit too far!’ I glanced at Andy, not feeling even a twinge of empathy at the look of devastation on his face.

  I snapped my fingers, liking Dr Breaduke’s idea, ‘That could be it. Maybe we just need a change of surroundings. A romantic setting. Candlelight. Champagne. Dinner. Roses. Chocolates. A flock of doves. Moonlight on the water. Maybe even a massage.’ I settled back into the chair, already dreaming of this perfect night that would precede new life.

  The doctor nodded, ‘Go somewhere special and relax.’

  I turned to Andy, grasping the hand now clawed around the ends of the arm-rest, ‘The Tavern. I saw it in the Country Living Magazine I was reading just before. That’s where we’re going to go. It’s fate! Thank you, doctor. I think that’s just what we need. Abstinence. And a romantic weekend away. Mind if I tear out the pages?’

  I showed Andy the glossy pictures as I plonked down in the reception room to ring on my mobile. No time like the present to organize my future. My heart raced with excitement as I pored over the images. The outside of The Tavern was a beautiful Art-Deco building, recently restored to its former beauty; luxurious gardens, tree-ferns that reached into the sky, tennis courts, indoor pool, a delicious restaurant, a day spa, magnificent rooms restored in keeping with the style of the original times.

  I found the number and with shaking hands, rang. ‘Hi.’ I gushed, ‘I want to book a room, as soon as possible. I can’t wait, I mean, we both can’t wait. I saw your hotel in a magazine. It’s beautiful. Anyway, this is going to be our special place, if you know what I mean. We’re going to have a baby!’ I was breathless with excitement as I looked at Andy.

  ‘Sure, that sound great,’ came the cautious reply, ‘When would you like a room?’

  ‘As soon as possible. I want to book one, no two, no … three nights. Yeah, three nights. That’d be perfect.’ It’d be expensive, but I didn’t care. It was worth it.

  ‘Sara, slow down,’ Andy said, but I turned away. Didn’t he know how urgent this was?

  ‘I have three nights available in four weeks.’

  ‘Four weeks!’ I sunk into a chair, watching Andy’s horrified expression. ‘I was hoping to come this weekend.’ That was four days away. Surely four days of abstinence would be enough. Besides, I was ovulating right now! This was prime getting preggas time. There was only a small window for our lovemaking to actually be productive.

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re fully booked until then. It was the magazine article you see …’ the lady at the end of the line explained.

  Okay brain. Think. Think! In four weeks, I’ll be ovulating again. And Andy will have had time to build his sperm bank way up. Four weeks was a long time, especially given my mounting anxiety, but it might just work for us after all.

  ‘Right. I’ll take it.’ I hung up after arranging the date and time.

  ‘Four weeks. That’s a long time, Sara.’ Andy hitched his thumbs into the waist of his jeans looking as desolate as I felt.

  But I sat up straight, threw the phone into my bag and stood, resolute. ‘It’s a bit longer than I expected, but if that’s what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do. That’s heaps of time to build up … what you have to build up down there. There will be no handy-panky. There will be no manual release. There will be no Penthouse, Woman’s Day or Take 5. You will keep everything you have in there until the time comes and that’s just how it’s going to be. I want an explosion. I want hundreds of thousands of millions of sperm. I want a baby!’

  I didn’t think it would be so hard. Not really. Neither did Andy. Or his man paraphernalia.

  But it was hard.

  And so was Andy.

  A part of me was sorry for him. He went from on-tap hanky-panky every day down to nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I felt sorry for myself too. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I cleaned out my clothes cupboards, the linen cupboard, my Tupperware cupboard and scrubbed the house from ceiling to floor. I repainted the back room. I put the old couches on Ebay and updated furniture. I even arranged my cooking spices in alphabetical order and placed them label to the front in a specially designed rack.

  I created obstacles to deter Andy. Off went the little black panties. On came the comfy granny, flesh colored cotton tails built for warmth and not shape. Off came the short skirts and designer jeans. On came the trakky daks, baggy windcheaters, beanies and mountain socks.

  I changed my deodorant from ‘Summer Mist’ to ‘Daily Grind.’ I even washed my hair every third day for that ‘Don’t Come and Get Me Look.’ I did everything possible to repel instead of attract.

  I cut out pictures of babies from parenting magazines and stuck them to the fridge to keep our minds focused. Innocent little eyes, cute little rosebud lips and dimpled butt cheeks took over the entire front of the door. They started to migrate to our bathroom mirror. I cut out a picture of the cutest baby I could find and stuck it in a frame next to the bed so I could see its smile when I woke in the morning.

  I was colour-coordinating my closet when a pair of hands wrapped around my waist. One hand cupped a breast, the other dipped south. I leaned back against Andy’s solid chest delighting in the trail of hot kisses he pressed to my neck, when reason managed to cut through the fog of my mind, ‘Andy, No!’

  He was dressed in nothing but jocks. The black pair I liked him in. I mentally licked my lips at the sight of his hard pecks and slim waist. Working excess energy off at the gym was paying off, ‘C’mon, Sara. Just a little cuddle. A kiss. I promise I’ll stop when I have to.’

  I glanced downstairs and winced, ‘Andy, there’s no stopping that.’

  ‘A man can only take so much,’ he said, trying to wind his arms around me.

  I batted him off, ‘A man has to concentrate on building his bits up. I want an MSB or t
he weekend’s off and we’ll have to wait all over again.’

  He quirked a brow, ‘MSB?’

  ‘You know, Massive Sperm Buildup. If we do it now, that won’t happen.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, Sara. I have MSB already. If we do it now, you might be pregnant in three point two seconds.’

  It was a temptation, I admit. Just one look at how ready he was had me wilting on the inside. But then I caught a glance at the cute little baby pictures I’d stuck to the inside of our wardrobe. Then to the hairy spider crawling over a corner of them. My dithering in the wardrobe must have disturbed it.

  I shuddered, picked up a discarded shirt off the floor and flickered it at the spider. The edge of the shirt came away, leaving squashed innards over my wall. I balled the shirt and tossed it out of the small room, ‘Oh, I hate those things.’ I shook off an internal convulsion. If spider guts didn’t kill Andy’s amorous intentions, I didn’t know what would. That was an idea. I pointed to the thick globules of I-didn’t-know-what stuck to the wall, ‘Look, spider guts.’

  He came at me again with pursed lips. ‘I don’t care about the spider guts. I want you, Sara.’

  Damn. It didn’t work, although it had dampened my libido. ‘We can’t stop our abstinence now. We’re already half way there.’

  ‘Please, Sara. I … I’m in pain.’

  I took a steeling breath. ‘This is too important. The doctor said to abstain and that’s what we’re going to do. No pain, no gain. I want that baby in my arms in nine months and two weeks and that’s all there is to it.’ I heard him whimper as I walked away but nothing was going to stop me. I was on a mission.

  After that, Andy held up. Well, sort of. The strain was beginning to show. He began spending time under long cold showers. We started to avoid each other. After a week we didn’t even give each other a hug, or a simple peck on the cheek. Even though we were living in the same house, we were apart. All affection gone in case we wouldn’t stop ourselves from a sexual frenzy.