And now I'm sitting alone in New York New York, tucking into some Wild Mushroom with Sausage Baked Rice dish and typing this while waiting for Wen to finish her Art class.
Usually, my Monday evenings are spent huffing and puffing to the pumped-up music at my weekly Amore aerobics class. That's a routine I've faithfully kept to since December last year in a desperate attempt to live healthier lifestyle. But I cancelled my class today because I'm not quite sure if jumping around, doing squats, tummy crunches and lifting light weights will destablise my aging womb. I don't want to take any risks this time, having suffered two miscarriages last year.
Yes, I got a positive on the home pregnancy test kit. Two clear blue lines:
But I am paranoid. Extremely paranoid.
After Bonus and Lost, I wasn't sure if I wanted to conceive again. I mourned for the babies I couldn't carry and cuddle. And now that I've succeeded in getting pregnant, my next worry is whether I'll be able to carry this little one all the way to full term.
Plus, being close to 40 puts me in a high(er) risk category compared to 12 years ago when I became pregnant with Xian.
This constant worrying is getting me nowhere. My hub, the usual brick whom he is, assured me that he'd be there no matter what's the outcome. I told him not to whoop for joy too early because the last two losses have placed me on the defensive and I am preparing myself for the worse.
We haven't talked about it much simply because we don't want to raise each other's hopes knowing that the odds are stacked against us.
And we really shouldn't be greedy because we've three beautiful girls already, and they've brought us great joy despite the usual bouts of growing pains which we're beginning to experience as Xian slowly transforms into a teenager.
It's a wait-and-see game. Fingers crossed.
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