Grandparents

My 'adoptive' parents are visiting from their new home in Idaho. They've been Mom and Dad since shortly after The Oldest was born, in a comfortable progression that went from Aunt L and Uncle J to Grammy and Grandpa. It wasn't long before they were including me in their batch of kids and my daughter in their batch of grand kids. And I really want to tell them the news but I don't. For one thing, the kids are at the table and I can't think of a discreet way to say it that the kids won't understand. We're in a crowded noisy restaurant for another. And it's a whole group people there besides Mom and Dad. And I'm still bleeding. Why tell them this news if I'm only going to have to tell them different news later? To the inquiries as to why I am not working, I have replied in an almost truth. I am off work right now until I can get my blood pressure under control. That is the truth, but it is not the whole truth. There is that matter of a small stroke I had the previous November. Coupled with that and my giant calves and thighs and the lie is plausible. I just can't put myself through that awful experience again of telling everyone that our baby has died. And since I am still bleeding, it is just better to wait. The pregnancy can be my secret for a little longer. At least until I am more sure about the pregnancy surviving to become The Newest.

Not telling the whole truth is sometimes different than outright lying. Like I did with the kids recently. The Littles came into my bedroom. The Oldest says in a very mature fashion, "Are you having another child?" I divert my glance and continue dusting my room. And I lie. "Honey, Mommy and Daddy are too old to be having babies." And it's true. We are too old! The Youngest is no longer interested and goes off to play with his toys. The Oldest is still not convinced. She says that the bottle of vitamins I take every day has the word PREGNANT on it.

Okay...think fast. Send a silent plea to all the pathological liars that my bloodline has been graced with. I go get the bottle of vitamins and the bottle of Methyldopa. I explain that the BP medicine depletes a vital element that women need, and that vital element can only be found in prenatal vitamins. I even show her the tiny print that says how much folate is in the prenatal vitamins. And I lie through my teeth again. "Honey, Mommy is 44 years old. That's too old to be having babies." She is satisfied with this answer and I send a silent vow to eat something chocolate and decadent in homage and thanks to The Pathological Liars. The oldest leaves to go play and I breath easier. Dodged the bullet for now.

I really did want to tell The Littles. I wanted them to be excited and to feel their excitement. I wanted their excitement to infect me and replace this awful feeling of dread, of always holding my breath. I wanted to feel happy. With The Dear Daddy still not willing to talk about anything, I really don't want The Littles bombarding him with talk of another baby. A baby who might not live. There was a very good reason we hadn't told The Littles about Hannah. Yes, better to wait.