I’d already started calling it Baby Whoops. I had a feeling this month that I might be pregnant. I just knew it. The symptoms crept up slowly, surely, and manifested themselves so strongly I couldn’t ignore them, as much as I wanted to. There’s no guessing, I suppose, when you’ve been through this twice already. You just know. But I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to be pregnant. I was reveling in my not-pregnant state, my not-nursing state: the one where I could have that wine with dinner if I wanted, and I got to sleep through the night (well, mostly, anyway, and if “through the night” means till 6:30). I could leave the house for more than two hours at a time by myself without worrying about pumping or breastfeeding or that strange hormonal/physical tug that lassoes a mom to her infant in those months after birth. People would ask if we’re having a third (people are nosy, by the way. Not friends. Friends can ask, of course. But strangers asking if we’re going to…
