I did not know that I was pregnant with my first son. It was five months before we finally got confirmation (I have hyperthyroidism). During that first five months, I was living the life of an unconstrained college student, partying off years of repression. I worked at a bar and drank enough each night so I couldn't stand up. I was doing key-bumps in the back room and smoking all sorts of things when I'd get home at night. I went to school and played my usual "studious good-girl" part during the day. Most of my classmates never knew.
As I said, it took five months of pregnancy before I even knew. That is five months of breaking all of the rules, doing EVERYTHING they tell you not to. It was another month and a half before I got off the coke. I never was able to give up cigarettes. In mid-June I gave birth to my son. He was perfect. His only medical condition (a rare heart condition) had nothing to do with my behavior. I was blessed. I beat the odds and as a result, my little guy is sitting next to me watching Cars while I write.
When I found out I was pregnant with my second son, I knew about as soon as it happened. I took my prenatal vitamins (something I never did with my first), cut-back on the caffeine, never drank, didn't smoke. I lost him at seventeen weeks. His cord that was suppose to give life to him, took his life away.
I'm not sure what my point is. I guess my current thought is that I used up all of my luck with my first one. Maybe if you only make a couple mistakes with each pregnancy, you'll bring home a healthy baby each time. If you use up all of your mistakes in the beginning, you cannot make anymore with other pregnancies. I don't know. I guess I'm just rambling in words and thoughts.
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