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Perhaps labeling her as such in my contacts is too much, but that’s exactly what she is to me. I never believed in fairy tales, began to doubt that I’d get my happily ever after, yet that’s what Zoe is.
Me: What’s wrong?
Fairy Tale: Morning sickness. My shoes don’t match. I’m craving food I don’t have. I’m an adult and I’m whining. Take your pick.
We’ve talked, in some form, every day since we met. The most common is by text. It’s allowing us the chance to get to know each other without the added pressure of being face to face or speaking on the phone.
There’s a freedom in typing as it provides a bit of a barrier to hide behind. Our vulnerabilities, our feelings, can be shared easier.
I’m trying to temper my need to go all in, ask her to move in with me, marry me, and let us be an official family. I say official because, in my heart, we already are one.
I don’t want to come on too strong, though, so for now, I’m showing Zoe that I want to be her friend. Yes, we’re having a baby together, making us connected for the rest of our lives, but that’s not all this is.
She’s more than the woman that was accidentally given my sample. If it had been a different lady, I know I wouldn’t be feeling this way. It’s all Zoe. And yeah, after the shock of the phone call, I immediately asked if this had happened before.
They’d vowed that it hadn’t. That the rest of my samples were present and accounted for and the employee responsible had been let go.
I didn’t want them fired, just wanted them to do better, but they’d informed me that it was just the last in a long line of offenses and they regretted that they hadn’t fired them sooner.
I wanted to be angry, and I was, until I realized, had it not been for that now former staff member’s epic eff up, I wouldn’t be eagerly awaiting the birth of my child. Getting to know it’s mom.
Sure that the future I’ve always wanted is finally within my grasp.
Me: Do you have crackers? Ginger ale?
Fairy Tale: No. I ran out yesterday.
Me: I’ll bring you some of both.
Enough to last for the reminder of the estimated morning sickness.
Fairy Tale: I’m too emotional to argue.
Me: Good. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I’ll also fix your shoes. What’s the craving?
Fairy Tale: You’ll think it’s gross.
Me: Not if my baby wants it. Not if it makes you happy.
Fairy Tale: *can’t type, sobbing*
Me: You do realize you typed that, right?
Fairy Tale:
Me: Exactly.
Fairy Tale: Fish tacos.
Me: At nine am?
Shit.
Fairy Tale: See!
Me: I’m not disgusted. Just clarifying you want them now and not for lunch.
Fairy Tale: Aww.
