In 2005, I became pregnant without planning for it, and I am still paying the price.
My apologies to those of my readers who have had to hear me wallowing in self-pity since 2005 for my unplanned pregnancy, but today, as I pushed the golden boy’s very heavy pushchair up to the post office in Spring Garden Avenue to send another letter to the CRA explaining about his birth which took place in Iran, I couldn’t help thinking that since his conception, the golden boy has caused me nothing but mental turmoil, trouble, stress, hassle with Canadian officers, set back of university plans, heart ache, anguish… And he is not even three yet. Watching his smooth crop of thick golden brown hair through a little window in his pram hood, and feeling my heart contract with love for my funny face baby, I realized that it’s going to be the same until he’s thirty-three, no, sixty-three. Until the minute I die, I am going to be in pain for the golden boy. One way or another.
The princess, on the other hand, gives me minimal trouble. She is pretty, bratty, lovely, and typical, typical girl. It is clear that she will be one of those model students who cry if their margins are not straight, and she takes life and school and love and herself ultra-seriously.
I will fast forward about how pregnancy prevented me from completing various work-related courses and workshops, how having a small child prevented me from taking up university at the time I had initially planned, how desperate we were for his visa and all that jazz. That is history now.
But it continues. Everything to do with the golden boy is complicated and drama. Himself smiling and funny, content to suck his bottle and watch thousands of Pink Panther reruns, he creates more and more chaos in my life as he grows older, chaos which seems to extend in various dimensions and affect my life in ways I had never dreamed of.
Just recently, I realised that since I gave birth to the golden boy in Iran, I will not fulfill the `physical presence` requirement of Canadian citizenship application until 2010 (read it up on the CIC website if you`re interested.) So although the golden boy himself qualifies for citizenship on the grounds that his father is a citizen, I do not.
Because the golden boy refused to go to daycare in June, we lost his place in the local daycare, and now, if his father decides to go to Iran, he will have to take the golden boy with him, since I cannot take care of him here by myself, and study full-time. The idea of saying goodbye to the golden boy tears me apart, and I do not think I can stay sane if I part from him. And neither can his father.
And it goes on.
How can we call a boy so much loved “unwanted”? Obviously he is loved, with every nerve in our body. But why does he make life so difficult?
Girls, take note. One unplanned slip, and your lives will swerve and skew for years to come.