It is my journal, so I choose to be indelicate.I am pregnant.Even as I write the words, even as I wrote them one hundred times last night to make my brain believe, they still seem foreign. I never intended for this to happen. I never wanted children. Then again, I’d never taken a second to think about it one way or another.Alas, here I am. Since the day I turned fifteen, my menses have been more regular than the calendar. When I woke up on a Tuesday morning, expecting, and nothing came, I thought perhaps I had my days mixed up. When it didn’t arrive the next day, or the day after that, I realized something was amiss. I went to the doctor. The position of my cervix and uterus told the story. I was with child.Of course I immediately started a course of emménagogues to entice my late cycle. The girls at the Folies have myriad suggestions for curing irregular periods, but mine was determined to stay away. I even visited a so-called doctor who worked out of a potions shop in Montmartre.
