When it comes to keeping secrets, I’m rubbish. I’m more than rubbish. I’m a great big rubbish bin.
Not your secrets, mind you. Your secrets are safe with me, and I pride myself on my ability to seal my lips with your secret crushes, your subversive job-hunting, your incognito trips to the movies to see Step Up.
It’s my own secrets I can’t keep.
And that explains – I hope – why Great Smitten has been like a barren wasteland since I found out April 7 (on our three-year wedding anniversary) that we were having a baby.
Initially, there was shock, followed by hushed whispers between Simon and me – we were living with his parents, and waited three weeks just to tell them. Right under their noses, we were visiting the doctor and sneaking folic acid tablets; I was saying yes to glasses of wine (it’d be too obvious otherwise – I love a glass of wine), then taking fake sips and sneaking the glass to Simon when they weren’t looking; I was nodding, sympathetically-but-knowingly, when my pregnant friends talked about their morning sickness or their growing waistlines.
I knew. And Simon knew. And it had completely shifted our paradigm – it had, like nothing else before, rocked our world.
But it was a secret. For three weeks, it was our secret and only ours.
We had no jobs, no house, no car, and every night, I scribbled in my journal, letters to God. Confessing I was scared, confessing I didn’t trust Him. Begging Him to prove me wrong, to call my bluff.
I would sign into my blog, ready to write to you, but all I could think of, the thought that consumed me, was this new thing. This life growing inside of me, that was going to change everything.
I would start to type about things I’d seen in London, places I’d been, food I’d eaten. But it was stiff and meaningless, and it still sits there, in my drafts box, cold and unfeeling.
Because I had a secret, and I couldn’t tell you.
I’m so glad you know now.