Bad Mommy?

Once the reality hits that my husband's sperm has joined with one of my eggs and created a life (profound, isn't it?) and that this life is fast dividing and multiplying and growing inside me- I have a bit of a panic attack.

About what, you ask? You name it. I think of my behavior over the past four weeks when I was pregnant and did not know it. I ran a marathon. I drank my way through California's wine country. I returned home and upped my workout regime, running sprints and hills to break a weight-loss plateau. I took an Imitrex once to get rid of a migraine. I drank a froufrou martini and three beers with coworkers one night. I feel like a terrible, horrible person. Did I hurt my baby?

I vow then that I will read up on everything and not let one morsel of food cross my lips or move one muscle without first making sure it's ok and I won't hurt the baby. I buy a handy little book called "Pregnancy Do's and Don'ts" by Elizabeth Aron, M.D. I carry it around with me like a girlscout would her handbook. And aside from having another panic attack over our dog's flea and tick medicine (I never handled it, or touched it, but was near our dog and thought that would hurt the baby), I find it to be a very useful tool.

Still...I arrive at my first pre-natal appointment armed with a barrage of questions for my doctor. Can I drink coffee? Can I dye my hair? I hear that lunch meat and sausage are off limits. Is this true? Can I still run? What about abdominal workouts? Can I take lozenges? What about soft cheeses? I drank a lot of wine, some beer and took an Imitrex before I knew I was pregnant...did I hurt my baby? (the answer to that one was NO, thank God!) Oh, and I ran a marathon at 11 days pregnant. Is my baby ok? (my doctor is impressed with this and says the extra blood flow was likely good for the baby).

Whew.

We schedule an appointment to have my first ultrasound in a couple weeks, which will put me at 7 weeks pregnant.

I leave the doctor's office feeling relieved but even more determined to protect this baby growing inside me. This baby that is now only the size of a sesame seed. I walk carefully on the sidewalks of Chicago covered in freshly fallen snow and steer clear of the tall buildings that have 'Danger: Falling Ice' signs in front.

On my way to meet my husband and some friends for happy hour drinks (none for me, of course!) I am nearly side-swiped by a business man in a rush to catch his train. He nearly knocks me over and before I know what I'm doing I turn and scream at him, "HEY! I'm pregnant!" He neither hears nor cares, but I find that I have to take a moment to calm myself down.

I feel like I am carrying a precious pearl inside me - rather, a pearl submerged in a glass of water and I must balance myself so as not to spill the water glass and upset the pearl. I marvel at how fiercely protective and noble I feel - and can't imagine how the Virgin Mary must have felt.

I arrive to meet my husband and his male friends who have all enjoyed one round of martinis by the time I arrive. They pull up a chair for me and there is much doting, congratulating and making sure I am comfortable. Of course I eat it up. The server arrives and I order a cranberry spritzer. Minutes later, I am sipping my spritzer and enjoying the lively conversation of business men after hours - loosened ties, cocktails and camaraderie.

I suddenly have the feeling that something isn't right. My stomach is feeling all warm and I look at my drink. It is awfully dark for being a cranberry spritzer. I don't normally drink vodka, but I have the distinct feeling there is vodka in my drink. I have my husband try it and he assures me there is no vodka. I take a couple more tentative sips before stopping our server, a young blond.

"Excuse me, is there vodka in this?"

She looks at me like I have two heads. "Of course! It's a vodka cranberry."

I feel as though I have just been told that I drank poison and will be meeting my maker in minutes. "What?! VODKA?! Noooo!! I ordered a cranberry spritzer. Non-alcoholic! I'M PREGNANT!!!"

She is mortified and apologetic. I am panic-stricken and tears have begun to fall involuntarily down my cheeks. "Just...just give me a water, please."

I turn to my husband and cannot even speak. He assures me that it's fine and I didn't drink that much (truthfully I only had a few small sips). But I cannot believe what I have done. After all of my efforts to protect and guard this life inside me, I give her alcohol.

I really am on track to be mother of the year.