And then there's the parents.

A and I are two very different people, and this could very well be the result of the fact that we spawned from two very different parenting philosophies. Our next major stop on the magical prego journey was telling the parents... though I was quite alright with the notion of letting them all think I just got really fat, and then babysat a lot.

HIS PARENTS... found out not long after we ourselves found out. Father's Day weekend, in fact. He and I had a course of action for telling them (he would tell them, I would sit demurely and smile like I wasn't a brazen hussy that slept with their eldest son outside of the sanctity of marriage... you know, no big deal). But somehow we moved away from the plan as A commented that all of the pictures of him in the house were disappearing and being replaced with pictures of his nephew (currently the only grandchild, though A's sister was expecting another baby in October, but that's beside the point).

"Well," A's dad said, "Start having kids of your own and we'll put pictures of them up."
"Well," A replied, "What do you think about having another grandchild in February?"

There was a stunned silence. They looked at me. They looked at him. They cried, hugged, were ecstatic. A's mom, ever the joyous grandmother, was in baby heaven. One more grandbaby in October, and ANOTHER in February? I thought the woman's head was going to pop off in sheer joy. Of course the first question (after "Are you serious?") was "Are you two going to get married?"

The rest of the afternoon was quite enjoyable. I've always liked A's parents, namely because they aren't crazy... like mine.

MY PARENTS found out about a month and a half later. I apologize for jumping all over the time space continuum here, but really, in that month and a half, it was just a blur of puking and crying. With that, you're already pretty much up to speed.

In order to understand my relationship with my parents, you first need to understand this: I am the colossal disappointment in my family. The touted "child prodigy," I was very advanced. Took advanced courses, took the ACT for the first time at age 11, tested freakishly high on state administered IQ and standardized tests, won spelling bees, piano competitions against children years older than me, speech competitions, coloring contests... if there was a ribbon or trophy or medal to be won in the tri-county area from about 1994 to 1998, I won it, and it is most likely in a box in my parents' attic.

Then I got tired of being the freak in school and around high school discovered alcohol and marijuana and boys. The pattern since high school has been that as soon as I build up my parents' trust and pride in me, I will, inevitably, crash it down. I was captain of multiple sports teams, involved in various organizations (and president of most of them), and the quintessential "golden child" in high school, then began dating a slew of bad boys, getting ridiculously drunk, and basically doing typical teenage things, only it seemed much worse considering what a "good kid" I had been. In college, I was getting a 3.8 GPA, president of a large sorority, editor of the campus newspaper, and then damn near got myself thrown out of college and had to transfer.

So really, the only next logical step was to screw up after I got their hopes up with graduation. And the only thing worse than getting knocked up a week after graduation, in my mother's eyes, was perhaps killing someone. Or maybe those are reversed. I'm really not sure.

By this point I had my first ultrasound, which if you've ever seen early ultrasounds, they are very boring. If it wasn't my kid in the picture, and if the picture hadn't been taken by shoving a weird ultrasound stick thing up my wazoo, I would have found it very anticlimactic. So I went to my parents' house by myself (A had offered to come, but knowing the huge shit storm that would inevitably hit, I left him at home so fight it on my own... until you've dealt with a bipolar mother firsthand, you are in no way prepared for this), ultrasound in my purse, and after a nice dinner with my parents, I announced I had some news.

I took out the ultrasound and handed it to my mom. I told them I was pregnant, how far along I was, that A and I were prepared for this and we were mature adults and ready to handle it. I have never heard a deafening silence like this before. You could have heard a pin drop in Russia. Mom didn't cry. I would've preferred it if she had. Dad just sighed, and said they were expecting their first grandchild to come from my 17-year-old brother.

The only thing worse than a bad reaction is no reaction at all. There was none. And there continued to be one in the months to follow. It was like my parents were living in a glorious state of denial. For a while, they just didn't speak to me. Then it was awkward speaking, but never about the baby or the fact that I was having one. This is the pattern that continues today with my discussions with the parents. And we won't even approach the subject that their daughter, their firstborn, darling daughter, is on Medicaid to pay for the child.

To date, A's parents have bought us a slew of baby things. My parents have bought us none. His mother can't wait to talk to me again, see my growing belly, etc. I basically wear a burka around my parents so they don't have to see the bump -- not a matter of hiding the bump, per se, but keeping something unpleasant out of sight. My mother refuses to even tell my invalid grandmother about the baby, just because of the strong disapproval that I would face. I'm not even sure who of my extended family knows I'm pregnant. I assume very few, since my parents are embarassed by the situation.

I'm not bitter.

But I am still looking for my purse.