Very Handsome Husband (VHH) and I had just returned from a two-hour surf when I discovered I was pregnant. I had one test stick left, and despite missing my period, I strangely wasn’t expecting anything other than a negative result. As it was my job to rinse out the wetsuits while VHH picked up Mexican for lunch, I wee-ed on the stick, and left it on the bathroom counter while I jumped in the shower.
I can still remember the all-at-once variety of emotions that slapped me out of my post-surf stupor as I stared agog at the double pink lines adorning the test window – positive. Of course guilt was the first to hit (runs in our family) – I’d had a few beers the night before, oh, and those few glasses of wine during the week….and Wow! How good am I? I’m pregnant!! Yes, surprise followed by a strange sense of achievement.
Even though it’s referred to often as the most natural of occurrences, one feels slightly clever at having conceived. You feel clever in the (ridiculous and totally self-absorbed) way that you are of course the first person in the world to achieve such a momentous feat, and also that your body has (through sheer luck) done what you have asked of it. Maybe my feelings were such because I had desperately (often nervously) denied my body to do what nature intended by avoiding pregnancy for so many years, I don’t know. Having made it to my mid-30s without so much as a slight scare in the accidental pregnancy stakes, I’d also become quite convinced that I was unquestionably infertile. So of course, having overcome this totally imagined barrier between myself and motherhood, I also felt relief.
Stacie and her little one
Very Handsome Husband greeted the momentous news in a manner that could only be described as less complicated – “I told you it worked”, as he made his way to the table with chicken burrito in hand – more important immanent matters obviously on his mind.
The decision to continue surfing wasn’t really debated at all – I knew my limitations and would surf accordingly. Unfortunately, this also meant that my new ‘move’ – a late frontside smash off the lip (only really pulled off once and which had resulted in more spectacular falls than landings) – would have to wait until post-baby. Having confirmed the wisdom of my decision with my obstetrician, VHH and I continued surfing, albeit with a less gung-ho attitude, and with more concerned stares from VHH.
Of course, while I was well aware of my own limitations, unfortunately there were others in the water who were not, or who were still in the process of discovering their own. One such incident involved a French guy learning to surf on a ludicrously large longboard. Obviously overwhelmed with emotion at having finally achieved an upright position on what could only be described as a large floating front door, he hooted loudly (and with a lovely French accent) at his girlfriend on the beach, completely forgetting the need to avoid other surfers in the water towards whom he was propelling at great and uncontrollable speed. Only the deepest duck-dive of my life and muttered prayers to Hui saved me from certain decapitation. Phew.
I surfed twice a week all the way up to Week 17, when we were forced out of the water through lack of swell and overseas travel. Luckily, our travel plans included a visit to VHH’s old stomping ground, San Diego, where we would meet up with other surfing friends with spare boards for visitors from Australia. Being summer, I would also be able to surf sans wetsuit – which was becoming ever-increasingly tighter around my ever-increasing waistline.
Surfing Mum
