The trouble is, the hitting never actually happened. My cousin had engaged in a bit of preadolescent  manipulation in the hope it would win her some sympathy from my histrionic and meddlesome Jewish mother. (It worked!) The abuse allegations caused a major rift in the family, which culminated in a hostile confrontation between my mother and her brother-in-law over that year’s Thanksgiving dinner.

All right! my cousin said, Enough! I can’t take it anymore, I lied!  Daddy never hit me!

When asked why?, she responded

Sometimes I lie and I don’t know why.

I’ve been thinking about my young cousin and her lie quite a bit in the last week, ever since I lied to my boyfriend about being pregnant.

It went a little something like this:

Early one morning, about a week ago, I was rushing out of his house

Are you pregnant? he asked, eyeing the expanding curve of my belly.

 Of course not! I’ve just been eating a lot.

My reply was forced yet quick. Too quick. Almost eager.

How did he know? I wondered, and how could he not know that I’m lying? 

It’s not your shape, he said, it’s–well, you’re late, for one thing. But it’s just a feeling. 

Feelings aren’t facts! I shrieked. And I just had a period.

Yes. I lied to my boyfriend about being pregnant. With his child. If you want to get technical, I also lied secondarily, about having menstruated, but whether that amounts to a lie in its own right is up for debate–in the words of former President Clinton (a tremendous liar in his own right), it depends on what the meaning of the word “is” is. I have had a period recently; last month in fact. March 1. It’s true! But it’s misleading, dishonest, reprehensible.

In that respect, I am not unlike my cousin: a liar. Only my cousin did not know why she lied, whereas I know, quite well: I fear truth’s consequences.

I have not yet wrapped my mind completely around the prospect of pregnancy, which (in my imagination at least) passes as a legitimate reason for lying a big old boldfaced lie about it. To my boyfriend, the co-sponsor/sperm donor/father of this fetus.

Lying to my boyfriend about being pregnant might be an all-time interpersonal low. It’s worse, I think that conspiring against a maligned ex, worse than playing alibi for a friend with a fidelity issue, worse than a heated scuffle with a passive-aggressive former roommate, at least as measured by the gut test. The gut test? I think about this lie, and  my gut feels terrible.

Of course, it could just be the morning sickness.

I’m not precious about lying. I don’t like to do it, to be sure, but like everyone else, I have been known to utter falsehoods on occasion, when absolutely necessary. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying.

Is it appropriate, in my view, to lie about your pregnancy? Sure. A cursory review of the literature suggests that American women traditionally withhold public statement about their pregnancies until the end of the first trimester, lest the pregnancy ends in miscarriage.

But withholding information (from strangers or social acquaintances) is very different than lying outright (to the father no less). Who lies to her boyfriend about being pregnant?

Don’t get me wrong. At first, you might need to lie about your pregnancy status. I have, in my imagination, composed a Justifiable Hierarchy of People To Whom One Might Initially Lie About An Accidental Pregnancy. Your priest, yes. Your grandmother, sure. Your prospective employer, definitely. All perfectly acceptable. I have all the moral fiber of a cheap roll of toilet paper, I’ll admit it.  But even I can see: lying to my boyfriend about this pregnancy is beyond the pale. It’s dishonest, obviously, and it’s also disgraceful.

I should be ashamed of myself.

I realize: I am a terrible person, and this does not bode well for any (future)  children. It’s obvious that anyone I spawn is bound to be evil incarnate. Should this child come to fruition, s/he’ll end up worse than Al Capone or even a cast member from The Jersey Shore. S/he’ll be like a Jersey Shore reject, only with worse hair. And a liar for a mother.

I bent the truth, or lied, more accurately, to serve my own selfish interests. To protect my autonomy (to the extent that I am autonomous anymore, which I realize is a different philosophical question altogether). To buy me a bit of time in which I might figure out what I want to do, a way to tell the boyfriend the truth, and ultimately, a way to explain my lie. Which is, I suppose, exactly why one shouldn’t lie in the first place.

They said she was infertile, that she’d never conceive, and look at her now!

His mother had a tubal, his father had a vasectomy, and yet, there he is!

She was forty-six, hadn’t had a period in over a year, had sex once — and they used a condom!

I scoffed at these stories.

When it came to unplanned pregnancy, I was sanctimonious and judgmental. I assumed — and declared — that anyone who who found themselves pregnant while using reliable contraception was either an idiot or a liar.

It was only a matter of time before the universe found me, and offered my face its very own cream pie.

So here I am: scared and pregnant.

I spent the first twenty-six years of my life successfully managing to remain un-pregnant, and now, just when I thought I had all manner of my reproductive function under control, I realize: I had no idea what I was doing. My body, and my birth control, have betrayed me, and now is time for payback.

But what  is my recourse?

I could curse my condoms, my diaphragm, my boyfriend or my life; none of this will change the facts.

I could have an abortion, yes: I am pro-choice (and in fact pro-abortion), but I’m not sure that this is the right course of action for me personally.

I hope I don’t have to turn in my NARAL card, hope that this doesn’t kill my poor Catholic grandparents, who believe that sex before marriage is a sin before the Lord, hope at moments, that a strange man in the night comes behind me with a big brick and hits me over the head.

I was legitimately shocked to find out that I was pregnant, but all the signs were there. My period was late (it’s never late). I burst into tears because my boyfriend said goodbye “the wrong way”. I  was exhausted, my breasts were huge, I was supremely hungry and yet disgusted by the sight of food. Everything smelled bad, including me. I needed a nap, a hug, a shower, a bar of chocolate and a lobotomy, all at once.

I took one test, which was positive (but barely):

and then I took another, also faintly positive:

and another (note my sweater, barely able to contain its pregnant bosom):

Each time, I believed (most sincerely) that the results would change, that the faint hcg line would grow fainter, eventually disappearing.  Only it didn’t go that way. Shocking, I know.

After 48 hours or so of utter denial, I made an appointment with my OB/GYN to confirm that I’m (an idiot and) pregnant, and sure enough, there it was. I was about five minutes pregnant when symptoms revealed themselves, and am now a whopping six weeks and one day down the long and lonely road of pregnancy.

I know I should be grateful, that a baby, or even the prospect of a baby, is a gift — a blessing, the religiously-minded might say — and that I should be happy. But I can’t, not yet. Later, if all goes well, I can be happy. Right now, I am bewildered, exhausted, hormonal, hungry, and desperately ready to pee. I’m not ready to be happy. Right now, I’m scared and pregnant.