When I was in the hospital, having just popped a small creature who looked shockingly like a garden gnome out of my delicate girl bits, I held him for a spell in the quiet, darkened room as the doctor finished delivering the placenta and doing whatever it is that doctor’s do to your crotchal region after a baby is born. I held my second son to my breast and looked up at his father, stars in my eyes (okay, it was painkillers, but who’s counting?) and said, “I won’t ever have to give this one back.” He nodded, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, his labor-long headache long since dissipated.

“No,” he replied, “we won’t.”

We were referring to, of course, the weekenders our eldest son had occasionally with the other OTHER side of his family. While we both knew that these were not only necessary, but important for our firstborn, it was heartbreaking to watch him leave each Friday and return overstimulated and exhausted on Sunday. Those days in which he was gone, it felt as though part of our hearts had gone with him – probably because they had.

When the divorce card got played, the first thing my mind jumped to was not “I’m going to have to find a real job,” nor was it, “will anyone ever love me again?” No. It was “what about the kids? I can’t leave my kids again – some days, they’re all that keeps me going forward.”

I knew that moving out; being unable to pay the mortgage, these had implications that were far-reaching – I’d have to, as previously stated, get a real job and learn to be alone after spending my entire life with another person around. I’d have to scrimp and save and cut coupons and figure out one makes “Ramen Bake,” I’d have to spend nights in an apartment so quiet that the on-switch on the heater would make me jump half-out of my skin. But most importantly – I’d have to leave my kids some of the time.

Now it’s not like I planned to be all thwap-thwap-thwap INCOMING helicopter parent once my second son popped out. I’d briefly considered attending college with him, but that’s mostly because I figured he’d never properly become potty trained, and frankly, someone had to teach the kid how to do keg stands, and his father, well, he was a Normal Rockwell painting, while I sat in the very back of the classroom, playing games on my phone, figuring out how many days, exactly, I could ditch before my grades dropped.

But I never really thought about the possibility of being separated from my children before it was the right time. I mean, I wouldn’t go to prom with the kid (PROBABLY), but I did expect that I’d see them most (read: all) days until they hit THAT point.

I was, of course, as I am so often, wrong.

I can accept that my nine year union dissolved – we both deserve our happy, neither of us is “at fault” because, well, as my therapist says, “divorce requires two people, just like marriage,” and Dave and I are more than amicable – we’re friends. We owe that to our children.

This weekend marked the end of the dreaded first week, the week that found me sobbing like a whiny baby on the couch as I watched and re-watched episodes of trashy television, which, Pranksters, I’m going to tell you, should be a prescription for all that ails you. And shit, it’s better trashy television than my wedding video, of which, I have to say, I don’t own, because I refused to spring for a video no one would ever choose to watch willingly. I didn’t want to be that newlywed that showed every single person who came to my home the wedding video, pointing out “the good” parts. Because hello, boring.

Amelia, thrilled out of her wee mind, came by on Friday, forgoing her normal McDonald’s dinner with her brothers, and spent the night. Alex came over on Saturday, proclaiming that this would be “the best day ever,” because he got to *gasp* sleep at Mama’s house. And as the children predicted, those were the two very best days I’ve had in a long time.

Yesterday, they returned to Dad’s house, and I was left, sitting alone with my trashy television, the silence of my empty apartment thumping in my ears.

I looked around, tears in my eyes, at all of the things in my big girl apartment. The bed and the couches. The end table and lamps. The zombie gnomes in the bathroom, sandwiched between a mushroom nightlight.

And I realized, for the millionth time that week, that my house, my house without children, it is not a home – it’s just the place where I live.

And that sort of sadness, it’s nearly impossible to shake.

Apparently I am the last person on the planet to realize that 2010 = the next DECADE. Okay, so I never claimed to be a particularly bright person, but this takes the cake for even me. Especially since I turn 30 in July and I was born in 1980 and…yeah, I should have seen the BIGGER PICTURE, but apparently I was too deeply ensconced in my nervous breakdown to see out of my butthole.

I’m not much of a New Year’s person, so I suppose it’s not entirely shocking that I wasn’t all HOLY FUCK, PEOPLE!

Anyway.

New Decade, New Aunt Becky abounds which makes me think that I should get some Moon Boots and a flying car. Because obviously.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to dragging myself back out from under the piles tiny fucking Playmobil pieces and I’ve been making steps in that direction. When I do something, I tend to go balls to the wall, which is why an itemized list of resolutions isn’t really necessary. Plus, even as neurotic as I am, I hate making lists almost as much as I hate cream based condiments *shudders* but I’m making myself accountable.

To you. The Internet.

Ima check in now and again just to let you know how I’m doing in my progress to reclaim myself. You can let ME know what YOU’RE doing or how you think I can do better, or shit, you can just fucking tell me how awesome you are in the comments.

(Because you guys are full of the awesome. You were so nice to my formula-feeding friend–the Go Ask Aunt Becky questions all come in anonymously–yesterday and I was so grateful because she doesn’t need anyone to attack her when she’s feeling low. Also, have you lost weight? Your ass looks HOT in those pants. Let’s make out.)

1) First, I bought an elliptical. I know, I KNOW, it sounds like a BAD IDEA because it’s one of those things that you can easily ignore and use as a clothes hanger and what better to remind you of your failures? But this one was effing cheap and time is kinda precious right now. So ANYTHING is better than nothing.

Ima get my ass on it as soon as I can wear a bra lest I knock myself out with a rogue boobie.

2) I bought more clothes. I’d all but stopped buying clothes when I realized how depressing it was to do it because, well, I’m still rocking the baby weight. The elliptical will help that. But new clothes help me feel better about myself, which will make me feel EVEN BETTER about myself and so on and so on.

3) I started listening to music again. Because I’m home with the kids so much, I’d stopped jamming out with my clam out to things that made me happy because if any of them get a whiff of music coming from my computer, they’re all over me to watch stuff on my computer. Which, hi, TOTALLY NOT MY THING.

I do important stuffs here like surf porn and write on my blog, not watch CARTOONS (for the record, I hate cartoons).

But I love music. It’s one of the things I love dearly and since I stopped commuting every-fucking-where it’s something I stopped doing: humping on my music. Music makes me Aunt Becky again and it makes me feel alive.

4) I’m going out to California next weekend with The Daver even though we couldn’t find anyone in my family to watch my kids. There’s a certain baby shower that I’m pretty stoked to go to and to miss that would be like gnawing off an arm, but getting anyone to watch my kids is always like pinning Jello to a wall.

I know they have sitter sites out there, but I’m not entirely comfortable leaving my kids overnight with someone I don’t know. By the grace of God, my friend from high school is going to do it for me and I owe her SO MUCH.

5) I’m back to looking for places to submit my work (let’s agree that “work” here is a very loose term) and expand My Empire.

Most importantly, I’m allowing myself the opportunity to make progress without expecting perfection. I tend to expect things from myself that no one really should expect of themselves and I’m going to stop.

————-

I may never own Moon Boots, because maybe I DID own them when I was a kid and maybe they weren’t NEARLY as cool as I thought they’d be. But slowly, I’m digging myself out of the hole I’ve sunk into and rediscovering who I am. Turns out, I’m the same person I always was.

Progress, not perfection. Unless I’m listening to Britney. Which is total perfection.

——————–

And if you’re looking for me elsewhere, I’m talking about the time I got courted by (no shit)(seriously, why would I lie?) Wife Swap.

Over at Skirt! this is the link to the post I threw up yesterday (Sunday = The Internet is closed) about Finding Myself Among The Dirty Diapers.

We gathered there, improbably, given the circumstances, at a nearby bar, all of us together once again. Gone were the Metallica and Megadeth tee-shirts, the sparkly headbands left at home, retired for the night.

This night.

They’d been replaced by somber suits and dress clothes, I tottered on impossibly high heels as we sat there together again, all of us together again, coming from various parts of the state to be together this time, drinking whiskey and vodka to drown the voices in our heads.

I remembered drunkenly as we ordered our first round, that the last time we’d all been together and dressed up was for my wedding three years before. As the happy memory of that played in my mind I was haltingly reminded that one of us was not sitting a block away, cold, hard and dead back then. She was alive and vibrant, laughing and joking with us all.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to remember anything.

To onlookers, we must have looked like quite the jovial bunch of people, obviously close friends who knew each other so well, the comfortable familiarity was palpable. I alternated between snuggling the man on my right and the man on the left, neither of them my husband.

We laughed loudly and comfortably at each other with each other our mouths wide open, the picture of pure bliss. But was it? Was this bliss? To nearby patrons, I’m sure that’s what they saw as they formed mental pictures of this motley band of brothers'”a sister or two thrown in for good measure'”these people out for a night on the town, drinking to life, to liberty, to the pursuit of happyness.

Not one of us was happy, I’ll tell you that for sure. Not a single one of us was happy to be there, to be together for this night. Happy people don’t have these conversations.

“When I die,” I slurred drunkenly. “I don’t want any shitty fucking flowers at my funeral. I’m appointing you there Kristin, to make damn sure that no one sends me fucking filler flowers. No carnations, no baby’s breath, and no goddamned fucking lilies. I fucking hate lilies.” I spat this out as though the words tasted bitter and mean.

I sat back, everyone laughing without a trace of happiness, as I slurped the last bit of whiskey from the bottom of my glass.

“And NO OPEN CASKETS. You all don’t need to see what I look like when I’m dead and made up in clown makeup. So, you’ve got to make me up like Gene Simmons from KISS. You’ll have to somehow pin my tongue out like he does. Then any sick fuck that wants to see my corpse will get quite the shock.’ This seemed to be uproariously hilarious, as we all pounded the table, laughing but not really laughing.

Scott started next. “When I die,” he said joyfully without joy. “When I die, I want you all to stuff me like the guy from Weekend At Bernie’s.” We laughed from within, all of us mentally picturing Scottie in a lawn chair, being rolled in and out of rooms. “And I want a big bonfire and a kegger.” We tittered, remembering all of the bonfires Scott had thrown in his parent’s backyard. “Then, at the end of the night, I want you to throw me on the bonfire.”

We laughed so hard at the thought that we were all left clutching our sides, a painful cramp had formed there.

We drank long and we drank hard, each of us processing the magnitude of what had just happened together but in our own way. I was left clutching a man, walking drunkenly back to his car with him propping me up and helping me past the slick patches of ice. He would have carried me if I needed him to, I knew this and found this an unlikely comfort.

It was cold, freezing cold, I knew logically, but I felt nothing. For the first time in a week I was comfortably numb. It was only then that I realized how much I’d been hurting, the relief I felt at blissfully unfeeling anything at all.

Tomorrow I would wake up and feel it all over again, the pain, the anguish, the incredible hangover, but tonight I was finally free.

Because we are all about consolidating here at Casa de la Sausage (plus girl) my GP is the same as our pediatrician. He’s an Old Skool former military doc which means he’s incredibly no-nonsense kind of guy and for that I love him. But since I delivered Amelia at a hospital that he doesn’t have privileges at (likely by his own design), we were seen by another ped. Rather than transfer everything over to my GP after we were discharged because we are also lazy, we’ve been having Amelia see the doc she saw in the hospital.

Man, that was a long and boring paragraph. But it has a point!

This week I had to follow up with my GP after my dosage of my anti-depressant was tweaked just to make sure, I guess, that I wasn’t going to kill myself OR others (and if I had, thanks to my incredibly helpful OB nurse, I’d have gone IMMEDIATELY to the ER. Because that’s what suicidal/homicidal people do. They behave rationally! Because suicide and homicide are both REALLY rational things to do! Obviously!). And because I am an incredibly wonderful daughter, rather than saddle my mother with all three of my children, I took my youngest along with me.

(complete aside! You know you’ve been to the doctor WAAY TOO MUCH when you actually notice that all of magazines are ones you’ve seen already! Like Audubon Monthly! Although I don’t read them, preferring to stare vapidly into space, I like to see different things at different offices)

The point of that insanely boring first paragraph is that my GP had not yet met my daughter who will become his patient (arbitrarily) after she is (hopefully) discharged from the neuro. So, because I am that kind of patient–you know, the kind that wastes the precious time of busy doctors–I immediately showed him the back of her head and told him all about Amelia’s encephalocele.

He examined her and told me about one of the saddest stories I’d heard in awhile. Sometime in the 70’s or 80’s, he’d gotten a call from an OB asking him to come to be at this C-Section. The OB suspected a problem with the baby, but without the fancy diagnostic tools we have now, he had no idea what the problem WAS.

Well, it turned out to be a mighty encephaolcele stretching from the top of the head to the nape of the neck.

As you can imagine, the baby didn’t make it.

This was the beginning and end of the experience he’d had with my daughter’s diagnosis.

And this reminded me of how amazing it is that any of us turn out as well as we do. How often things actually go RIGHT.

And what a fucking miracle Amelia is. Needless to say, I’ve been holding all of my kids a little tighter.

Today is October 15, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and rather than post some stupid snarky story about getting a flu shot (because, ahem, I’m apparently a geriatric), I’m going to choose to remember.

Today, we all will remember:

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Now, I’ll be happy to add to this list, as I know I haven’t even begun to properly pay tribute to all of these lives, so if you’d like me to add your child’s name, please don’t hesitate to email me becky (at) dwink (dot) net or leave me a comment and I will email you.

At 7 pm tonight, I will burn a candle in memory of all the lost souls out there. May they each rest in eternal peace.

Since I’m now unable to really do the haircut/color thing that I normally do when I’m in dire need of a change (pregnant Aunt Becky = Oompa Loompa + Short Hair = Pinhead), I’m going to revamp my blog. I’m going to hire a graphic designer and tweak the shit out of this.

I bring this question to you, dear reader: in an effort to provide a list of things I want/don’t want, I need to figure out what is irritating to the reader. So, lovers, what makes a blog design annoying?

I just changed my Big Scary Ultrasound appointment from the 17th of September to the 8th of September (also: Daver’s birthday. Where he turns 30! Officially OLD BALLS TERRITORY). Which has made my body Full of The Nervous, as I stare down the barrel of that gun. My reasons for changing my appointment are less “ohmygod, I can’t WAIT to go shopping” and more “ohmygod, I can’t WAIT to find out if it’s healthy,” which make me a killjoy, but a practical one.

People tend to assume that since I have two boys at home, that I would somehow really be upset if I didn’t have at least one baby girl. And while I might be upset for different reasons (i.e. I don’t get to buy frilly dresses and tell the Internet about it), I’m sadly boring when I inform you that really, REALLY, all I want is for my baby to be healthy. I don’t even care if it’s HAPPY (my babies are NEVER happy), just healthy.

I’ve tried to get in touch with my inner voice, you know, the one that’s supposed to guide my womanly intuition toward the gender of my Sausage, I’ve really tried. And all my womanly intuition wants to tell me is that I’m in dire need of buffalo wings.

When I was pregnant with Ben, delusional and pregnant, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles, Cosmos, whatever that I was having a girl. I had a girl’s name picked out. I hadn’t bought any CLOTHES yet, since I was both poor and practical, but I had my eagle eye set on some frilly dresses.

It was a good thing they have you lay down for your ultrasound, or I may have toppled over onto the floor, never to get up again, when the lady informed me that I was carrying a boy. I insisted that she show me the evidence, and she did, a heavily pixilated penis/balls combo floating lazily in a bath of amniotic fluid.

I’ll admit to being somewhat disappointed at first, not that this was a very PC reaction, but with fairly good reason. When you have a boy, pregnant by a dude who is on his better days Captain Douchebag and on his worse days Captain Asswad, the last thing you want is for YOUR son to turn out just like his father.

I’m positive I’m not alone in this feeling, which at the end of it all, does come from the right place. I wanted better for my Ben.

And I got it.

When I got pregnant with Alex, Dave and I formed a kind of bet for what flavor of baby we were carrying. He INSISTED with more conviction than I’ve seen him muster save for the time that he tried to convince me that “Kung Fu” was a great show, that we were having a Girl. I was so much sicker, he reasoned, my pregnancy was so very different, it HAD to be a girl.

I took the option of Boy, just to make the US day more interesting (and to quell my aching nerves), and we had our bet.

The Stakes For Alex’s Pregnancy:

If I was right, and the baby was a Boy, Dave would wear a baby doll Britney Spears shirt IN PUBLIC on a day when it couldn’t be covered by a jacket.

If HE was right, and the baby was a Girl, I would, when I wasn’t overly pregnant, wear a Chicks Dig Unix shirt in public.

Due to our cheap-ass nature, and the fact that I sort of forgot (remember, this was also November in Chicago, where it’s certainly not warm enough to wear a t-shirt outdoors), Dave never wore the Britney Shirt.

So this time, in order once again to distract myself from the rolling ball of nerves that I now am, I tried to get him to make a bet with me. I was going for Team Girl, I figured he would go for Team Boy and we could come up with something new. Other than, “Hey, I’ll give you $20 from our JOINT CHECKING ACCOUNT” as stakes.

Now I need your help, Internet.

First, will you come with me to my US appointment on Monday at 12:30? Please? Even if it’s just in your head, please send me healthy baby vibes. I’ll be your BFF!

Second, go ahead and vote up there. I’m dying to see what YOU think I’m carrying.

Third, and perhaps most entertaining, help me come up with some stakes with which Dave and I can lay our bets. Here is the pertinent info on Daver (you know me already):

He is a geek, but not a nerd. I’m assured that there is a difference here.

As you may have guessed, he has an excellent sense of humor, so pretty much anything is fair game.

He’s Mr. Wilson to my Dennis The Menace.

He doesn’t appreciate the beauty of pop culture as I do as he’s far more deep and meaningful than I am.

He will stop at nothing to embarrass me.

Anything else you need to know?

I’m so pleased to hear that no one was as cruel to me as my own personal conscience. Trust me, the very act of admitting that I can no longer care for animals I love dearly hurts me to no end. I used to foster cats for awhile, until Alex was born with a pair of devil horns an no apparent “OFF” button.

But anyway, I was looking at my link list and feeling an ominous drop in my stomach. I’ve done a terrible job at maintaining the links to even the blogs that I read. I briefly considered simply removing it entirely, but I realized that that didn’t sound very fun.

So do me a favor, if you’re interested. Go to the links page and let me know if you’re on there or not. If you’re a commentor here or I comment by you, or whatever, if I know you in some way, holler with your URL so I don’t feel so damn ashamed when I look at that page.

I am shocked and honored to know each and every one of you.

Maybe we’d never recognize each other on the street (well, you’ve all seen what I look like), and maybe I’ll never meet any of you face to face (also doubtful because I have high plans to meet most of you. Sorry, preemptively for my crashing on your couch. Oh, and I like orange juice for breakfast–freshly squeezed), but I consider you all to be my friends.

You’ve proved it to me before, and you’ve solidified it with this most recent miscarriage. I’d love to thank you all and give you big sloppy kisses and hugs, but it wouldn’t be enough.

It just wouldn’t.

Nothing will ever say thank you quite the way I want it to, so I’ll try and tell you how much each and every comment that you made, every email and IM that I got lifted my burden. Things are lighter now.

It reminded me of how fortunate I really am to have people prop me up, dust me off, and remind me that I’m going to be just fine. That past sentence is precisely what I’ve used in the past to describe what I feel is true friendship, and I think it fits here, as well.

Cornball as it may sound, you are my friends, and if you know me at all, you’d know how strongly a bond I consider that to be. Thank you for reminding me of all the good that has sprung up around me (even during a time of garbage and crap) and how blessed I am to have each and every one of you in my life.

I’m not implying in any way that I’m completely recovered from this miscarriage, nor will I always be peeing roses and sunshine, but you’ve shown me that it doesn’t matter one bit if I’m being funny and self-deprecating or honest and true. That somehow you like me anyway WITHOUT BRIBERY.

I don’t think that there is anything I can ever do to truly show my appreciation to all of you for listening to me whine about this latest miscarriage, and believe me, I will be wracking my brain to try and do something nice for you all. If any of you were local (I’m looking at YOU, LAS) I’d invite you over for cookies that I MIGHT EVEN COOK MYSELF and Diet Coke. The offer stands for anyone willing to swing by. I WILL COOK FOR YOU (maybe not very well, but I will do it anyway).

As for the Uterus Monologues, I ended up with my ass in the ER today and was diagnosed with…wait for it, wait for it, A BLADDER INFECTION TOO! Wonders never cease to amaze me. I’m following up with my OB on Wednesday and hopefully he’ll have some insight into what the hell is wrong with me. Or not.

And as for my mental health, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to channel all of my energy into my due date buddies: Doc Grumbles and Niobe. If my critters won’t grow properly, well, then Universe, you’d better make DAMN sure that theirs do or You are going to have an appointment with my fists of fury.

Thank you all for everything. Thank you so very much.

On Sunday, as The Daver and I were strolling happily through Mecca (read: Target) I realized that I couldn’t remember when I had my period last, and decided that I should probably know one way or another what was up (down?) with my uterus. I picked up a pack of generic pregnancy tests and went on my merry way.

Because of my exhaustively documented squirrel-sized bladder, I had to whiz when we got home and figured now was the time to break out the ole pee sticks.

I feel I must clarify several things here before I continue.

First, I have to be pretty religious about making certain that I am or am not with fetus, honestly for medical reasons (I’d explain but you’d probably try to impale yourself with your monitor or keyboard because it’s so mind-numbingly dull. Just know that I need to know the status of my uterus). If I didn’t have to, I’d just as soon not find out right away, because then The Worry will begin and I will become unhappy, obsessive, and probably start to smell bad.

Secondly, just for the people who would click away furiously at the audacity of my fertility, I am not pregnant. It’s a spoiler, for sure, but I think it’s necessary to tell you this ahead of time. Maybe it’s not as dramatic this way, but hey, we do what we can.

Anyway, moving back to the story, now that I’ve filled you in on those delicious details, so here I am, whizzing on a peestick shamefully (I am totally ashamed of taking pregnancy tests. Isn’t that the most juvenile thing you’ve ever heard? YES, I AM 27 YEARS OLD, I HAVE TWO KIDS AND I AM SHAMED BY PREGNANCY TESTS. Pathetic.) and expecting one lone line to show up. And sure enough, that line does show up, and is followed by a second line several minutes later.

I am so shocked that I say nothing to anyone, finishing my planting and puttering uselessly about while I wonder what the hell that means. Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me, as I happen to have the patience of a toddler and I trundle shamefully back to the bathroom where I comense to piss on yet another stick (grumbling about both the cost and the quality, I must add, because I am one crotchety bitch), where I expect, well, I don’t know.

Eventually those two lines show up again, and I realize that I probably should tell my husband that punching himself in the balls does not an at-home vasectomy equal. Not being the most sentimental bitch on the block, I don’t know what else to do but to place my piss-covered stick, complete with two lines in front of him on the table. He looks at it and then back at me, clearly confused as to what I have put in front of him.

Not knowing what else to say, I tell him “congrats” and tell him that it looks like we might be having another child. We both spend the rest of Sunday night in a daze, a happy daze but a daze nonetheless.

Figuring that I might as well deplete my three pack the following morning before I call all of my doctor’s offices, I pull out my last stick Monday morning and stick it in my pee. And sure enough, that control line pops up. And absolutely nothing else. Ever.

So I think to myself, well, a digital test, you know, the kind you were too damn cheap to shell out for would probably give you a better answer, figuring one out of three tests could be wrong.

Statistically, it was still more likely that I was pregnant, especially considering after years of peeing on sticks shamefully I have never seen a second line (i.e. positive test) unless I was, in fact, with child. And again, it’s fairly important that I know one way or another.

I packed Alex up and headed to Walgreens, where I picked up a digital test and immediately head home to whiz on it. I pretty much hate those digital tests because it always seems so damn smug when “Not Pregnant” pops up (just so you know, every time I put my weight in the box at weight watchers online and it chides me for not losing or having lost too much, I always get the sense that it’s talking smack to me. I am quite certifiable, eh?), and sure enough the blinky “Not Pregnant” pops up and then I do know for sure that I am not, in fact, pregnant.

The period this morning solidified it for me.

I mean it’s not like we’ve been humping for a purpose, honestly I can’t take the stress of that (not the orgasms, the “am I pregnant or is that just gas” obsessing that I do when trying to get pregnant), and we both agreed that we’ll take our chances for a third, should that ever happen (before you rue my fertility, let me tell you that it’s been over a year now and still nothing. Strangely I am okay with that). So we’re not trying and we’re not NOT trying either.

But The Daver and are both feeling well, just a touch blue about it. I mean, if I was pregnant for a nanosecond and miscarried it super early, it’s not like I’m going to grieve over it. If it was anything it was a bunch of cells multiplying badly, and shit, seriously, it’s better that it happened now rather than later. Later I’d be upset, now I’m just a might bit blue.

Who knows, it could have been a bad batch of tests. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell happened, and I probably never will. I’d venture a guess that it was probably a really early miscarriage, but I don’t know. I mean, whatever, right? I’ll call one of my many doctors tomorrow, get a shot in the old butt and move the hell on with my life. All that I can do at this point.

All that I know for sure right is that the grey, rainy day today was the perfect fit for my cranky-assed mood.