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.