Last week I realized my period was late.
Fuck. That was all I could think. I sort of hyperventilated a bit, trying to figure out when exactly we’d had sex last, and was I fertile when it happened?
Crap, yes. I was. I distinctly remembered being fertile and getting busy. We used protection, of course, but I’m the one with that .1% chance of luck that the condom would have a miniature, undetected hole and one of my husband’s super-sperm would bust out of there like see ya guys! I’m going for the gold! Yeeeeeeehaaaawwww! And it would find its way to the prize at the end of my fallopian tube. And nine months later, I’d be screaming bloody hell from my bear-claw bathtub upstairs in my new house as another squished human being emerged from my hoo-haw like a scene out of a horror flick.
Off to Seattle we went, and I packed plenty of tampons just in case. It was wishful thinking. By that time, I was getting cramping and my tits were sore and I was on the verge of chopping my husband’s balls off in the middle of the night for knocking me up yet again.
James got kind of a goofy grin on his face while I was fretting about it in our hotel room with my clingy Lil’ Fang sticking to me like super glue and said that even though the timing kind of sucked, he would be excited to meet the next little “surprise” member of our family. He ducked the 300-pound dresser I miraculously summoned the strength to hurl at him. It crashed through the window instead and squished a busload of tourists in that duck-bus thing downtown.
The weekend came and went and my period still didn’t show up. Then suddenly, by the Grace of God, it came gushing like a flash flood and managed to get everywhere at the beginning of the week. Son of a bitch. I would have been pissed except for the fact that I was so freaking relieved that I couldn’t be angry that my jeans and underwear were soaked and stained beyond repair.
And then a funny thing happened.
I realized that over the course of the several days during which I was certain that I was going to have to pee on a stick that would pop up a “+” sign yet again, I had subconsciously started to imagine my life with a third little oops baby. Names started mulling through my mind in my dreams, and I’d begun thinking about how I’d sit on my porch and watch all three monsters playing in the yard, and trying to figure out how I was going to decorate another nursery. And I felt a teeny-tiny pang of longing.
Yes, me. The one who barely survived birthing two children. The one who is dependent on happy pills to keep somewhat sane. The one who has about as much patience as a bitch in heat. For some stupid reason, I kind of had a moment of, aw, wouldn’t it be nice?
I told James about this last night. Embarrassed. I couldn’t believe I was admitting this to the very person who held me while I cried about how unfit I was to be a parent months ago.
He laughed, “It’s just biology, honey”.
And that’s when the fantasy of having a third child came tumbling down around me. Oh my gosh, he was right. Freaking biology! Within a week of weaning April, I had gone from ‘I hate newborn babies, kill me if I ever have to deal with another one‘ to ‘wouldn’t it be so great to have another little cooing bundle of joy?‘ because of BIOLOGY.
Hormones. Gotta love ‘em.
Thank goodness we figured out what the hell was going on before I jumped James sans condom a couple weeks from now. Aw honey, wouldn’t it be so great if we had another little quarter-Chinese baby? Hell! Let’s make 10 of ‘em and we can have our own sweat shop!
Phew. My head’s back on straight. Relatively speaking, of course.
No more babies for us. James, I hope your new insurance covers vascectomies. You need one. Clearly, I’m not capable of holding myself back very well when the biological urge hits.
Current Mood:
Alarmed