When I got home from work, I said to C, “if I’m not pregnant, I just want to know now – it’s the uncertainty that I can’t handle.” It turns out, I’m no better with disappointment. Just a couple hours later, the universe heeded my (dubious) call: I got my period.
But I still think I knew. So much so that this morning I briefly daydreamed about throwing a surprise party for Aunt Flo. You know, ovary-shaped-piñata, cake, kazoos, the whole deal. C and I – and Luna, much to her consternation – would put on party hats and blow out candles and surprise her, beat her at her own game (or something). By the time I realized I was on THE-CRAZY-TRAIN-TO-INSANE-VILLE, I was already buying crepe paper (blue, if you must know, because red would be too obvious).
Which is why I was left so unhinged by the kind of catastrophic emotion that overwhelmed me as I emerged from the
hell where hope goes to die bathroom. I was clobbered by it; left
completely unprepared in my vow of pessimism. I spent the last few days telling
myself on the regular that hope was something for other people, meanwhile I was
hanging on to it with abandon.
I feel unmoored and adrift (because apparently I am a boat - and a rock and an island <please excuse me while I break into song>). I digress.
Anyway. I know where we go next – I know how to put one foot in front of the other and soldier on. I know that really, really, it hasn’t been that long that we’ve been trying, that I respond well to the barrels of hormones charging through my veins, that it’s a long way until we’re out of options, [insert other well meaning bullshit that might work for other people but hrmph]. But I am also ready for this to be over; to feel like myself again, instead of the hormone-addled-though-slightly-bigger-boobed-version-of-me. And also to be holding a baby. Preferably mine.