Pregnant Pause

Four days ago, I was kind of pretty sure that I was pregnant.  This morning, Mother Nature, along with two negative pregnancy tests, have assured me that I am not pregnant.  Today, I am equal parts relieved and sad by confirmation of no bun in oven.    

It all started 37 days ago when a Certain Good Friend was all...you don’t keep track of your period?  (Yeah. Girls talk about their PERIODS, okay?)  And I was all, um, no.  It just comes. I get cranky, I get bloated, I get a zit, I cry a lot, and then It comes. It’s never not come...oh....except for that one unexpected time when It didn’t come..now referred to as FIRST BORN.  

The point is, I decided, 37 days ago, that maybe Certain Good Friend was right.  It really wouldn’t take too much of an effort to just make a mark in my calendar when I got It, even though that would mean finding a pen, and a calendar.  Which I did and so I did. 

And then, I’m sitting around, feeling cranky, bloated, and sad about the zit on my chin when I realize, oh...well, It must be coming.  Any day now.  It should be happening.  Hmmm.  Why isn’t it happening?    Where is that calendar?  Maybe I should count the days.  31?  31 days?  No.  Let me count again.  31.  Hmmm.  Found out I was pregnant with Daughter at 32 days.  No.  I can’t be!  With a .01% chance?  Impossible.  (Practically.)

Day 32.  Day 33.  Day 34.  Day 34 I feel nauseous.  I was dragging on my run.  I had a headache.  OH SHIT I’M TOTALLY PREGNANT.

Here, a sampling of thoughts that were spinning right round baby right round the duration of Day 34:

Shit.

Oh, a baby!  I love babies.  I want a baby.  Yeah!  A baby.

Crap.

How will Son and Daughter take it?

I’m doomed.

Oh, God, Husband might pass out.

Good. Lord.

I always said I wanted another one.

Shit.

I do want another one.  Do I want one right now?  

Oh, crap.

Oh, God, I don’t want to have to lose all that weight again.

Motherf*&#@er.

Such a fun summer planned.

Damn it.

Now a sober summer.  BOO sober summer!

BOO.

The playroom will have to go back to a nursery.

Annoying.

It was so nice to have that room as a playroom.

Damn it.

I love babies.  I want a baby.

Lord.

But I just got my mojo back.  A baby, although one that will surely be a beautiful genius, will totally kill my mojo for at least one year.

I liked my mojo.

Goodbye mojo.

Hello leaky boobs and sleepless nights.

I need a drink.

Crap.

Evening 34: Husband bought pregnancy test and heartburn medicine.  Test: negative.  Oh.  

Day 35: second test.  Negative.  Really?

Day 36: Waiting.

Day 37: It arrives.  Doesn’t even apologize for being tardy.  Just shows up, like, oh yeah...sorry about that, lady.  Happens sometimes.  Get over it. (Yeah, my period is totally a dude.  Obviously.)

So, now I’m getting over it.  Summer plans resumed.  Thoughts of cooing baby pushed out of mind.  And then realized that I DO want another baby...but I could wait a couple of years.  And also, Husband didn’t pass out when confronted with possible third child. Didn’t have anxiety.  Gave me a hug and said, it would be wonderful.  

It will be wonderful.  One day.

And Husband...Husband is wonderful.

And, most likely, relieved.  For now.

Hollywood or Bust

I’ve been driving a lot lately. Normally, my daily driving is confined to a 3 mile radius, but due to a play I’m acting in and also my attempt to Contribute Financially by convincing someone to hire me to sell toilet paper, this Gelato Mama’s Volvo has been burning up the freeway with several weekly trips to Hollywood and back.  Actually, that’s a lie.  As if I would ever take the freeway to get anywhere in LA.   At about 45 minutes each way, Volvo and I have been getting to know each other again after years of being forced to share our time together with Little Children, while, although they are quite cute and charming, have been known to inflict severe stress and harm upon car and driver.   But, aside from the ulcer I have developed from the seemingly constant need for last minute childcare due to last minute notification of opportunity to sell toilet paper, the driving...well...it’s not so bad.  It’s quiet and peaceful.  And I can listen to songs with bad words.

It was on these solo drives that I realized just how completely and totally distracted I usually am while driving with the Offspring and perhaps, juuusstt perhaps, the act of parenting while driving should be deemed illegal as it is likely more dangerous than texting and driving, which here in California, is illegal.  Don’t believe me?  Consider, while in the car with Offspring, the following is happening:  

Besides being threatened with a complete breakdown by Daughter if she doesn’t get a GREEN! and an ORANGE! tic tac within 1.7 seconds of asking, I am simultaneously watching the road,  searching for a snack in my Mary Poppins purse, singing a song while playing ‘I Spy’, threatening to turn this car around, reaching directly behind me to grab water thermos from toddler before it is thrown at my head...not to mention that I’m trying to focus on my kegals and squeeze in a few abdominal contractions.  Pair this with fact one or both of my children are trying to get away using the words Poop, Pee Pee, and Fart as frequently as possible, usually singing it out the wide open windows, and you may start to get the idea that I might be a teensy- weensy- bit distracted while driving.

But, the good news is that I have a solution to the Distracted Parents Driving Problem: all cars should be equipped with a sliding window that divides the front seat from the back seat.  You know, like in a limo.  Or a police car.  Whichever one of those you happen to frequent most.  Do I even have to sell this idea?  No, I don’t.  But I will anyway.

Imagine this scenario: You are on the way to Target with the Small Children.  Once safely buckled up and on the way, Small Children ask for water.  Well, Small Children, Mama didn’t bring water.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Target.  Now, instead of listening to the declarations from Small Children of torture and thirst that they are being forced to endure on the 5 minute car ride to said destination, Mama can just clllooooose that window up and peacefully make her way to the Mecca of Target without issuing a single threat.  Yes, with just the simple zip of a window, you have not only increased your mental stability but decreased your chances of not seeing that asshole who cut you off in his fancy 7 Series BMW.  DON’T YOU KNOW I HAVE CHILDREN IN HERE, MAN?  And if you still happen to get cut off by impatient drivers, feel free to curse out loud because no little ears can hear you.  Win.Win.Win.  It's possible that I may have also just solved world peace with this little idea because, as we all know...if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  And this...this little dividing window could make Mama very...very...happy.

Now...onto my next mission: who wants to watch my kids on Friday?  I need to drive to Hollywood and convince someone I’m the perfect face to sell...toilet paper.