Things I Have Done Today Rather Than Take a Pregnancy Test:
1. Made soup
2. Cleaned the playroom
3. Went outside barefoot with Patrick and stepped on something disgusting. Something grey and wormy that was revolting to begin with and became infinitely more so when it exploded under my Mack foot.
4. Talked on the phone with my imaginary friend who has threatened me with grievous bodily harm if I show up pregnant for our debauched Charleston family beach frolic in two weeks.
5. Actually cleaned the kitchen counters with a sponge AND a cleanser rather than my usual palm-of-hand sweep method.
6. Calculated the amount of time I have spent pregnant (7+12+6+19+40+11+11 weeks equals 106 weeks minus the first 4 weeks that don't count times 7 equals 78 weeks times 7 equals 546 days divided by 365 equals: 1.49 years.)
7. Made sure the guest room is ready for my father-in-law tonight.
8. Peed 5000 times in the bathroom on the far side of the house from the drawer full of pregnancy tests.
9. Wrote this.
I am fresh out of ideas.
In case you were wondering, I am now back to thinking I might actually be pregnant. It's the full-ish breasts mainly, coupled with the utter absence of, ahem, menses. I could go into a long description of my cycles and when they have been different and what is always the same but haven't you people suffered enough? So suffice to say, I am hopeful. And... and something. Full of dread. Dreadful. Ha ha, I say, "I am dreadful" and you all yell, "We know!"
I should take another damned test. If I was reading this I would be shouting at the screen "Oh Jesus Gay! Take the fucking pregnancy test and shut up already!" I would, you know. I am mean like that.
But it is pleasant to just feel hopeful. If it is negative then I will have that flutter of disappointment and if it is positive then the whole juggernaut of Probably-Doomed Pregnancy will swing inexorably into motion and that is hard.
So I am trying to enjoy this fleeting moment of possibilities.
I am totally failing to enjoy this moment of possibilities.