You might ask. If you happen to check in daily, you notice that I've taken the week off. I didn't intend to. But I was busy peeing on sticks. You know, to see if I'm gestating.
I'm not. If my blog was complete with narrative sound effects, you'd be listening to a big drama-queen sigh right here.
In all my Fertile Myrtle cockiness, I was certain getting knocked up the second time would be as simple as it was first time. Husband looks at me sideways and poof! Fertilized.
Not so much this time.
But it couldn't be easy, could it? Couldn't just get my period like a normal person, like I have every 28 days since Ethan was 3 months old. Nope. I had to be late. For no reason. Those two days led to, I don't think it's much of an exaggeration to say it, OBSESSION with peeing on sticks. For a few days, I had a 3 a day habit going on there. Nada.
And I learned something about myself. I suck at peeing on sticks. There are apparently rules you have to follow--exact amounts of time that you should pee on the aforementioned stick. Anything over or under that precise amount of seconds (Mississippi-less seconds, mind you), will result in an invalid test. I had a couple invalid tests before I bothered to read the instructions, because really....it's peeing on a freaking stick, people!!! How hard can it be?
Clearly, my pea-brain was taxed to it's maximum capacity, what with all the energy and time it spent fabricating pregnancy symptoms. Like implantation cramping. Yeah, okay, lunatic girl. And bloating. Because I don't bloat every.single.month or anything like that, right? And moodiness. Yes, that's right. I said moodiness. Clearly a symptom of pregnancy for me because if you know me at all, you know that I am the most emotionally even-keeled gal around. Um.....not.
So I spent a lot of time hopping from one foot to the other while I tried to open pee sticks. I spent a good amount of time in Target buying yet another pink package of sticks. I spent, apparently, not enough time time reading instructions, as is evidenced by the inordinate amount of time I spent staring at completely empty test and control windows, whining, "What the fuck???!!!" And then I spent a bit of time this morning pouting when the end all, be all of negative pregnancy tests, mah period, decided to finally get off her ass and show up.
Alas, I hope I got this whole obsessing thing out of my system. I wasn't like this with Ethan. I barely thought about symptoms until I was a few hours from testing and I didn't test until I was late. It was lovely to be so nonchalant about it. But I guess then I didn't realize what was ahead. I also didn't think then, like I know now, this is the last time.
This time I feel like I need to grasp for every last second of the experience. The next pregnancy test I see a positive sign from will, most likely, be the last positive pregnancy test I ever see. The first symptoms will, again most likely, be the last first symptoms I ever feel. I don't want to miss a second of it. I want to know as soon as possible so I can begin living this next pregnancy with a mindfulness I didn't think to possess during the first.
So I give myself about 25 days to chill the hell out. Then, much as I like to think I will be laid back and mellow a la October '05 about it all, I know I will poking at my boobs to see if they're sore and standing in line at Target with the first pink package of sticks for the month.