Well, the uterus decided "or not," although not without some nail-biting confusion. You know, I've only been getting a period for about 25 years now, so sometimes what "is" and what "isn't" can still be confusing. Of course I had to pee on at least two sticks, because who knows?!! I don't want to end up being on that TLC show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," where women have unprotected sex, horrible back pain and gas for months on end and then one day, "POOF!!!" they give birth in their upstairs bathroom, thinking they really just have to take a huge crap.
I hate those women. Hate them. Sorry interwebs, if you were one of those women. But I hate them.
So anyway, took two tests, got negatives and STILL have to go in for a blood test at the clinic tomorrow because "what if the test are wrong, you're actually pregnant, and you start taking the injections again and then you have a baby with 5 heads?!" Because that's another TLC show I don't want to be on.
So I'm wicked psyched to go give up a vial of blood so they can reassure me that yes, indeed, as I had already confirmed at home, I am indeed The Queen of All Barrenness. Appropriate that I should be named Sarah. She was barren, too, until she had Isaac at the age of like 450. Fortunately, though, I am one up on that Sarah, given that I have Ethan, who becomes more like a miracle to me with every passing month. Here I was thinking I was so fertile, considering I barely looked at Husband and was knocked up; now I think the planets had aligned, the moon was in retrograde, and some sort of divine intervention made it happen. Because four years later, 28,000,000 of Husband's best swimmers (yes, I said 28,000,000--clearly the issue isn't with him) can't find one good egg up in my business.
Oh, woe is me. Yadda yadda yadda. I am so sick of my self-pity. And yet.
But let's roll out the pity party for Ethan, shall we? The child has been almost ten days without his daddy and I think when he sees Husband walk through security at the airport tomorrow, his head might simply explode with a messy mixture of relief, joy and vengeful spite. I can only imagine the tasmanian devil of emotions he is going to unleash on Husband. "I'm so glad you're home! I missed you! Where the fuck were you??!! I'm so mad that you left! I looooooove you!!! I will NOT hug you!!! HUG ME!!!!!!" and so on. (just a note: he will not use the word "fuck". That was all me.)
He's been as good as he could possibly be, poor kid. I've tried to keep him going on a steady diet of play dates and late night (8pm) Noggin. We discovered The Upside Down Show, which doesnt' come on until 8pm and I fear is going to wreak havoc on our evenings from here on in. Ethan is usually in bed and asleep by 8pm. I sense now that this is a thing of the past. He must see The Upside Down Show. He will not be denied. And in my Husband-less state, I'm pretty powerless to assert any sort of "I run the show"-iness by 8pm. Who knows? Maybe with Husband's return things will go back to the way they were? Ha. I wonder if I can explain to Ethan the magic of the DVR in enough detail that he'll consent to watching his new favorite show sometime other than 8pm? Also, Ha.
But anyway, last night, as I was snuggling down with him after our three books, I said, "I love you so much, little man." Usually, I get an immediate, "I love you so much, too, Mommy." Yes, sweet, I know. Last night, though, there was a bit of a pause, then he said, "I love you so much, too, Mommy. But I really really miss Daddy."
Heart. Busting. All. Over. Room.
My poor little guy. Tomorrow afternoon cannot come fast enough for him. Or me.