I woke up this morning peeling vaguely pukey and incredibly cranky. Before I even got out of bed, I knew it was going to be one of those days. And I wasn’t thrilled about it. Still, there was a ravenous wolverine demanding, “Mommy, I HONKY!” from the nursery so I had to get up any way.
While I was making Boo’s breakfast, the nausea intensified. Suddenly, the smell of his 2% milk was too much and I knew that I was going to vomit RIGHT THEN. And I did, while leaning over the kitchen sink. Red heard me from the bedroom and came running as I was rinsing my mouth out. I looked up at him, with tears leaving black mascara tracks down my cheeks. “I think I’m sick,” I said. He didn’t answer me, but the way he was patting me on the back told me I’d stated the obvious.
He offered to stay up with Boo, but throwing up had made me feel a little better, so I told him to go back to bed. I tried laying down on the couch to see if the world would stop spinning around me, but all that did was make my pulse pound in my ears. Couple that with the fact that a certain two year-old decided emitting blood curdling yelps every few minutes was an appropriate way to gain my attention, and it wasn’t long before I was counting the seconds until nap time while hiding my head beneath a pillow and wishing for a swift death.
When I flopped down in bed beside Red two hours later, it felt like tiny little men had taken up residence in my skull where they were chipping away merrily with pickaxes. Red was sawing logs, and I needed a pity partner, so I intentionally elbowed him in the small of the back to wake him up.
Red: Ughhh, what?
Chelsie: I don’t feel good.
Red: Oh, I thought you were puking because you were celebrating something.
Chelsie: You’re an asshole.
Red: I know you don’t feel good, baby, but you don’t have to be grumpy about it.
Chelsie: I’m not grumpy. I’m sick.
Red: Jesus. You weren’t even this grumpy when you were pregnant.
Red: If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were pregnant.
Red quickly fell back to sleep, while I lay there beside him paralyzed with fear. It made sense. I had been exceptionally tired lately, sometimes to the point where I could barely keep my eyes open to get through the 6:00 PM news. I’d plowed my through an entire bottle of Tums in the last three weeks in an effort to fight off near constant heart burn. My boobs hurt. I craved nothing but incredibly spicy Indian food from a very specific restaurant on the north side of town. I was irritable. Well, more irritable than normal.
It all fit.
Sleep never came. When Red kissed me goodbye as he was leaving to take Boo to his parents’ house for the afternoon, I pretended like I was so I didn’t have to look up at him. I didn’t want him to see the sheer panic in my eyes, because I knew the moment he looked at me, he’d know something was wrong. So I let him whisper, “I love you,” in my ear without acknowledging him.
When the lock on the front door clicked, I felt instant regret. I should have told him. But I needed to know for sure-for sure before I worried him. As soon as I heard his tires crunch on the gravel at the end of the driveway, I bolted upright, pulled on a bra and a pair of shoes, grabbed my keys, and sprinted to my car. I didn’t even look in the mirror or straighten my hair, which was hanging in the same ponytail I’d pulled it up in the night before.
I didn’t care what I looked like. I just needed to know.
Five minutes later, I was standing at the check-out at Walgreens, a two-pack of off brand pregnancy tests clutched in my hands. When I swiped my debit card to pay, the cashier, whose long, braided hair and ankle length denim skirt shouted PENTECOSTAL! looked pointedly at the third finger of my left hand, checking for a ring. I didn’t say anything to her as she handed me my receipt. I just gave her a steely look and grabbed my bag. Without a backward glance, I walked to the back of the store toward the bathroom.
I checked both stalls of the bathroom to make sure no one else was in the room with me and then locked myself in the one furthest from the door. My hands shook so badly that I couldn’t even open the little foil package of the first test, so I tore it in two with my teeth. Thankfully, I managed to have a little more finesse taking the test itself. The instructions said it would take two minutes for results to appear, so I recapped it and set it on top of the commode where I couldn’t see. And I waited.
Those were the longest two minutes of my life.
Don’t get me wrong. I want more children. Every time I see a baby in public, I oooh and ahhh, no matter how ugly the kid is. And if I ever get to hold one, I take one sniff of their little downy head and practically ovulate on the spot.
Boo was the cutest baby EVER, and I’ll cut the bitch who suggests otherwise. His birth was an experience I’d wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I still carry the physical scars. Always will. But… I’d do it over again in a heartbeat. A boy? A girl? I don’t care. As long as they have ten toes and ten fingers and (if it’s not asking too much, Lord) blue eyes and curls like his/her big brother.
But there I sat, in the bathroom of a fucking Walgreens, waiting to see if my life was about to change forever (again) like a scared sixteen year-old. But that’s what I felt like. Scared.
The stop watch on my cell phone finally ticked down to the last ten seconds. I closed my eyes and reached behind me, blindly grappling for the slender plastic rod that held my destiny. When the alarm beeped, I turned it over and opened my eyes.
Two lines. Two unholy pink lines. The rabbit done died, y’all.
Selfishly, the first thought that flitted through my brain was about how big my ass was going to look in my white wedding dress after a second baby. I didn’t think about all the sleepless nights or bleeding nipples from breast feeding or being responsible for the livelihood and upbringing of two living, breathing human beings. I just thought about our wedding, a scant year away.
Knocked up. Again. Shit.
Except that’s not what I thought. Because I pushed ‘publish’ at exactly 11:59 PM on April 1, 2011. Which means it’s still April Fools Day, bitches.
Heh. Got ya?
I told you this was the month of blogging dangerously. When I say dangerously, I mean it. And do you really think I’d post a picture of a piece of plastic I just peed on? Come on. Give me a little more credit. I’m not that gross.
My apologies to those who are trying to conceive. We don’t have problems getting knocked up in my family. Basically, we look at one another sideways and end up pregnant.
So yeah. To sum it all up: Not pregnant. I’ve still got my pal Mirena for another two years. Heh.