One Pink Line

I, as a perpetual and professional student, am no stranger to volunteering as a guinea pig for various and sundry educational experiments. I’ve been poked, prodded, scraped, impressioned, dyed (as in, dyed GREEN), and cut. None of it scares me. But today (for the first time) I got to pee in a cup for the benefit of some soon-to-be medical assistants.

You owe us, they claimed.

You can have anything, I said. Just not my blood. I’m not a fan of vampires who don’t sparkle in the sunlight.

What? Someone asked.

Nevermind, I said.

Okay! Anyways, go ahead and pee in a cup so we can run three tests!

That sounds like… fun. I said.

Two other girls in my class volunteered to go after me. They decided to be my cheerleaders while I was in the bathroom.

You’re sexy and you know it! They chanted. In Spanish. Because saying something like that in a romance language makes trying to, um, aim and catch that into a tiny cup sooooooo much easier.

Are you done yet? Hurrrrrrrrrryyyyyyy!

Honestly, I wanted to choke the bitches out after that. Or at least pour my oh-so-carefully-obtained specimen over their skinny-ass heads. I love them, but shit like this takes serious concentration.

I mean. REALLY. No one ever tells you how much you need to, um, provide for an adequate sample. Is a few millimeters enough? Or should I give them something that looks like a mug of cold frosty beer? IT’S SO GODDAMN UNCLEAR.

Finally, I presented a strangely warm cup of my own bodily fluid to a barely post-pubescent girl for analysis.

This better be enough, because the fountain is dry, I said.

This is definitely plenty, she replied, swirling the contents of my bladder around in the cup. We need, like, ten or twelve drops max for the tests we’ll be running today.

Good to know, I quipped.

She used a tiny dropper I’d previously seen used to feed Sea Monkeys to place a tiny quantity of fluid on two test strips and one apparatus that looked suspiciously like a pregnancy test. She could have been testing my pee for illicit drugs or the presence of moon rocks. Whatever, I didn’t know. I was just along for the ride. But after about 30 seconds she pronounced me free of diabetes, urinary tract infection, and new guests in my womb.

Oh. I said. That’s good, I guess.

Did you think you may have been pregnant? she asked me.

No. But it’s good to know just for my peace of mind.

My teacher patted me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to be pregnant. A No! came quickly to my lips, but later as I thought of it, I wasn’t so sure.

It’s not like we’re trying. Far, far from it. In fact, I’ve for this handy-dandy little device implanted straight in my uterus that is supposed to prevent pregnancy 99.8% of the time. (TMI alert) Since this little device has stopped my cycle entirely, I stockpile tests from the Dollar Store and take them religiously every three months. Just to be sure.

This was the first time I’d ever taken a pregnancy test just for fun, if that’s even a thing. Prior to peeing in the cup, my boobs had been a tiny bit sore and I (imagined) I had been a little more irritable. For me, those are both tell-tale signs of being properly knocked up. So in my heart of hearts, I definitely harbored a what-if? scenario.

So what if?

We’re not ready for a second baby. We still don’t own our own home. I’m not employed, though that’s soon to change. We’re not in the right financial or practical position. Affordable infant care and school costs are more than we can really bear right now.

Babies take time. And truth be told, sometimes my pre-schooler is more than I can handle. I love him more than life itself, and he’s even asked for a little sister (soon followed by his request for a puppy), but there have been points in his existence when I’ve questioned if his terrible twos would ever end.

Still. I hunger for the feel of a newborn in my arms. I’m the crazy lady in Walmart who picks up packages of newborn size Pampers to smell them, in front of God and everyone,  just to relive the very first months with Boo. Those were among the happiest moments of my life, however sleep deprived they were.

Obviously, I want more children. One day. But not now. Red and I need to be on the same page, baby-wise, because at this point, I’m pretty sure my desire for a being who wears ruffle butt bloomers and frilly skirt exceeds his.

So I guess all I’m saying is that I’m finally ready for that point in my life when having another child wouldn’t be a burden, but rather a joy.

Y’all, I need that joy. Soon.

(DISCLAIMER: This post is in no way my secretive way of telling you guys I’m pregnant. Nope. I’m not that subtle. So don’t e-mail me about it.)

About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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1 Response to One Pink Line

  1. I’m so glad I’m not the only one who sniffs Pampers packages at Wal Mart. I figure its probably safer than snorting lines of baby powder. Oh, how I miss the baby days…

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