Nothing to See Here…

Friday, August 18th marks the one year anniversary of my first post on this blog.

Oh, there was another blog.  A short lived trial blog.  A blog PILOT.  But that one got deleted (I’ll show HIM, the bastard! I’ll just click this here delete button!)

Figures that on my one year blogiversary, I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say whatsoever. 

Um, I sometimes think my feet smell pleasant even when my husband insists they do not??? 

See, that’s what I mean.  I got nothing.  Nothing to say at all.  I don’t even know why you people keep coming here day after day.  But I like having you visit me so much that it scares me to have nothing to say.  Therefore, I’m giving each of you a one thousand dollar bill! 

OK, not really.  I would if I could, but I spent it all on Skittles.

Of course, on one’s Blogiversary, seems like the gifts should be coming to ME!  Right?  I’ll accept your gifts in the form of comments.  And all you shy but fabulously bloggers and readers who visit here (and you know who you are), maybe it’s time to come out and comment.  As a gift.  To me.  Or else just send Skittles. 

OK, here’s a story.  Ha.  Haha!  You’re going to laugh.  It’s so funny.  Of course, just two hours ago, I was ready to jump from a ledge - a very high ledge, not one of those first story low down ledges that pose no risk at all.  A high, high ledge.

Here’s the deal:  I’m done having children.  Five is enough, no matter what Dick Van Patton says.  At least for me five is enough.  I’m all FORTY-ONE years old and cocky in my doneness.  THAT’S how done I am.

Yesterday, my boobs were hurting.  I didn’t think much of it because I am the person least in tune with my body on this entire planet.  There could be a flashing neon sign on me that says ‘Your appendix is about to burst.’ and I would probably come here and ask you people if you had any clue what that message meant.  That’s how out of touch I am.

Today, my boobs hurt again.  And this afternoon at work, I thought “Wow, hurting boobs, I haven’t had that since…. OH MY FUCKING GOD I’M PREGNANT.”  It was a very loud thought and yes, I tooketh the lord’s name in vain.  Or vaineth.  Whatever.

So Bill picks me up at the end of the day and I make him take me to buy a home pregnancy test.  We drive home and I run right upstairs and pee on the stick and I stared at it so hard and with so much fear in my heart that the stick shriveled up and disappeared right off the counter - my pee is that potent.  OK, so I’m exaggerating a little.  I did somehow break the damn thing because the control window never got a line at all so obviously the test was screwed.  I HAD NO RESULT.

By this time, I’m going through the mental list of symptoms… getting up at night to pee, check.  Thirsty all the time, check.  Tired.  Tired?  Fuck, I’m always tired, how would I know?

I was so mad at that first test, but the pack came with two, two, two tests in one.  I thought I should wait and use the second test in the morning.  That seemed so sensible - strong first morning urine and all that.  Yes, gosh, if I’m going to have these emergency pregnancy scares over three fucking decades of my life, I ought to learn how to be sensible and calm and mature when I handle them, right?  So I agreed with myself that first morning urine was best.  First morning urine is ALWAYS best.  I patted myself on the back for all my maturity and sensibility.

Ten minutes later, I could not possibly wait another minute, much less until morning.  So I peed on a stick again.  This time, following the instructions very closely (downward angle, five seconds, yes, yes… got it.)  This time the control window line was quick to show up.  And the result window was quick too… wait for it, wait for it……

Negative. NEG A TIVE.  NEGATIVE.

Whew.  ‘Cause I’m done, right?  I’m very done.  So done.  A pregnancy would have been bad.  Very bad.  It would have been so hard on my old broken down body.  It would have been so hard on my marriage.  So hard on the family.  So hard… 

WHY AM I SO SAD?  I should be dancing around the house, right?  Celebrating?  There should be vast amounts of alcohol in this celebration.  I’m NOT pregnant!!!

And yet, for a few minutes there… a few short hours… I had a glimpse of a little baby.  Maybe my sixth daughter, Hazel.  Maybe a long awaited baby boy, William Hunter, Jr.  A baby to fall asleep on my chest in such a position that I merely need to tilt my nose down to get a whiff of baby-head.  A baby to nurse who will glance up and smile for a brief moment before going back to work.  A baby to have all to myself in the quiet hours of the dark early mornings. 

A gift is something you don’t ask for and don’t expect but it just shows up and makes you happy.  I almost thought I had gotten a gift.  And then - whoosh - that glimpse, that hope, that thing that I didn’t want anyway - was snatched away by a big fat negative result on a pee-soaked plastic stick.  And now I’m sort of sad about it.  Sad in a happy way.

Happy blogiversary to me, the non-pregnant, smelly-footed fat chick who can’t figure out what the hell she wants or how to go about getting it.  Blah!  Give me some comment love, people!!!