All week I have been convinced that I am pregnant because of an over active gag reflex, a terrible burning sensation in my esophagus and boobage sensitivity. Add to that an insatiable desire to sleep standing up and a headache that could kill Courtney Love’s drug craving. Sure, I have taken two expensive, top of the line, digital pregnancy tests that have come back negative. But why would that stop me from coming to the conclusion that I was indeed with child once again and panicked on a nuclear level?
How can I be pregnant if my toddler starts nursery school in five days and I can now work or exercise or nap or go to a matinee while he watercolors with strangers that are charging me the average yearly salary of a Wendy’s Deep Fryer associate? I cannot be knocked up! I have a brand new vacuum cleaner whose purchase price including the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20 percent off coupon, equals the final bill for an Amnio after insurance and sucks in the good way. No, no, no! I just got back into my skinny jeans I bought used for fear that the $200 retail price I refused to pay would be wasted on a woman whose fashion sense went down with the Hindenburg. I just refilled my underwear drawer with really cute, sexy, naughty shit that matches upstairs and down and is not the circumference of a king size dust ruffle.
No, I am about to start P90X with Dave and get a Madonna body without the Dolce and Gabbana pantaloons or the Baby Jesus Blow Up Doll with free trial size of underage hair gel. Wait a minute. I have finally gotten back to sleeping eight hours a night and not leaking breast milk when I hear a car tire screech or a coyote eat a member of my immediate feline family. Holy God! My tolerance for alcohol is finally twice what it is for people and I just refilled the wine rack. We can now have dinner parties without asking the guests to leave before the salad course or insist they talk in sign language for fear the baby will rise up and scream for titty tartare.
And then there’s Otto. He thinks babies are meant to be used as trampolines, sharing may cause permanent damage, having his own room is a birth right and an incurable addiction and, that all toy trains were made specifically for him by magical elves who often whisper to him that he need never allow a sibling (a what?) to touch them. Lastly, he is convinced that mommy’s arms will break off at the elbow if she picks up anyone or anything else beside Otto, grocery bags filled with treats for Otto or dog shit bags containing poops by Otto.
After much sweat, tears and at long last, blood, my little friend arrived today. Sure, I feel a huge sense of relief. Of course, my acid reflux has disappeared and I can now get on with planning my freedom rides while school is in session. Sure thing, afternoon sexy time is back on the menu and shopping without a list and a Xanax can, thus, commence. But I cannot help but feel a tiny, teeny, itsy-bitsy sense of disappointment. If I were pregnant, I wouldn’t have to work out like a chain gang rookie while Dave tells me to go deeper into a squat or crank out one more push-up as I secretly curse him under my breath. I could sit on my every growing rear end and write about what it’s like to watch two red delicious apple sized boobs morph into cantaloupes and try not to cry about it.