Have you ever known something to be impossible, but were sure it was happening anyhow?
I had one of those this week.
I thought – despite all my planning and all my paranoia and all my praying – that I was <deep breath> pregnant.
Forget the fact that I’ve become The Condom Nazi (as in “Don’t you even think of touching me if you’re not wearing one”). Forget the fact that my period is still coming like clockwork (a slightly broken, irregular clock, but still). Forget the fact that my eleven month old son sucks The Will to Have Sex right out of me.
I was SURE I was pregnant.
Incontrovertible proof :
- I turned my nose up at yummy, melty nachos. I LOVE nachos. I MUST be pregnant, right?
- Increased vaginal discharge. You could sail boats in my knickers. Seriously.
- I have the worst luck on the planet. If Murphy and his stupid Law were going to mess with someone, why shouldn’t they mess around with my chosen method of birth control. 99.98% my arse.
- Andrea’s psychic said that ‘someone’ in our family would be getting pregnant soon. It’s GOTTA be me, right?
All this added up to me popping out Spawn #2 before Spawn #1 reached his 2nd birthday, so I headed out to Shoppers to pick myself up a test, completely convinced that once I’d peed on the thing it would scream:
“You idiot! You’re pregnant! Again! And it’s another boy! Twins actually. That’ll teach you to have sex with only one condom.”
As I sat waiting for the test to deliver that news that would mess up my life FOREVER, I mentally ate humble pie for all those times I’d thought that only stupid, slutty, trailer trashy, 16 year olds got pregnant by accident. Intelligent, responsible women like myself PLAN for babies, right? RIGHT?
Then it happened. Heaven opened, choirs of angels descended and I saw the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed:
A single, blessed blue line.
Bring on the nachos.