One Day Late

My menstrual cycle was one day late.

Ten years ago, this statement would have filled me with dread.  It would have been spoken, not written, and hushed tones to a close confidant.  The nineteen-year-old version of myself would have gone to bed with nightmares of stretch marks, fussy babies, and dirty diapers.   

Fast forward ten years.

The twenty-nine year old version of myself was THRILLED. (I was so thrilled, in fact, that I am willing to break my cardinal rule as an English teacher and write the word using capital letters.)  I am dreaming of a cute, watermelon-sized baby bump and that pregnancy glow and a cooing child with my husband’s large, blue eyes.  (Ten years has not changed my opinion on dirty diapers.)

After nine years of marriage, my husband and I have decided to have a child together.

Like most aspects of my life, I have approached this issue with military-like precision.  I have saved forty-two days of sick leave so I have have a paid maternity leave, I stopped taking my birth control a year and a half ago, I have dutifully choked, literally, down the horse-sized prenatal vitamins each day, I have charted my cycle and added it to my daily calendar complete with a little sex alarm reminder, and I have revised my eating habits. Did you know that pineapple cores help implementation?  I do.  

fter a sex-filled month, I have awaited the due date of my menstrual cycle like a child awaits Christmas morning.  While children spend the days leading up to Christmas staring at, shaking, and analyzing their christmas gifts, I have been scrutinizing my bloated stomach and sore breast with anticipation. I can almost visualize my poppy seed sized fetus ballooning inside me.  I find my box of pregnancy tests, pre-ordered on Amazon Prime in the weeks leading up to this moment, and I leave them on my bathroom counter directly next to the toilet.  I wake up an hour earlier than usual eager with anticipation and urine, due to the canteen of water I downed before bed, and I urinate into the plastic cup provided with my kit.

Then I notice it. Blood.

The elation I would have felt ten years ago, and the happy dance that would have ensued, can only be matched by the disappointment I feel in this moment.  

I know it's only our first year of trying in earnest, but god damn it, I just want to be pregnant already.  It’s my sister’s birthday, and I am going to go out and drown my sorrows with a glass (or two) of wine.  I need to take advantage of this small window where I can have a guilt free drink.

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