Baby Number 3

So today I’m at my GYN, complaining of my usual irregularity (if that makes any sense:  I suppose, now that I think of it, there is some regularity to my irregularity, because I know what to expect.)

Recently, though, there were some things going on that were completely irregular. So I figured checking in with my doctor would be nice. (Besides, I love my doctor. LOVE HER LIKE A ROCK. She is awesome, and hella smart, and I went through countless idiots – female idiots, I might add – before I found her, which is why I refused to leave her even when she moved to a practice in Connecticut despite living an hour away in New Jersey.)

She says to me, “Well, what have you been using for birth control?”

“The kids I have now,”  I shoot back.

“Uh-huh. Wellll, you know, from what you’re saying, one of the things that could be causing what’s going on is pregnancy.”

As Jay-Z would say, jigga wha?

“Maybe we’d better take a test just to be sure,” she says. I think she is trying not to smirk.

This is when my mind starts racing.

You’re not pregnant. You’ve always known when you were pregnant, even before the doctors or the tests confirmed it. But are you sure? Like 100% sure? What if this is the one time you’re off? You’re not positive. Oh shit, pregnant? Okay, take it easy. You cried rivers when you found out you were pregnant with Pudding and you still feel so guilty about that because you cannot imagine life without this child, he is so fucking awesome and wonderful and life-affirming. So if you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant.  Celebrate! Whoo-hoo! It’s okay,  in another year you’re going to wonder how you could have life without this kid. Pudding and Punksin are awesome and you’ll look back and think, wow, I could have missed out on this child. It’s going to just be more awesomeness. And you can handle this because you are in a better place now, so it doesn’t have to be all about depression and setbacks.  You have a support system, you’re writing again, you’re making shit happen, and there’s none of it that can’t happen with a third child. There’s nothing to be afraid of except health issues and…well, maybe you and the baby will be okay.  It’s always a crap shoot and you’re older now but be positive. You’re in better shape, you’re taking even better care of yourself, if this is what’s happening…this is going to be okay.

So I go.

And I pee.

And we wait.

And we talk about her kids, 16 and 10, and my kids, 6 and 3.

And I’m somewhat floored because this is coming, not from left field, but from outer space; the thought of being pregnant had never occurred to me, not once. We have pretty much decided that we are done with having children, but yet…the door has not been nailed shut.  I wish I had had more children, but there are many reasons why I’m done…and yet, I am still wary of taking the permanent steps to make it so.

And so, yes, it is possible that even now, cells are dividing and multiplying and preparing to branch off and become arteries and legs and ears and toes and hair and lungs.

I’m nervous – but only a teensy bit nervous, not oh-my-God-what-am-I-going-to-do nervous.

The nurse pops her head in.

“Negative.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and slump back on the exam table.

And then I realize that a part of me is sad too.

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