So, a couple of weeks ago I was engaged in a full-on five-alarm panic that my usually-like-clockwork period was two days late.
Two days. Holy fuckballs.
HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?! I shrieked inside my head, wandering around my house with my arms clamped to the sides of my face, my eyes wide and round.
It was a PED day for Oliver, and Madame had no school that day anyway… it was raining outside, heavily, and as we were indoors, they were already driving me mental. And now I was considering this fate we’d created… Oh. My. God. NO!!
I do not want another baby. No. No thank you.
No. No. No.
I come from a house of science-minded people. My father was a doctor. My mother was a life-sciences major. We watched the Discovery channel at home All. The. Time. There was no getting around knowing about the reproductive systems of practically anything, from a cobra to a kangaroo, least of all about one’s own human body.
In my early teens, as we studied all things fallopian, my mother turned to me and said quite clearly, “So, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.”
That was the nugget of gold right there. You can’t un-know what you know. And so, where I come from, “falling pregnant” was deemed just a bit careless and/or stupid. (And please – save your for instances for someone else. I’m not being all Judgy McJudge about anyone else’s case – I’m talking about ME, here.)
I’m certain that little pearl kept me quite scared chaste for several years. (That, and the fact that in high school, I was about as sexy as twelve year old boy.) The point is, I was careful. Very careful. Always.
Martin and I agreed that after I got through the exponentially harder part of growing and having the babies, he would make a visit to Dr. Schnippy to ensure that we didn’t have any more of them. Seems fair, no? Yes.
I was on the pill for years and years. I was smoking cigarettes AND getting older – these ingredients make for the ideal recipe for stroking out, in case you didn’t know – and anyway, Martin and I had a deal… so I never went back on them after baby #2. Only that was about two and a half years ago. So.
Everyone knows the rhythm method doesn’t work well. It’s like roulette… it’s only a matter of time until a baby lands on you.
I understand how an I.U.D. works, but at the same time I don’t really see how one can play barrier enough to stop microscopic spermatozoa from getting to the magic egg. Oh people, I’m just kidding!! Of couse I understand it. I do. (Okay, I so totally don’t understand it at all…) So you can see why I’m just not going there.
And condoms are just so… nast. They’re awful. And they smell all weird and stuff. There’s no graceful way to remove of such a thing once it’s done it’s job either. Oh, ew. So often, we’d just abstain from the mid-cycle days altogether, and we’ve been super careful about “spillage” anywhere near the pleasure dome.
So HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?!
Well, I’ll tell you how. As we were busy renovating the apartment all winter, and into much of the spring, everything boudoir had been moved to the back burner. Like way, waaaaaaay back. But now that most of the work is completed, we’ve been making up for lost time. (Heh.)
Also, since I’m completely arrogant about my sieve-like memory, I haven’t been properly keeping track of thing by marking dates in the calendar and whatnot. I kept thinking, “Oh, I’ll write that down… I won’t forget when the last day was… it came the Tuesday after that playdate with those nice people we met at the park, blah, blah, fucking blah…” and just like that, I’d not made a proper note for months.
And though she can be a bitch to host, I’m ever so happy to see Aunt Flo each and every time. Like, Phew! Thank GOD you’re here!! For a minute I thought you weren’t coming… oh my goodness, what would HAPPEN to us if you hadn’t shown UP??!
So in my ultra-panicked state the other day, I can’t even describe my anxiety. I was nuts. I mean, stunned. Terrified. Petrified. I couldn’t even FB or tweet about it to anyone. Not. Funny.
I looked around at my two kids home from school that day who were already killingmeohmygod, and all I could think of was being a Bjorn-bouncing, lactating, sleep-deprived-and-crazy mother to a newborn again, and I almost started crying. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!!
And what would I say to Martin? And the man has practically become VEGETARIAN!! He will lift a drowning fruit fly, gingerly and delicately out of his wine glass and place nestle it onto a basil leaf in our herb window box. Fuck. FUCK! He will have changed his thinking about our arrangement, I just know it… and then what? Oh HOW will I CONVINCE HIM!! Oh lord. Oh God.
AND HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN THIS TO MY MOTHER!!! I tell you, I sweat bullets for a few hours while I was worked out how soon I could get to a pharmacy for a pee-stick.
And then!
I remembered that I recently wrote a post regarding a nasty bout of gastro, and I had my period during that time… I looked up the post, remembered the timing… counted the days.. and voila!! Oh, it’s due next week. NEXT week. NEXT WEEK!! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, THANK GOD!!
And I proceded to skip around and do the happy dance for about 20 minutes. Ava Scarlett joined in and thought it was just about the best fun she’d had all day (which it totally was, because up until then, I’d been frantically pacing and brooding, and telling everyone around me to SHHHHHHH! and Will you PLEASE just shut your mouth for a few minutes so mummy can THINK?!) Yeah. Sometimes I’m not very nice at all.
Which is yet another reason that I do not want another child. I only have two hands and two eyes. I am already over-extended. I adore them, but I’m all used up, thanks. And with Madame being thisclose to being out of diapers, we’re nearly out of the woods with the “baby” part. It was fun, and babies are gorgeous and delicious and wonderful and all that, but they’re also super bossy and bitchy and unreasonable and immature. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m ready to move on.
And I’m not going back to baby prison.
And though we’d decided in the past that if we fell pregnant again, we wouldn’t have another baby (don’t judge) I’m certain it has to be a much easier thing to say, than to do. I can’t imagine the choice is ever an easy one to make – not in any scenario – but I’m glad I have choice. And so, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.
But I spent all my mental energy worrying about it. Seriously. It can really impede a lady’s sex life. Because you know what’s not sexy? Worrying about getting pregnant all the time. There’s nothing LESS sexy than lying on your back, touching fingers to thumb one after the other, whispering, “Thurs…day… Fri…day… twelve, thirteen, fourteen… is today Sunday?!” Yeah. That’s not sexy at all.
And with my luck, and at my peri-menopausal stage in the game, not only would I get completely and totally pregnant, but I’d get blessed saddled with triplets or something like that. And they’d all be blind and have hooks for hands. And clocks where their stomachs should be. Oh yes, it would happen to me. I’ll just try not to fuck up stick with the two I have. They are enough treasure for my lifetime.
So I’m happy to report that not only am I not pregnant, but Martin also made his appointment with Dr. Schnippy, and The Vas has been drawn and quartered. No more babies.
But we’re double-bagging it for the next 3 months, just in case.
G.G.
NOTE: C’mon, now. You KNOW I love these freaks, right?
