Monday, June 30, 2008

what I didn't do yesterday

Or today, for that matter.

Is ceremoniously dip a pregnancy test in my wee.

I bought the test on Friday in preparation for Sunday morning, and here it is Monday afternoon and the stupid thing is STILL on the desk here next to me.

I guess I like hoping I'm pregnant more than I like finding out I'm not.


I haven't got my period, and considering I had a (and this has got to be the most erotic statement made on the internet this week) 10mm endometrium measured roughly three weeks ago, unless some inappropriately packaged superglue made its way into the embryo transferring thingummy jig, would I still be carrying that bunch of shit around in my uterus?

And as Angie noted, that second line was probably too hefty to be considered an evaporation line.

Life at present seems to be a series of angst ridden statements that are followed closely by a complex anti-angst argument beginning with the exclamation marked, uppercase version of the word "but".

My boobs aren't sore.

BUT! Contrary to the sore norkatude that was a feature of my pre Daniel PMS days, since I've had him, my rack is TOTALLY uninvolved, which must mean that my hooters being sore AT ALL - and they are! A bit, if I stab at them hard enough with my index finger - is a GOOD sign.

I don't feel pregnant.

BUT! Humungeously sore ta-tas aside, I didn't feel pregnant with Daniel either. I remember rocking up way before my next scheduled blood draw and sighing deeply and dramatically enough for a nurse to do a blood draw right then. Not because she believed me, to shut me up. In a nice way. And guess what? I was still pregnant.

The odds are against it.


Two lines, and I've used that same brand and batch of pregnancy tests before and didn't notice an evaporation line AT ALL when I fished that fucker out of the bin to be sure.

Tomorrow (at DAWN, god help me) is the official HcG (or however it's written) Quantitative Test and as it's being done at a public hospital, I guess the unit will phone in the results shortly after this kid turns 18.

If there is a kid.

Oh, I neglected to address Mary's comment about Sunday's test versus Tuesday's. Tuesday's is the official blood test, and Sunday's was the optional home pregnancy test. That I could take anytime. Like now, considering my full bladder and the world's desire to know what the fuck.

I actually thought about it for real then, y'all, but I'm really and truly too chickenshit to know for sure because even if it does say I'm pregnant, then I've got the almighty dread of the quantitative amount that comes back tomorrow being too low for it to be viable.

Rest assured, if I happen to spontaneously pee all over the damn thing anytime between now and tomorrow afternoon, I'll let you know.


About Daniel's haircut: his kid, Roy, had asked me on Friday when Daniel was going to get short hair, "just like a real boy". It wasn't malicious, he was truly curious, but regardless, I figured it was time to attend to his long hair before it did become an issue. I mean, no child wants to feel different, and I didn't want the other children to wonder about his boy/girl status, so when we went for a walk on Saturday, I asked Daniel if he wanted his hair cut short, like the other boys, thinking I'd plan for next week at my own hairdresser's as I'm not working much then and bla bla BLA. Well. Daniel put "I wan da heyah cut I wan da heyah cut I wan da heyah cut" on repeat, and while I couldn't be sure it wasn't his No Nap status (seriously, check out the zombie on photo four of the series) giving him that single mindedness, because he WAS so insistent, and because I really DID clarify just what the fuck this whole haircut deal meant in re his Fabio-esque locks (seriously, they might be small, slurringly drunk maniacs, but they TOTALLY get a LOT more of what we tell/say to/ask of them than we realise), we went to the mall and walked straight into the barber shop. Because if we were going to get him a Real Man Hair Do, we were going to get it where Real Man go. Also, barber shop? $15.80. Hair salon? Considerably more.

Then I gritted my teeth, confirmed again that this is what he wanted, and you guys? He was SO EXCITED.

So that cute little chick in the photos, Natasha, who was about twelve and who, in truly poetic Well OF COURSE She Does style, has two year old brother herself, stuck him on the Little Kids Booster Seat, draped him and with his little feet poking out from underneath *bam* my little boy's long hair was chopped off in one fell swoop, and now his long blonde pony tail is over there is a ziplock bag.

That ponytail, but the way and in the interests of probably gross full disclosure, is the same hair that wafted around my amniotic fluid way back the day. The rest of it fell out when he was around three months old, but that bit at the back? His mullet? That is the same mullet he had before he was born.

Daniel had a GREAT time too, the little freak. He sat and watched and when his curls started falling in front of him, was all "waddat?!", which is his trademark question these days for EVERYTHING, along with the index finger accompanied "you hear dat?"

Then it was over, and Natasha waxed his hair which, while it looked great, eyoo, you know what I'm sayin'? Then we left and the first thing he told me was "I wan dah heyah up" which is what he says when he wants his hair in a ponytail. No shit, I really struggled to not ball my eyes out and only just kept my shit together when I explained that no, darling, you can't do that anymore. FOREVER, if The Man has anything to say about it.

He asked several times aafter his bath yesterday too, and I'm getting a lump in my chest just thinking about it.

For the most part though, he seems to be reveling in this new hair freedom. Or maybe his Mood Moderating Hormones reside in his keratin stores because dude has been acting all whackjob ever since.

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