This Is What They Mean When They Say....

On pins and needles. Or tenterhooks. Or pins and needles AND tenterhooks. Here is how my thought processes have gone this week:

I feel bloated. I must be getting ready to start.

I feel queasy. I really am pregnant.

Criminy, would you look at the size of that zit! I must be getting ready to start.

I have heartburn. I really am pregnant.

Geez my back hurts. I must be getting ready to start.

Yeast infection, are you kidding me? I really am pregnant.

My pants feel really snug. I must be getting ready to start.

GOD I'M HUNGRY. I really am pregnant.

Sweet JESUS I need chocolate. I must be getting ready to start.

I have to pee again. I must be pregnant.

Is that a cramp? I must be getting ready to start.

I wonder if husband is in the mood. I really am pregnant.

Every twinge, every pang, every blemish, gripe and groan is a "clue". It's driving me crazy, but I can't stop. Right now, I really do feel kind of pre-menstrual, but I've also been feeling queasy.

Clearly, the cosmos is toying with me.

I called the doctor's office a few minutes ago, and the results were not yet in. The nurse said she thought tomorrow at the latest. She apologized and sympathizes with my anxiousness.

Husband and I have been talking.

"Where are we going to put a baby?" he aksed.

Knowing that husband would need to be handled with kid gloves throughout this process, I have tried to anticipate all his concerns. Thus, I had a solution at the ready.

"Well, the boys can room together in the bonus room over the garage, then we can put your office and the spare bed in Pubescent One's room, and the nursery in Dimiuntive One's room."

"They'll kill each other. They're like beta fish."

"I shared a room with my sister almost my whole life. It made us very close."

"You and your sister were not polar opposites in every respect. And besides, Pubescent One is at an age where he really needs his privacy, if you know what I mean."

"That's what showers are for. And don't talk to me about that."

I choose to be blissfully ignorant of that particular adolescent proclivity.

"I'm just sayin. Little brothers can really cramp a guy's style."

"Babies can really cramp ours, but we'll deal with it, and so will they."

Husband snorted, but did not pursue it further.

My mother asked me if I'll be sad if the result is negative. Truthfully, yes, a little. But I'll also feel relieved. And I suspect that this wistful ambivalence will be something that stays with me until nature decides to remove my choice in the matter.

I wonder, if a woman ever truly stops thinking about the joy of creating a life; feeling it grow and move, safe within the warmth of her body.

I wonder if a woman ever forgets the sweetness of babies.