Up until yesterday morning, I thought I might be pregnant. And I wasn't happy about it.
And that upsets me.
It took four years, a misfiring reproductive system, surgery, insulin-controlling drugs, hormone injections, Dr. Miracle, and numerous artificial insemination procedures to finally have Miss-Miss and Bubba. It was a time of confusion, tears, wailing, and just general tearing of my hair. It was agony and I can distinctly remember a phone conversation with Ty-man in which I asked, no begged, him to divorce me so that he could find a woman in whom his seed could find purchase.
He flatly refused (thank FSM). And we had our beautiful twins. Dr. Miracle promptly put me back on the insulin-controlling meds and waited. He knew what would happen.
Me? Not so much. At least, not until the twins' first birthday when those three over-the-counter pregnancy tests loudly announced Whoa, Nelly! Lookee there! You gotta a bun in the oven! Whoda thunk it? Your f-ed up egg-makin' machines done fin'ly figured it out!
Let's just say that after J-man's weaning, Dr. Miracle put me on some strong-ass birth control. Really strong. Not only to keep another surprise at bay, but to also control my endometriosis. Now, for a woman whose teen-age, pre-oral contraceptive period days were legendary (Yeah, hi. Mr. South Charleston Kroger Manager? All those Kotex products on Aisle 12? I'll take them all. Yes. No, I'm not kidding. They'll be gone within 10 days. Seriously. Give them to me! OR I'LL BLEED ALL OVER YOU!!!) and for a woman whose 20s were spent on the phone with random gynecologists trying to convince them that Ortho-Tricyclene and Tri-phasil were the biggest jokes of the pharmeceutical industry because, control bleeding and cramps during one's monthly cycle? Total, complete, and utter bullpucky.
Now I'm taking Ovcon-50. Damn. My period? One day long. I barely even know it's happening. Cramps? What the Hell are those? Zits? Never heard of 'em.
And when my never happens anymore period finally decided to show up three days, instead of two, into the sugar pill row, I. Was. Freaked. I was worried that the Ty-man's super-sperm had somehow broken through the defenses of the strongest of oral contraceptives. That maybe taking pill #10 at 11:30PM instead of 11PM had caused that random egg to cut loose from my shriveled ovaries and make like Clint Eastwood out of Alcatraz (God, I love that movie).
And I didn't want that fourth child.
And I feel like such a hypocrite for knowing I don't want anymore children. I mean, come on. I used to rail at women like me who didn't want anymore when all I wanted was just one. I couldn't stand the women who were Fertile Myrtles, popping kids out left and right, complaining about the whole thing when there I was, begging for the sciatic pain. I wanted the fat ankles. I needed the stretch marks.
And now? I don't. Women like me used to piss me off. And now, here I am. One of those chicks rejecting the eggs I have left. Horrified at the thought of the pitter-patter of two more feet. Perfectly content with the three I have but not willing to make room for one more.
Because honestly? I'm crazy enough as it is. One more mini-me would send me over the edge.
And I feel guilty for feeling this way.