Written Sunday, Jan 2nd:

Out of respect for the girls out there (like me) who hate being blind-sided, I’ll bypass the coy post with lots of build-up & just state upfront: Today, at this very moment, I’m apparently pregnant.

Here’s how it happened, if you care to keep reading.

In this post, I said that I wasn’t “totally discounting this cycle.” That was a lie. I did discount this cycle. I drank lots of wine & beer. I didn’t take my daily vitamins. When packing for our cabin trip, I actually opened the refrigerator door, looked at my progesterone supps, & slammed the door unnecessarily hard. I left them home on purpose. I figured “Day 11 ovulation? What’re the chances?”

Yeah, you see where this is going.

The cabin was lovely. We watched insane amounts of football, did puzzles, played games, & read. The thought of pregnancy didn’t even cross my mind, & I’m not lying. It really didn’t. Then yesterday, Maggie kicked me in the boob & it hurt. Like, really, really hurt. My first thought was “Owwie! I’m either pregnant or have breast cancer.” Because obviously that’s the only things that would make your boob hurt, right? But still, I didn’t test. I got busy doing something fun that didn’t involve peeing on anything.  So this morning, we got up, packed & headed home, back to the real world. About two hours from home, we stopped at a McDonald’s for a break. I headed in, & as an afterthought, threw a test in my purse. It turned positive almost immediately. And my immediate reaction? “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.”

So I stomp back to the car, pee stick in hand, & tossed it at Bobby while blabbering about how OF COURSE I would be pregnant during the month that I didn’t do ANYTHING RIGHT. That I was well on my way to killing another baby, & WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE. And while I was yelling, I started bawling, & then in the drive-through, the McDonald’s girl asked if we’d like to add a smoothie to our order & I started hysterically laughing like an idiot. Bobby told me to stop waving the pregnancy test around because I was going to scare the McD’s employee. And Susanna was at a loss in the backseat. She kept patting me gingerly, & telling me to “just call the doctor.”

I told Bobby that I was going to call the RE & tell him that when I come in on Friday, I’ll either be pregnant or have the “products of conception” in a tupperware bowl. And that we needed to keep a tupperware bowl on the back of the toilet so I’ll be ready to catch. And Bobby started giggling & said that he would buy a special bowl just for the toilet & write on it:

Z4: The Box of Death

“Z4”, he explained, stands for “Zygote #4.” To which I replied: “Well, good, I’m glad it’s going to properly labeled.” And we both started giggling hysterically & Sue told us that we were sick & demented.

I find myself in a weird place mentally. I’m irritated that I was taken off-guard. I’m scared as hell, which probably should just go without saying. I’m trying to guard against the heartbreak of a 4th miscarriage, although there’s really no way to prepare for such a thing. There’s not even a thought of what would happen if this actually resulted in a real, live baby. It’s a thought I can’t fathom. At 4w1d, the thought of making it to 6 or 8 or, dare I say, 12?! weeks seems like an eternity, an immeasurable stretch of time. The farthest I’ve ever made it is 8 weeks & change. What makes this time any different?

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