After knowing Mr. Flinger for nearly twenty years now, seven years of those married, six of those as best friends, and 5 years of dating, you’d think I kinda know the guy a bit. You’d think that. And you’d be right. Mostly.
For some reason I’ve been approaching this whole birth control thing completely wrong. I’ve been approaching it like a women, with logic and emotion. *We* don’t want to have children, so *we* need to find a solution that works for *us*. *We* need to get a cost effective/low impact solution. *We* don’t need the Mommy (hi) to be an emotional wreck from the hormones of Birth Control Pills (also? I can not be counted on to take them thus making their reliability around 2%) or the IUD*. *We* don’t like condoms. *We* don’t want an abortion. *We* don’t want to do this again. We’re happy. With two. A boy and a girl. Remember?
So why is it that The Other Solution isn’t discussed? Because he doesn’t want to discuss it. Because “he’s not ready for that” and “not man enough” and “someblatheringIcan’tunderstand”.
Then it hit me. A chart. I needed a chart.
Lo, I created a chart.
Remember back when we purchased our garbage can? Remember how
he graphed my hormones during my miscarriage? Did you know he once asked me to rate my daily activities on a scale of one to ten before deciding to go back to Graduate School? You know, to quantify the decision?
Graphs. Charts. Engineer. :: Slaps Forehead ::
:: owie ::
So I decided to quantify the decision. And this is what I came up with.
Note in Figure A we have a cost ration per various solutions. Note that in Figure B, all birth control costs pail in comparison to the cost of raising a child as noted on Baby Center.
Here in Figure C we have the joy ratio of various birth control methods:
And here is the link I’m sending via IM to my husband as we speak.
Did I mention the pocket knife? You get a pocket knife. Snip. Snip.
Maybe now I’ve talked his language, he will talk mine. BowChickaBowWow.
*A note about The IUD. I thought about this route. I thought long and hard. I thought I’d go this route but in order to do so, my doctor wants me to call The First Day Of My Cycle, which as you know, is completely unpredictable and irratic (because the ENTIRE internet knows this about me) and thus have been trying to get in for three months now. Three. Long. Sexless. Months.
**I didn’t even take in the anual cost of therapy the third child will bring, the cases of wine consuned before child reaches four, or the pregnancy tests I will continue to pee on until the snip is complete.
**For your further reading enjoyment.
The BoyChild will not let me set him down. What-so-ever. At all. Nada. Zilch. No-go. W.T.F. This means I have about thirty-two minutes at the end of the day when Mr. Flinger gets here to do bills, clean, make dinner, eat dinner, pee, shower, and workout. Oh! And type! And write thank you cards! And give myself a pedicure because OY. Did I mention Oy? OY.
This too shall pass. I know I know. And if I was really obnoxious and deeply troubling I might say something totally gross like, “I just enjoy this time because one day he’ll be fighting me off and I’ll miss the days of carrying him around in the sling every goddamn minute of the day.”
In other news, I took a pregnancy test. YES! That’s right! Internet, I made it an entire ELEVEN WEEKS before peeing on another pregnancy stick. It’s an addiction. Did I tell you I had this almost uncontrollable urge to pee on one during the third trimester? You know, AS THE BABY IS MOVING? There really should be a support group.
It was negative. Duh.
Doesn’t explain the hormones and boobs.
Or other things.
Tonight after a bath and a story (O loves Harry Potter but we’re only on page 132 so don’t tell us who wins) I laid him down and did a rain dance to the gods of “my child has some insane sensor on him that detects a surface other than mom” and it worked. He was asleep. Or is. Or, wait…
We didn’t turn on the monitor.
Ignorance is bliss.
Just got the call: HCG is less than five. We can :: ahem :: resume “normal activity” and start trying whenever we feel comfortable.
I’m drinkin’ some wine tonight, baby! Bring on the BABY MAKING.
*upon hearing this news Mr. Flinger says, “Activity as normal? Can’t we do better than once a month? Come on, Man, throw me a bone.” He forgot about the the experiment already? Jeesh.
Here is the kind of information you would get from me if you saw me on the street today.
“Yea. I’m almost five weeks pregnant. Yea. So it’s not going well. Yasee, I peed on another stick today. And, well, it’s not darker and I KNOW they say it doesn’t matter but it has to, right? Doesn’t it make sense if your HGC went up it would get darker? Yea. I thought so. So anyway, I had another blood work lab today because the nurse isn’t pleased with my score of 47 on 17 days past ovulation. Oh, we know when I ovulated because I took this ovulation strip. Oh, it’s so neat, it’ll tell you when your egg is about 48 hours from being released. Crazy, hu? Anyway, so I had to go back in and now they’re saying things like “miscarriage” and “low HCG” and “if you make it to 2000, we’ll do an ultrasound.” So now I’m totally freaking out because, yaknow, I’ve told people and people read and came, and commented. Cool people. People I’d want to be pregnant at the same time with. Or share stories of my vajaja with or about discharge and my big boobs and puking. I mean, they’re all counting on me to stark puking. Yaknow? And we have a name for him.. yes it’s a him.. and I’ve already cried several times today over the low HCG levels and well, my boobs don’t hurt nearly enough…”
And that’s about the time my inner sensor FINALLY kicks in and starts beeping loudly at me to SHUTTHEFUCKUPALREADY. Did I mention I have a malfunctioning inner sensor? Seuss and I were talking about this tonight. That little red light that should blink when you’re on the phone with the financial consultant and instead you blurt out the above paragraph, in its entirety, and she pauses, says, “well, perhaps we can fiddle with the numbers a bit” and you lock your rate just a tad lower. Or when you’re discussing the contract with the seller and you begin said paragraph, again, momments after kicking yourself from the first phone call and yet, YOU DO NOT STOP, you actually say out loud, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this..” followed by an awkward pause…. “.... ....... ........ .... Yes, well, anyway….”
And that, ladies and 2 gents, is why I didn’t post today. Because I told the real-estate gal, the financial consultant, the seller of the condo, two nurses, the lab lady, some random stranger in the library, Erin and all our family my entire pregnancy history, all four weeks in its entirety, and I can’t bear to repeat it again.
Or else I might cry.
I no longer have any doubt in my mind. I do not need a stick to tell me. I don’t need the doctor to confirm (oh, who am I kidding, I’ll need both) but it’s three AM, I got up to pee, and I am so hungry I’m nauseated.
I’m so knocked up.
And now, a moment of celebration:
WHAT THE HELL DID WE DO?! OMGOMGOMGOMG MOVING? PREGNANT? TODDLER? NEW JOB? WHATHEHELLWHATTHEHELLWHATTHEHELLWHATTHEHELL
:: Ahem ::
I’m praying for the person who is only the size of one fifth of a period on a page (according to Pregnancy Journal from last time around). I’m praying that it sticks, that it wants to be part of this family, that I’m not blabbing my prego mouth off before the fifth week and will regret my cold feet later. As scared to high hell as I am to attempt selling all our stuff, packing, starting a new job, moving, and surviving the winter in an 1100 SF condo with a toddler, I would be horrified to lose it.
We already love you, you very tiny tiny tiny clump of cells, you.
Of course, Mr. Flinger’s response to the whole thing? “Thems my boys!”
I’m still waiting on the blood results. No word yet. But, and I quote via screen shot, in the words of an old co-worker:
Don’t I know it, Jan. Don’t. I. Know. It.
***** updated ******
Aha! I got the call. As it turns out, when you are so in tune to your body and go in for a test BEFORE YOU MISS YOUR PERIOD, they can’t tell you anything. Well, who knew? Can I take this to the next level of prego paranoia? Can peeing on sticks BEFORE YOU MISS YOUR PERIOD count? Can having your doctor call and tell you to go back next week be put down in the “you have GOT to be kidding me. You had sex what day? Yesterday? No. Come back later.”
Ok, it wasn’t yesterday. but still.
So, I’m in limbo. Waiting on a job, a baby, a house and just hating the way our dishwasher smells and cramping. Is cramping this early bad? Is it a sign of a misccariage? ‘Cause with such a low HCG level (25) and cramping, I’m a bit scared.
Here’s to a lot higher HCG level on Tuesday. Bring it on, baby. Stick in there.
Two weeks late. Grumpy but not bitchy. Weepy but not pissy. Tired. Sore boobs. Pukey.
Wow. This. Is. Really. Getting. Old.
Maybe it’s all those women I sleep with. Yathink?*
Oooh, Internet, before you run around spreading rumors, lemme just say that I’ve stayed up late to see my hunk-o-hunk-a-burning-manhood on the Country Music Awards (which I despise) just because someone said he was on. And in the five
sentences he was on, I realize there is no way I could ever leave men. I love them. Especially that one. .. I mean.. my husband. Raaauuurrr.
“Babe, my uterus hurts.”
“When is your period due?”
“I dunno. I’ll have to check my archives.”
No, it’s not the latest porn movie hitting the Internet, it’s what my Doc said after I admitted to peeing away hundreds of dollars in pregnancy sticks. After last week’s episode, she demanded I take a blood pregnancy test because, let’s face it, I was whacked and a week late. Also, regardless of how many fake positive or real negative tests I take, I still believe I’m pregnant. Hell, I can be bleeding like a stuck pig and think I’m pregnant. Trust me. Or don’t. Read it for yourself.
Anyway, so she calls with the results telling me, upon my answering the phone, “The answer is no.” [silence] Me, “Hmm. MmmK.” She asks if this is sad news. I think about it. “No,” I say hesitating, “no, not really. I mean we’re not TRYING. Of course, we’re not NOT trying, either, so….” She tells me the details of how pregnancy tests work, very medically and not at all like the images of dancing naked in the woods at night or singing to venus or anything that I’ve done recently to make a test positive (you know, everything short of actually HAVING sex to get pregnant). She says, of course, I can still get pregnant next month, if I want to, and if I ever believe I’m pregnant for more than a few days to call her and she’ll order a blood pregnancy test.
She has no idea who she’s talking to. Poor lady.
I swear to you, I can convince a nun she’s pregnant. No, Really. I could. I think I have a problem. There should be a name for this. “reallybadguessingatpregnancysymptoms-drom” or “howthehellcouldIpossiblybebutIthinkitanyway-drom” or “mynippleshurtlet’sassumeit’sababy-drom” ‘cause y’all. Every. Effing. Month.
One of these days the girl-who-cried-pregnant will actually GET pregnant and there will be no people to give a rat’s ass. “Yea. Right” they’ll say. “Uhhu.. SUUUURRREEEE.” And “Are you SUUREEE you didn’t just pee on a used stick?”
Thus is born, a new category, “times I think I’m pregnant but I’m not.” And so it shall be…
*note* holy crap! I didn’t realize just how often I write about how I think I’m pregnant. Ok. It’s official. I don’t think I am anymore. It’s just a little sad when you see that many posts all in one place. ::Slinking away into corner now holding a tampon and waiting for AF::
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