While i’d love to sit here and tell you how responsible I am, how I NEVER do anything wrong or careless, have everything in order and everything has its place; that my house is spotless and every toy has a shelf it gets put back on every single night; that I remember every single detail of every single thing and that my awards for Mommy of the Year AND Most Organized Person ever are in the mail, overnight shipping because i’m just that kick-ass… that would be a lie. An EPIC lie. It would be funny, but I just can’t keep a straight face or keep myself from typing ROFL immediately afterward, so let’s just keep things as they always are around these parts: honest.
I am messy, VERY messy- I am reminded of that all the time. There is no perfect place for any item… I like for shit to get put away but generally, it never happens, and I can’t be bothered to care that much. I write on looseleaf sheets of paper that randomly get lost. My coffee table would make someone with OCD want to tear out their eyeballs with a rusty spoon; so would the pile of clean laundry on my bedroom floor, and I have THE worst memory on the face of the earth. Sometimes get carried away, which includes the times I drink too much, and sometimes this drinking too much leads to doing really stupid shit.
Granted, not as MUCH stupid shit as I used to do, as I am too old for all of that and really can’t spend an entire day nursing a hangover- and especially far less stupid shit after Parker. It’s no secret that while I love the kid to bits and pieces, he was a complete and total… surprise… and one surprise baby is enough for an entire lifetime.
Even still, stupid shit happens, and after the 7 months I spent on depo feeling like a crazy person and a nasty experience with the pill when I was 18, I am lacking in the birth control department. Yeah yeah, call me irresponsible, I already know!
Most of the time, I am all over Thomas (NO NOT LITERALLY) about buying things that do not include hormones that HE can use to prevent us from creating another spawn to wreak havoc upon this earth, and when he doesn’t- it’s game over…
But then there’s that damn alcohol, and the damn forgetfulness, and the stupid irresponsible forgetful shit that happens because of the alcohol… Mostly the things I can’t remember if they actually happened or not, and promptly forget about, because that’s what I do.
I live a blissfully unaware existence this way. I’ve learned over the years that keeping track of my cycles? It doesn’t really get me very far because I am never “like clockwork”, and so this whole “being late” thing doesn’t always apply to me, so why keep a schedule if the schedule is always changing?
But do you know who DOES keep track?
That’s right. Thomas keeps track of my periods. Yes, I am completely and totally serious.
I guess either after Parker he got paranoid (since I had no idea until a doctor told me I was 7 weeks pregnant at an annual check-up, completely unpregnancy related), or sick of me, in my trusted forgetful fashion asking him “hey, when was my period last month?”- and usually, he’s pretty good about remembering for me. Of course, i’d rather have a calendar instead of a man remembering when blood will be pouring out of my nether regions, but when you’re as careless and forgetful as me, sometimes you will take all the help you can get.
On the occasions that I don’t ask, I just don’t care to know… but this month, he just HAD to up and mention to me that I happened to be “late.”
What? ME? Late??? ARE YOU SERIOUS?
And being that HE always remembers and I never do, and being that I am an eternal over-analyzer and worrier, I started to panic.
A million thoughts running through my brain about what the hell I would do if I DID happen to be knocked up unexpectedly yet again. I wracked my brain for days trying to remember when my last period was, looking to see if my stomach was expanding, trying to figure out if I had any symptoms… Basically I worked myself up so much and stressed myself out so badly that I found myself intensely nauseous and nearly convinced that I was in fact knocked up.
I even took the time to spend hours searching through my Facebook for ANY mention of “Aunt Flo” or “exploding ovaries” or anything else alluding to my monthly bitch visiting me, and it took me getting back to October to figure out that it came on the 9th. From there I figured out that I did in fact have one in November, but it was later, and from there my memory was jogged enough to recall that life hates me and always *blesses* me with a period on my birthday each year, which is the 30th of January. All that being said, I may not have been late (whatever “late” is for me), or I may have been REALLY late and also REALLY wrong.
More panic; but somehow i’d begun to get over the denial aspect and decided I needed to suck it up and take a damn pregnancy test because if I wasn’t, you’d damn well better believe I was going to celebrate with a drink (or 10), only this time NOT make irresponsible decisions.
I went to bed feeling a weird kind of resolve, and woke up feeling pain. Pain in that special area.
Three words: Definitely. Not. Pregnant.
As if Thomas really needed to give me ANOTHER reason to smother him- now he has once again made me panic myself into sickness because he insisted my period was late. I decided to sum up this entire story of irresponsibility, stupidity, forgetfulness and drunken ridiculousness, I would write my husband with the “perfect memory” a little letter.
Next time you feel the urge to tell me about the schedule my ovaries keep, perhaps you want to mark it on a calendar first before stressing me into a fit of feeling stabby; because guess who is going to be the receiver of the stab? That’s right. You. Perhaps you should think twice before attempting to make me believe that my uterus is occupied with yet another one of your hell-spawn. Your future depends on it.
Love and big fluffy pillows,
Your NOT pregnant wife.
Needless to say, from now on, i’ll be tracking my OWN period, thank you very much!
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