It Has Finally Happened, Or, How The Stubborn Spirit Of A Spunky Twenty Something Is Trampled To Death And Spat On And How She Got Her Groove Back

It all happened because I woke up on Sunday morning wanting a diet coke. If it weren't for that lousy diet coke . . .

My boobs were sore for a whole week but I was ignoring it. I've had every pregnancy symptom and then some. I think the pregnancy symptoms like to come every now and then to test my reflexes, see if I'm paying attention.
I've gotten pretty good at identifying pregnancy symptoms. That one time I turned around too fast and hit my elbow on the door frame and then endured days of bruising? Pregnancy.
That one time I ate too many M&Ms and felt sick for hours afterwards? Totally morning sickness. And here I was with the throbbing boobs again. And all I wanted was a diet coke.

Usually if I want a diet coke I just drink one, not having been prompted to the testimony of a soda-free life I tend to enjoy my diet cokes the way I enjoy a good prayer meeting, with holiness a clear conscience and an opening hymn.

But only if you are pregnant then you don't drink diet cokes. Written in stone, that one.

And I, I had these sore boobs and all.

I thought about it as I lay in bed Sunday morning letting the cool air slowly drift me awake. Sundays are hard on me. Three hours of sitting on uncomfortable chairs and being a good example and trying to get my husband to tickle my back, it's exhausting. That diet coke was going to start me off right I could just feel it. Only after a whole week of the throb throb throb, I thought that maybe I out to reconsider that diet coke, just this once.

I ran through my mental checklist. On the one hand was my sore boobs, my late penchant for weepiness. The other hand (the stupid hand) a PMS pimple right above my right eye, and also those 16 years of never-missed-a-period-why-start-now.

Then I recalled my other other hand, my Clear Blue Digital hand, leftover from when I recently decided that waiting for a period to surprise me was only bringing about pain and mental anguish and frustration and far too much suspense. And I could just use it while I brushed my teeth . . .

That's how it started.

Here's how it ended:

Tears in Sacrament meeting

Tears in Sunday school

A lot of chocolate in Mutual

Grumpiness on the couch after church

An email from my cousin Sarah

It turns out that what I hate the very most about this life of pious infertility is when people who are pregnant get it into their heads that they have to apologize or tip-toe around us or even worse, not tell us.

Look out! She's infertile! She's going to hate you and curse you and stick pins into her voodoo dolls and cry for the rest of her life and then HATE YOU.

What, didn't I tell you? I haven't gotten pregnant yet, therefore nobody on this planet can until I do. I mean, COME ON. What was you going to do, friend? Pretend you are just "fat?" Have the baby and then it is invisible?

"Who this? Oh, I'm just babysitting and . . . ???"

COME ON.

You who can get pregnant, allow me to spell it out for you, all helpful like:

We are happy for you! LET US be happy for you!

And this is how I came to the conclusion that I am over it.

I am done with it, the tip-toeing and the tears. I'm finished with the eyes misting up when sitting in church behind a large family, all the girls with their matching shoulders. I'm done with it. I'm done with praying and asking and hoping and expecting.

I am over it.

I GIVE UP!

In the late afternoon sun I watched my cute husband eat a turkey sandwich on my red adirondack chair. I announced my news.

"I am over it" I breathed in relief.

"Good!" he said.

He turned his face to the sky and shouted.

"Do you hear that, Heaven? We don't want any babies down here!"

"NOT US!" I yelled.

"Don't you even send us any!" Holbs hollered. "We won't take them!"

"Just you keep them to yourselves!" I agreed. It felt good.

As I shouted to the eternities I thought I could just see those Heavenly angels attending to me. I imagined their understanding smiles and the way they flew off to direct our message.