I don't know if you're aware, but it is hella difficult to forget your girlfriend might be pregnant. And it turns out that it's way more difficult to forget that you might be pregnant. So our household is a little high on drama lately.
Both Heather and I, in our turns and on our respective Apple products (MacBook Pro in the house, beyotch!), have done some shameful Googling of "early signs of pregnancy," with the conclusion on my end that the safest thing to do is put my fingers in my ears and go "la la la la la" for another ten days and, at Heather's end, to wonder whether she's crying because she's having a mood swing because she's pregnant, or if she's crying because there's a lot of motherfucking anticipation in the air.
Our fucking action plan, having reached its action-taking climax last Monday and Wednesday (it was an awesome action plan, so there were two climaxes), has reached the stage of fucking sitting around as we wait for the time we can justify buying six pregnancy tests. The fertility monitor made Heather's cup of pee a normal feature of our bathroom counter-top; its significance in pregnancy testing makes it a golden shower indeed. As comfortable as we are with her urine, it ain't gonna do us any good for at least a week, so we're in what, for us, is the unusual position of discarding her pee altogether.
It'd be easier to collect teardrops right now. As exciting a prospect as the baby is, I guess neither of us really expected to get pregnant, preoccupied as we were with the process, and now we're both alarmed at the notion of success.
Fingers crossed, knocking wood... and the anxious watch for darkened, enlarged aureoles.
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