Sunday was two weeks from our first insemination. We've spent all of the intervening time either distracting ourselves or willfully ignoring any signs or symptoms. When Heather's stomach acted up, we talked about fiber and protein and too much pizza-- but both with "Baby baby baby baby" buzzing through our heads. I want to believe... but I'm scared to.
We tested Sunday morning. Pathetically, I got an error from the digital test first, then tried to use it again before it was ready. Because you can't try again for an hour. Listen, yo, we've done our paranoid over-testing; if we want to re-test, the machine needs to fuck off and let us take care of it. However, breaking the machine would do nothing for our apprehension, so off to Walgreens I went. (Breaking the machine would not have been a problem unto itself, though, since you can't buy refills: you get two sticks with the digital thing and, after those sticks: whomp whomp, drive down the street to get another.) I was delighted that Heather wasn't more stressed, and I have surely mastered the art of going to the store in PJs with jacked-up hair, so I got a couple more boxes of tests and a Java Monster for later. Home again, home again: negative. What? Test again. Negative.
We were both remarkably, admirably philosophical about it. We repeated that this was just the first test and that nothing counted till she bled. (This is a super-grim kind of mantra, but it's either that or hoping for a waterfall of mucus.) We snuggled up and dozed. Eventually Heather propelled herself out of the bed and I pretended that I was just about to get up, too! Gym. Starbucks. Controversy about lack of Starbucks breakfast sandwiches.
Miz Rachel pulls out the computer, gets to blogging... and bursts into tears.
I am an admitted crier-- later in the day Heather had to turn off Marley & Me early because I was so overwhelmed-- but I realized that, as much as I've gotten angry and sad, I've never cried about the baby-making. I cried when Heather and I fought about it, sure, but this was new. And we fought about it, too. It's hard working together when it means we come home, angry about the same people, ranting about the same people, and furiously collaborating in our irritation. We're working together on the baby project now, too, and you just can't get upset by yourself.
Revealed: Heather had tested secretly Saturday night, before we went to the movies (No Strings Attached: I recommend it), and had spent the evening trying to prepare me with our new "not till there's blood" mantra. The bitch of it is that I was prepared. I know every argument about average number of attempts and testing errors, but I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach by some phantom, and what came pouring out was grief.
It's Monday morning. Heather said she felt that, if she was going to get her period, it would be today.
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