Heather’s body has taken a whimsically bitchy attitude itself, having timed her ovulation such that we’ll be testing the day after Mother’s Day. I almost admire her body for the fertility fuck-you; I can’t think of any more appropriate way for two contrary women to reproduce. Still, I can’t think of any more appropriate way for us to be disappointed Monday morning.
It would be cute, I know, if this time it worked and everyone could say, “See? We told you it would happen!” (To which I—I can’t speak for Heather—would be mentally responding, “Um, fuck you, you’ve said that for months now and you weren’t the one staring at that negative pee stick.”) I might find Heather a discount Mother’s Day card and we’d keep it forever.
The alternative, though, is an ugly one. Heather has been telling me for over a week about how her breasts ache, but she says that every time we inseminate and it’s never paid off, so I almost hate to hear it. I want something different to happen. I want her to feel nothing, or for her breasts to burn with the fire of Hades. That doesn’t sound nice, but I told her the other day that, if it helped her get pregnant, I would punch her in the breast and not feel sorry for it. She could punch me in the breast, too, and I would not care. After months of harsh reminders that we have no control, nothing seems unreasonable.
Heather told me at lunch that she didn't want to be a downer, but that she didn't think she was pregnant. I said I didn't think so either.
*Dude, seriously, they’re really nice.