If a two-week wait can be broken down into anything other than halves or sevenths, I am roughly 2/3 of the way through mine.
I’m not feeling very optimistic at this point.
No, wait. That’s sort of a lie. I swing wildly between hopefulness and certain doom. If I feel vague cramping somewhere in my lower abdomen, I’m pregnant. If I have to pee, I’m pregnant. If I have gas? You guessed it. Sore boobs? Pregnant. Headache? Definitely pregnant.
And yet, there’s a 98-99% chance I’m not pregnant. The occasional pain in my abdomen is more likely poop than baby. My boobs were just as sore last cycle, and we all know how that turned out. It’s entirely too early for me to be experiencing symptoms of any kind. I’m delusional.
But if I think about it too long, think about what that stark white space next to the pink line on Monday morning would mean, I have no choice but to admit to myself how badly I want this to work. Even though I’ve been saying, “We were given a 1-2% chance. Come on. Let’s be real,” out loud, in my head….
Yesterday morning I woke up from dreams about pregnancy, breastfeeding, and twins. Even though I wasn’t the one who was pregnant through most of the dreams, I do remember a moment when I put my hand on my huge, pregnant belly and distinctly feeling a little head. When I told Hubby about this, I asked if he thought my dream-mind somehow knew something the rest of me didn’t. His answer was a pat “no.”
Leave it to Hubby not to sugar-coat things.
I do have a headache tonight. Maybe that’s why my thoughts are meandering in so many directions. Or it could have something to do with the fact that today would have been my mom’s 72nd birthday. And I still haven’t given her a grandchild. (Not that she was lacking in grandchildren. She was a great-grandmother many times over before she died.) And when it finally happens, she won’t get to spoil my baby.
Or maybe I just need to go to bed early tonight and hope tomorrow is better.