I got my period while peeing on a stick this morning. Again.
It’s not the disappointment of this particular month that bothers me.
It’s not the clicking forward of another month in the potential due date calendar in my mind. (We are now at late April, earliest.)
It’s not the increasing age difference between Gatito and a potential sibling. (Now at 3 years, 5 months, minimum. I actaully like the idea of getting more alone time with Gatito while he’s little and a more independent Gatito giving me a chance to really enjoy a second babyhood. Not to mention not having to pay two college tuitions at the same time.)
It’s the creeping little worry that maybe something is wrong (along with the incessant creeping towards that magical age of 35). All three times I’ve been pregnant before, excepting the six wasted months when we were cluelessly using the spermicide called Astroglide, it’s happened in the first two months. And I once read somewhere that in two fertile people, with the right timing, the chance of conceiving is one in three. So, I know it seems silly to those of you that have waited years, but the passing of this mark seems somehow significant.
There is nothing to do but carry on and focus on how great everything else in life is. And so I will. If nothing happens in another three months, I will consider conferring with the doctor. I don’t know whether I’d ever even want to do anything if there is a problem, but I guess you never do know that until you’re faced with the situation.
