Let me start by saying a few things.
- I was never a cheerleader. Actually, the thought never crossed my mind, since me being a cheerleader in my teen years was actually statistically less likely than me meeting and marrying the future King of England (though, I do hear he prefers brunettes).
- The following post has absolutely nothing to do with the shows “16 and Pregnant” or “Teen Mom” or “Pregnant and Running for President” or “Crack Whore Maternity Ward” or “Pregnant and Skydiving Over Open Water” or “One Born Every Minute in Cellblock 12” or any of those. Except some of those were made up…we all know nobody pregnant would ever get a presidential nomination.
Forget the price of gas. Yeah, yeah, I heard it jumped $3 per barrel over night, but seriously what the CRAP is up with pregnancy tests these days? Thanks, Walgreens, for putting that extra pee stick in the digital pack so that I’m only paying a whopping $6.50 PER STICK. Fan-freakin-tastic.
I guess I’m outting myself as a “careless” type, but as I always say, it’s my blog and I’ll embarrass myself if I want. Lately, Jonathan and I have been feeling a little paranoid about whether I might be pregnant again. I’ve been feeling kind of “blah” lately, and in the last day or two, I’ve been a bit bloated. And yes – in case you were racing to the comments section to remind me of this fact – I do realize that my lone progeny is currently only seven months and six days old. But thanks. 😉
Not that it would be the end of the world if I got pregnant. Oh, you can bet your “sweet boopie” (I don’t remember who I heard that from, but I remember filing it in my Folder O’ Awesome) that I’d fling myself to the ground, face-palm myself a good nine or ten times, and then cry for 25-30 minutes as the realization that my son’s time as the only baby would end at the ripe age of 15 months. You had better believe there would be a good 30 minutes’ worth of weeping and gnashing of teeth.
But then I’d get over it, and within an hour, I’d be glowing and joyful and thrilled and baby talking to Russ about how he was getting a new brother, or a sister who we’d dress up in eye black and oversized football jerseys and teach plays before she hit age three. You know…whatever works.
So after lunch today, Jonathan finally just told me to go get a test and let’s figure out if I was just hormonally chaotic or truly hormonally knocked up. And I got scared, because I knew that meant that I’d have my answer, and I was much happier living in ignorant bliss. But I followed orders and got the tests.
Now, a brief aside: I like digital tests. You know, the ones that say “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant.” Or, as my oh-so-eloquent sister-in-law (who was pregnant while still a teenager) put it “They should make a whole line of special tests for teens that say “Yay!” or “Oh S***!” That really is kind of an interesting (and hilariously tacky) idea, isn’t it? Just saying. But I don’t have time to sit there and analyze one dark line and another, really faint line that tells me nothing except to go buy more tests and feel bad about my faint line.
“What, my pee isn’t good enough? Why can’t I be like the dark line? Geez, what’s wrong with you?” (slaps self upside head, stomps off to go buy more tests)
Suffice it to say, I’m not a two-line-test kinda girl. Immediate gratification. Bring it.
Oh, wait…I guess I should tell you all what the pregnancy test result was, right? Yeah, it was negative. I’m not preggers. And thank GOD for that, because I am so not ready for it right now. You know how people say “God won’t give you more than you can handle?” Well, I envision The Dude Upstairs was probably sitting there, chuckling and shaking his head, and going “HECK no.” Because I’m good with just Russ, for now. I want four kids, but I don’t want four UNDER age four – I’d prefer them to be spread out a bit more than that.
I think as time goes by, I’ll gradually become more comfortable with the reality of our family’s situation – which is that, by virtue of me a) not being able to take synthetic hormones (i.e. birth control pills/rings/patches) AND b) having a hellaciously tilted uterus (thus, no IUDs either)…well, we might just have several lovely little surprises running around our house before it’s all over. I’m not saying I’m going to be that mom that happily announces to her child’s high school friends that “Janie was an accident! Bahahahahahaha!” But what I’m saying is the Wilhoits have to be like MacGyver – ready for anything. Even if that means carrying a nail file, a drinking straw, and a bottle of hand sanitizer with us at all times – just in case we need an impromptu signal flare.
In other news, my son is definitely straight. Or at the very least, “straight curious.” Earlier today, after being a pretty cranky little cuss for several hours while I was cleaning house and not paying enough attention to him, I needed to get him focused on something other than me so that I could take the trash out without him having a nervous breakdown. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’d love nothing more than to sit and cuddle him all day long. But that wouldn’t do much to make me feel productive. So in order to keep him appeased, I searched for something engaging and fun for him to watch. Hmm…ESPN…”Cheerleading National Finals?” Hmm…we’ll try it.
Now let me just say, cheerleaders have really evolved over the past ten years or so, and I’m HAPPY about the change! Granted, I’m dating myself a bit to admit that it’s been ten years since I was in high school, but growing up painfully white AND Southern, it’s easy to get a fairly concrete notion of what a cheerleader looks like. Not these kids. I thought Coastal Carolina had finally entered the 21st century when we had male cheerleaders, but boy was I thinking small scale. In ten minutes of sitting next to my equally slack-jawed infant son (though I gather, not for the same exact reasons) and watching these kids gyrate to music that can only be described as “Tourette’s-Techno,” I saw some pretty unexpected characters. I saw guys, girls, from young teen to what looked like early 20s (or it could’ve just been a bad spray tan, who knows). I saw skinny girls, muscular girls, skeletal girls, and even two or three girls with full-on beer guts. Beer guts, I tell you! On a national, televised competition! Where every single team was the “Fill-In-The-Blank All Stars” (I don’t think they understand the concept of an “All Star,” though)! I saw white girls, black girls, Latina girls, Asian girls, and even a GOTH kid! A GOTH cheerleader, doing double-back-hand-spring-flip-combo thingys, y’all. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven.
And so did Russ. But not for the same reasons. He was standing straight up in his exersaucer, squealing like a little frat-piggy and giggling at the pretty girls. And this comes just days after the “incident with the flower,” so there ya go. I mean, I will love all my kids regardless of if they’re wildly successful doctors or ditch-diggers, whether they’re straight or gay or asexual, whether they are preachers or converts to Buddhism, etc. – you get the point. So this is not to project some expectation onto him at this young age, but let’s just say it like it is. The kid likes girls. Probably a little too much, if you ask me.
But for now, at least I can focus on him. I have awhile before I have to think about baby #2 happening. An interesting day indeed.