You know that feeling you get when you know you’ve either just started your period, or you’re about to? Like Raven having a vision from That’s So Raven.
One day, in early October, I was sitting on the toilet and had this peculiar thought, “bruh, you’re pregnant.” I’ve always been somewhat in sync with my body; from denying the funny feeling in the back of my throat warning me about a cold coming on, to telling myself I didn’t need to pack tampons despite the obvious cramps, mood swings & hungry hungry hippo starving to death inside me. But, this was different, which alien decided to whisper this nonsense? No seriously, I’d like to know. My boyfriend wanted to wait till after I actually missed the Red Wedding to buy a baby concluder, which was supposed to make a grand appearance the following week.
The next week came, and every edible item left in my sights was disappearing quickly. Every time my boyfriend had food in his hands you were sure to hear me ask, “what’s that?”, “can I have some?” Some days, the Cranky would come out to play. You know the inner demon that digs herself from the depth of Satan’s butt crack? The one who rides the pipelines of the crimson wave? Yeah, I thought that twat was making a grand resurgence.
My boobs were aching, my nipples were sensitive, and no amount of food would satisfy me. Was I entering a new era of menstrual symptoms that not even a heating pad could cure? I’d sit on the toilet for an hour with cramps expecting to see blood diamonds sparkle in the water when I stood up. The one thing that made me happy was sleep. And, I was getting a lot of it.
The next week came, and still nothing.
It was Halloween, and Aunt Flo still hadn’t come by. My boyfriend finally decided it was time. I probably spent about 15 minutes staring at the wall of pregnancy tests. I could feel my ears getting hot, and my cheeks turning rosy. Is anybody looking? What do you think they’re thinking? I look 15. The judgment radiated down my neck. I felt more self conscious than the time I picked out my first bra with my dad. I was probably more embarrassed than the seven high school boys, next to me, trying to decipher which condoms to buy.
I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole with all these thoughts running through my mind:
- Am I ready?
- What about returning to school again?
- Can I do this?
- How am I going to do this?
- What if I can’t do this?
- Does he want this?
- What if he doesn’t want this?
- What about my planned vacation?
- But, am I ready?
- But, can I do this?
- My dad is going to be pissed.
- How am I going to tell my friends?
- Which one of these damn tests is better?
I was finally home, sitting on the toilet trying to push the little pee I had left. I only needed 5 seconds worth, but I wasn’t sure if I was even going to pee that much. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi, 5 Mississipi. I set the test down on the counter, and started the timer for three minutes. 30 seconds passed by, and there was my result, “+”.