Writing always brings out abundant passion in me, yet my "novel" is still only halfway through chapter one, two years later. I only get inspired to journal when I travel, if we do not count my fourth grade diary musings about how Brian Winshall had the best butt at Leonard Elementary and he can Red Rover, Red Rover, call me over any day. This saucy fourth grader is now all grown up, and yes my friends, is knocked up. Upon sharing the news with a few of my dear childhood girlfriends affectionately known as the Girlies, a couple of them encouraged me to journal this experience. So I have taken the Girlies' advice, which has bode me well over the years. If it wasn't for them, I would probably be wandering aimlessly in a jungle in Vietnam right now with dreadlocks, tattoos on my boobs and calling myself Earth Mother. Instead I have taken a somewhat more conventional route with my life, having lost the argument with the US government that just because I don't practice law any more that I shouldn't have to pay back my student loans. I think somewhat is the operative word here, however. Yes, I have a corporate job, a husband and good credit, but I am all about bucking the system where I can. Which leads me to begin counting the ways little "two-lines" will one day be traumatized.
Two lines (one day): "Mom, where was I conceived? On a beach in Hawaii? A romantic inn in the foothills of the redwood forests in Napa Valley?"
Me: "No sweetie. I was at the drugstore buying tampons having a guilty debate with myself that I am not buying the more eco friendly natural brands, but continue to buy conventional brands, since they are more comfortable. I suddenly felt very randy at the drugstore out of nowhere and decided I must go home and shag your Dad later." (I've been watching alot of BBC lately).
Two Lines: "So you had this feeling that it may be it that day?"
Me: "Yes, but I convinced myself that I was just projecting my desires, and it couldn't be true."
Two Lines: "So you acted like you were just in case until you knew for sure?"
Me: "If you don't count drinking assloads of wine at a bachlorette party, eating raw tuna four times in one week and consuming a handful of painkillers for my "PMS" until I missed my period, then sure."
Two Lines: "How did you tell dad you were pregnant? Was it a over a romantic candle lit dinner prepared for the occasion" (or on a billboard at a NASCAR race as the very amusing pregnancy magazine at the doctors office suggested)?
Me: "Not exactly, honey. I went back to the aforementioned drugstore and bought a pregnancy test, choosing the one that was on sale. I went home, peed on the stick (and the toilet bowl, and my hand and the wall) and waited to see if there was one line for no, or two lines for yes. I immediately regretted buying this brand, because it came back with one very dark line and one very light line, and I was unsure. As I sat on the toilet and re-read the directions again, I became convinced that it was positive. To confirm, I brought the pee stick out to the living room, shoved it in your Dad's face, and asked him if it looked like there were two lines. Dad looked at the stick with his hands at his side, preferring not to touch my pee, and agreed yes, there are two lines. Then he took a sedative. I forgot to mention that I told your Dad right before he was going to be knocked out, and then I was to take him to the dentist for some semi-major dental work. My timing was quite nice you see."
So poor Two Lines is not destined for a very storybook existence, but it could be worse. The progeny of Michael Jackson, Karla Faye Tucker or Earth Mother perhaps.
