Realistically, realistically, in this world where all fantasy about such things was stripped away years ago, realistically I should know that skipping a month would just be a sign of perimenopause or the result of a stressful month. That and nothing more.
And of course I was appalled and insistent that, if things finally, finally worked out, it would not be anything remotely viable. Or even wanted. And even if it was viable and just more than a little wanted, I’m 49 for crying out loud and what 40 year old would want to have an 89 year old mother? No good.
But I’m an optimistic idiot who used to believe in miracles and I let hope creep in that maybe something would work out and of course we’ve all heard of change of life babies and maybe our nephews could have a cousin and we’re already renovating the bedrooms upstairs. The timing is terrible (I’m 49 for crying out loud!) but everything in my life that causes it to sparkle with joy has come to me at exactly the wrong time. “Why would this be any different,” Hope whispered in my ear as I sat through a Zoom meeting this morning.
So I drove to CVS and bought a pregnancy test and took it. My hands shook like they shook dozens of times before. I would eat better. I would go back to church. I would will myself to live until 100.
And of course there wasn’t even a trace of a crosshatch that would change that negative into a positive. Of course not. Just like the dozens of times before. It’s just a sign of perimenopause or the result of a stressful month. That and nothing more.
I’m 49 and crying out loud.
