So you know how when you are expecting to get your period any day, you start making preparations. You put a tampon in your purse. You wear that pair of old, torn underwear you’ve had since college that you keep for specials occasions like this. You make sure you put your mat in the back of yoga class in case Aunt Flow decides to arrive while you are bent over in a down dog with your butt sticking straight up in the air.
You feel the cramps and general ickyness. And so you wait. But it doesn’t come. So the next day, you put another tampon in your purse and dig deeper in the back of your drawer to find that other pair of stained panties that has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. By the third day of waiting, your purse has turned into a walking advertisement for Tampex.
And that’s when the realization starts to dawn on you: maybe it’s not coming. Maybe Old Reliable isn’t going to make a showing for another year. Or two years. Definitely not for nine months.
But here’s the thing. You took a pregnancy test a few days earlier and it was negative. You even had the talk with your husband that his swimmers missed the goal post, maybe it was time to stop wearing the spandex and tight jeans. So the next morning, three days after you were supposed to get your period, you take another pregnancy test. And the line on the left that is supposed to turn a dark blue if you are pregnant turns a faint, light blue. Leaving you asking one question: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN???????? DID I OR DIDN”T I GET KNOCKED UP?
You are in preggers limbo.
But by the end of the day, still no period. You are now almost 4 days late. Slowly, slowly, the realization starts to dawn on you: HOLY SHIT, I AM FUCKING PREGNANT AND AM GOING TO HAVE THREE CHILDREN! But there is an even more shocking realization going on in your head: You are going to have to give up the Ambien.
No, anything but the Ambien! Please. You’ll give up chocolate and wine and parties and your body, those cute pair of jeans you can finally fit in, skiing and snowboarding, but not your sleeping pills! But you have no choice. With grave solemnity, you hand the bottle of pills over to your husband. “Hide them,” you say in a hushed voice. “Hide them somewhere I won’t ever find them.”
Two days later, at 5 in the morning after being up all night, you are desperately searching for the Ambien. You rummage through kitchen drawers, look under the couch, feel around coat pockets and contemplate a run outside to the garage if it weren’t snowing. Finally, you have to accept the fact that you are SOL. Dam husband! Who knew he was so good at following directions.
Seven more months to go, plus a year of breastfeeding. That’s almost two years before you can pop a sleeping pill again.
But at least you got one thing going for you – you don’t have to change the kitty litter for nine months.