Best thing to do on finding out you’re not pregnant, after taking two ibuprofen and sitting very still for 45 minutes, is to say: Fuck it.  Real coffee—the blessed drink!—with toast, this morning, and real red wine tonight.  I’m enjoying the hell out of this coffee, and am as excited about the wine as if it were my birthday.  Babies can wait.  I would love to be pregnant right now, yes, most certainly, but life without caffeine or alcohol is lamer than I’d expected.  I’ve had to celebrate small victories (getting through long days, having a great conversation with a dear friend, Friday nights, etc.) with chocolate.  Which is awesome, but probably a little unhealthy.

OMG.  This coffee is so good.  Wow.  Hooray!

After going to bed last night, counting the days left till I could go to Walgreens and buy one of those expensive pregnancy tests (two days left), I wondered how disappointed I would be if I started my period the next day.  I felt pretty equal to it.  And now that it’s happened, I still feel pretty ok.

Several reasons:

1. I have no reason to think I might have serious fertility issues;

2. I’m still pretty young (or is 28 old? unsure);

3. we probably still need a few more months of seeing how Marshall’s health is going;

4. it would be nice to see what’s going to happen with his job, too, at the end of the year;

5. I want to be pregnant with friend B and/or friend C, and they’re not going to start trying for another few months at least;

6. I don’t want to be too sick to stuff my face with all the Thanksgiving feasts;

7. we live in a tiny apartment with a plastic box for a shower; and, last but never never least,

8. coffee, dear God, I want good coffee, and wine.

Said the fox after he couldn’t get at those grapes.  Oh well.  I’m determined to be positive, hopeful, and save residual anxieties about fertility and biological clocks for a rainy day.  Today, gorgeous, cold, and bronzy-gold, is not that day.  This is the day of our first frosty windshields, and—whoopee—it’s Friday.  I’ll be harvesting greens, packing CSA boxes, tilling ground on the tractor, and then enter the weekend.

Look at those hackberry leaves pressed up against the neighbors’ sky-blue siding: lemon yellow, brown crispy tips, getting ready to fall and turn back into soil.  Life moves us through cycles continually—God moves us through cycles—of birth, growth, loss, rest, loss, growth, birth.  It’s dizzying, that I can be launched into a new segment without warning, or, alternately, feel stuck for months (or years), but there are things that return and return.  I remember  my life, and my life is remembering me—somehow this is true.

I remember, five years ago, stitched-up and lying on my parents’ couch, recovering from surgery, wanting to be healed already, wanting to be able to move on to things besides convalescing.  The body wasn’t ready.  And then, it was ready.

It’s ok with me.

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