What could it be, I worry? When was I last a tampon-stashing, blood-leaking woman? When did I last demand 30 seconds of privacy in the bathroom to pull out, wipe, and reinsert, all by myself? The evil truth is this: I can't remember.
Hard as Jono and I try we can't remember when I last had my period. Did I have it at Sarah's birthday party when I was in the hot tub? You'd think I'd be able to recall, but no. Did I have it when we went out to Adam and Debra's in the city? No clue. So many trips to the bathroom, so many diaper bags with tampons smashed in the bottom have all merged in to one big smush of memory - one with no marker in time.
I used to record my period regularly, most recently as a dot on the family calendar. At times in the less recent past I've had the mental power to track it in my very own head, noting its arrival every fourth Sunday. But we've been careful and successful in not getting pregnant, and I've gotten a bit cavalier. Plus, I suppose, I did carry that ambivalence about getting pregnant, that it would be okay to "have an accident"...
Wrong! I tell you here and now that as much as I like babies, want babies, adore babies, think our family would be richer for another being, we cannot afford -- either emotionally, fiscally, or in any other way you can think of -- to have another child. We are tapped; and I want an adult life.
And, I rejoice when TWO pregnancy tests, conducted two days apart tell me I'm safe.
Vasectomy, I now welcome you in to my husband’s life!