Ho-Ho-Ho! Hope your holidays were merry and bright. (I'm pretty sure most of them were white. Let it snow, indeed.) I spent mine watching a blissed out now-2-year-old attempt to scale grandma and grandpa's enormous Christmas boxes ("Open dis! Open dis gift!") and by eating my weight in everything. It's not a successful holiday if your pants still fit, right? Oh, I also spent 3 days convinced that I was knocked up which added a nice bit of suspense to the festivities.
I had all the symptoms, even the gross ones. But mostly I just felt... familiar. The nausea and tiredness, the don't-touch-me boobs, the aching back, the twinges - those I could explain away as PMS. But there's a very specific feeling you get when you're pregnant - it's hard to describe but instantly recognizable. I had it. Hard. Hard enough to make me take 3 pregnancy tests even though I knew it was too early for the hormone to register on the stick. It's tough to stay focused when you're pretty sure you're carrying a Christmas miracle.
Matt: "Anybody want wine with dinner?"
Me: "Yes. Well, maybe not. I mean, it's probably okay to but... Yeah, I'll have some. Wait - no."
Grandma: "Do you want to watch House Hunters?"
Me: "What if it's twins?!"
I mean, it wasn't inconceivable that I would be pregnant but the chances were slim. Owen didn't come easy (2 years. Holla.) and as someone who's far too acquainted with the finer points of conception, the math didn't add up. But the FEELING! I had it! It was there and it was real.
And then it wasn't. One morning I woke up and everything felt different. I was still tired and bloated, but the boobs? The keen and irritating sense of smell? Gone completely. Completely.
I'm not pregnant. I just took my fourth - and, sadly, final - test. But I still can't explain the eerie certainty.