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It was very unnerving to find that, the first month that my husband and I go without birth control (not really trying, you understand, just not preventing) my period didn’t come the day it was due. Or the day after. Or the day after that. I was on the other side of the country, visiting my parents  and trying to find excuses not to drink wine while trying to figure out how to sneak a pregnancy test into the household, considering that they still won’t let me drive my Dad’s Lexus and thus chauffeur me everywhere.

Perfect Husband was bragging over the phone, calling himself the One Hit Wonder, and I was spending a lot of time thinking variations of “holy shit, there’s still stuff I haven’t done!” and “but I don’t feel pregnant.”

The stick told me that I wasn’t, and at the height of my confusion, my period decided to show up, well beyond fashionably late. The mixed emotions of “phew,” and “goddamnit!” cannot be easily described.

I drank two glasses of wine at my aunt’s house. If my parents were having suspicions (and I hope they were, because my 93 year old grandmother asked me out of the blue whether I’m hoping for a boy or a girl, so either they told her they thought I was pregnant, or I’m even fatter than I thought!) they must be really confused now!

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