Playing Russian Roulette with Auntie Flo

I've noticed that since I've declared that I don't care if we ever get pregnant, the boy has suddenly become incredibly invested in things.

It's sort of the same thing that happened when I was half-heartedly trying to plan a wedding and he kept putting things off; I finally came home and said, "I've decided I don't want to marry you. I've got the pretty ring, the house, the two dogs, the kid, and a decent tax bracket, why the hell do I need to be bound to you 'till death do us part?" Suddenly he was picking out colors and place settings.

This whole getting pregnant thing has almost become this 007-style mission for him. He maps ovulation cycles and when it's time, he becomes Barry White, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Of course, I can only laugh because he's about as far from Barry White (or romantic) as you could get.....but he tries.

Our months have become compartmentalized and we live on an ever moving roller coaster of emotions. Now, some of you have asked why we don't just adopt. And we've considered that. But when we look at the numbers, we ask ourselves, "should we really spend that much money to bring another child home when we could be investing it in the future of the perfectly perfect child we already have?" And our answer is always the same, "no."

So until we give up, or decide to throw college for the kid into the hands of fate, my months shape up like this:

Days 1-10 :: Waiting for Barry White to visit.

Days 10-15 :: Shagging shamlessly and reminiscing about what life was like when we were "just dating."

Days 15-27 :: Life is back to normal. But every now and again, I look out the front window and see Auntie Flo parked in her 1983 Lincoln Towncar. The window is cracked, and she looks comfortable out there, in her plush velour seats with her Virginia Slim dangling from her lips. She's staring at the house though, not a good sign.

Day 28 :: Even though I'm not counting days, I know when day 28 arrives. I'm not productive on these days because Auntie Flo is usually not late for the party, but sometimes she gets sidetracked at someone else's house. When she doesn't show up, I secretly smile and go back to praying.

Day 29 :: Sometimes, there's still no Auntie Flo. Maybe she got in a car wreck. Don't know, don't care. I shadow box in front of the calendar, taunting her. "Whatcha got, huh? You think you can take me? I don't think so!" I'm childish, I know. I repeat this exercise every day until I feel it's safe to open, "the cabinet."

Day T-0 :: On the rare months we get this far, this happens to be any day I feel confident. It could be Day 30, it could be Day 35. I open the cabinet and take out the sacred box. Carefully unwrapping that little package, like I'm Charlie and it's holding my Golden Ticket. I haven't seen Auntie Flo's Towncar out front lately, so I think it's safe.

But, of course, it never is. Before I can even get the packaging open, I hear the screeching of tires as she swings into the driveway. She doesn't even knock, she just bursts through the door, smoking her Virginia Slim, cackling like an old hen at a Friday night Bingo game, and waving a tiny little pistol.

"Sorry I'm late kid."

"Geez, you shouldn't have."

"Oh honey, you should know I'd never let you down." This bitch is sarcastic!

I smirk. "Listen, do what you need to, and get the hell out. Your ass is so not invited to Thanksgiving dinner."

**Auntie Flo's picture, courtesy of Daily Mail UK**