Hitting For the Cycle

The coast-to-coast clamor for new information regarding potential parenthood at our house now can come to a quiet resolution. For the first time in approximately three months, there is “activity down below” which clearly indicates the absence of gestation.
In other words: no more freaking out. We’re not pregnant. As we assumed, my blushing bride’s cycle is slowing down. No harm, no foul.
She steadfastly refused to test herself, saying that any acquisition of a home pregnancy test would be a waste of money. As usual, she was right. It’s safe to say she knows her own body. Certainly, she knows how it feels to be “in a family way.” The long-anticipated arrival of Aunt Flow is something of a relief, and a little bit of a disappointment. There are a thousand reasons not to have a baby in your mid-forties, a few of them medical, many of them operational; certainly a significant number are financial. Still, there was the potential for excitement and drama if the unlikely had become reality.
Our 19th wedding anniversary will roll around Tuesday, and we already have plans for a quiet acknowledgement of the milestone. Nineteen is an odd number no matter how you look at it. Now, with the question of new paternity settled once and for all, it becomes somewhat mundane.
My daughter may be the one enjoying the most emotional relief. She didn’t want to be saddled with baby-sitting and diaper changing duty. I know her turn will come soon enough, and she probably does, too. She’s busy making the transition to high school, and no circumstance should dare to become an obstacle to her crusade to be the center of attention. There are parties to attend and boys to attract and vital phone calls to make.
My son hardly acknowledged the possibility. It’s hard to crack that 16-year-old skull sometimes. I know somebody’s home in there. Most of the time, he refuses to answer the door.
Now, it’s time to concentrate once again on fighting off the possibility of being a grandparent too soon. I’d like a twenty year spread, at the absolute minimum, between offspring of either generation.
As for more practical matters, there is the issue of survival. My son and I can run and hide from two cycles in sync, which they had been until recently. However, the specter of living alongside a teenage girl and her menopausal mother for an indeterminate interval is frightening. I’ve said for a long time that every morning I have to do a roll call in my head to make sure everybody’s in there. My wife has always been the steady, even-tempered partner. Everyone should be truly afraid if the household has to count on me to be the voice of reason.

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