The (not so) wee ones were both excited and less than thrilled to have me around full time, having become accustomed to running their own lives and the luxury of that. It was definitely a change, as I'm so accustomed to traveling, and found that I missed that freedom more than I expected. It's a fairly comfortable life, I admit. Hotel living has it's perks: gorgeous views, housekeeping every day, dining out every night, no hassle of dirty dishes in the sink or laundry needing to be done or "real life" drudgery.
It's lovely. And I found that I needed that mental respite on occasion.
So over the fall and winter, I'd take the occasional getaway, both for the kids' sanity and mine, and give them a break from the requisite motherly nagging that goes along with teenagers and messy bedrooms.
Through a good friend, I met a nice guy who lives in another state: we have a lot of shared interests in outdoor activities, intelligent but not divisive conversations about politics and world affairs, and we got along fabulously in the bedroom. I'd fly in and visit once every few weeks for a couple of days: he'd go to work during the day, I'd putter 'round the cabin, and occasionally we'd play hooky and go cross country skiing across the fields or out in the woods.
It was never meant to be a long term thing- honestly, I'm introduced around as "my friend who's visiting", and neither of us have any expectations. And we were okay with that.
Now though, I'm back to work up in Washington and doing the usual weekly commute. Vague plans have been made that I'll pop up and see him, or he'll come down for a few days, but it seems we've both come to an unspoken agreement that while it was all lovely fun, it's run it's course. And without much more thought, I've returned to life as usual: single mom, weekly travel, hotel living, and sorting through scholarship offers with my eldest on the weekend, trying to pick which university she'll attend.
As I landed on Friday evening after my flight home this week, I got a text from my oldest asking me to stop and pick up some things at the store for her. Obliging, I popped into the local drugstore and as I perused the aisles, it occurred to me I was overdue for my period. I scanned my phone's calendar, didn't see the usual notation for January, and - with absolute sureness that it was entirely unnecessary (as my GP had given me the talk about perimenopause not three weeks prior) but because I like to rule out risk with complete confidence- threw a pregnancy test in the basket along with everything else.
20 minutes later, in the privacy of my bathroom, listening to the muffled sounds of teenagers in the kitchen, I stared down in complete disbelief at two pink lines.
I did a frantic counting back, thinking no, it's not possible. Can't be possible. Desperately called my GP, who although 10 minutes past closing, took my call and told me to come into the office immediately. Dashed to her practice, where she mirrored my look of "dear god, let this be negative" as she thrust a specimen jar at me as soon as I walked in.
Minutes later, her nurse handed her the results. My GP looked at them, looked at me, and said, "Well, that's that, then. Now what?"
My thoughts exactly.
