Fiction Friday, the Fourth on the Thirteenth.

My friend gave me the suggestion of clams to inspire this post. I didn't like it. So, I reached out to my facebook people in an effort to get another word that would inspire me, as I'm basically a curmudgeon and a control freak. Their responses were even less inspiring to me. I feel full of piss and vinegar today. I don't know why. I slept well, ate good food and got to visit with some kids that I used to babysit that are now 28, 27, and 25...oh, wait. That may be why. I'M OLD, PEOPLE!

So. What word will inspire today's post? Clams, prickly pears, confidence, Postimperialism, Antidisestablishmentarianism, Defenestration, Bjork, and Paraprosdokian.

PS-I have NO IDEA WHY I WROTE THIS PARTICULAR STORY. It just came out. Interpret at will. I am not pregnant. Just in case you thought that. As I said to my boss the other day,"There's a whole process that has to occur before that can happen!"

None of the Above
by This Girl

The fluorescent lights clicked above my head as I waited impatiently for my name to be called. It had been over an hour since I had borrowed a clicky pen from a cup at the front desk and checked in for my appointment. I had already filled out my paperwork, checking the single status that they require for some reason. My legs were asleep. The anorexic magazine selection had ceased to entertain me, and the hacking cough being forced from the lungs of the man across from me was not only getting on my nerves, but had probably transmitted some sort of virus to everyone in his vicinity. I hate doctors. Hate them. And this one was about to ruin everything.

It had started simply enough. A drunken night. A one night stand in my one bedroom apartment. An expired condom. A missed period. Wishing symptoms away had not worked. Finally biting the bullet, I called my ob/gyn and scheduled an appointment. For this day. For an hour ago.

I knew in my heart what the pee test would say. I knew as well what the sperm donor would say. I had no idea, none at all, what I was going to say. To myself. To the something growing inside me. To my parents. To my friends.

A bored looking nurse in puppy dog scrubs came through the patients door, squeaking in her bright orange Crocs as she mispronounced my name. Looking at my hacking compatriot, I grabbed my overpriced handbag, smoothed out my pencil skirt that had become a little snug in the last two weeks, and followed Nurse Humane Society into the back room, my 3 inch heels clacking on the dingy linoleum. We headed to where the humiliation was about to begin: the scale. "Hop on up, honey," Pound Puppy said, impatient with the time it was taking me to drop the purse, kick off my shoes, and unclip my phone. Every ounce counts.

"My name is not honey, " I snapped as she adjusted the weight further and further over from where it had sat for the past 5 years. "Hmm, 145...that's a jump from your last visit. Let's head to room 1." After the niceties of taking temperature and blood pressure, she asked me the question. "What are you here to see the doctor for?" Wanting to correct her incorrect grammar, I told her. The snarky expression on her face softened. She lead me to the bathroom, and I stared into the toilet, cup in hand for what seemed like an eternity.

The time had come.

Ever the perfectionist, I didn't spill a single drop as I deposited my sample ( a sample that could change my world, would change my world, oh God, what was I gonna do) and exited the small sterile bathroom . Plopping on the exam table fully clothed, I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I was about to lose my mind when a delicate knock sounded at the door. I squeaked a "come in" in a voice I did not recognize. The doctor, followed by Nurse Scooby, entered the room with a neutral expression on her face. I couldn't read her. Scrappy Doo was an enigma as well. Had these women trained at some sort of acting school to not show any emotion as they delivered news that could shatter a person's life? I wanted to scream at them to tell me...just tell me, goddamnit!

Then they did. Slowly, calmly, they told me that the test was positive. That I was pregnant. That all the worries and the sleepless nights wondering had been confirmed. They looked at me with sympathy as I lay back on the table. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. They left me alone to recover myself.

Tear were welling up in my eyes. Why was this happening to me, now? When I finally had my life in order. When I had a career, and friends, and happy hours to go to. When I was alone and not ready. I wasn't ready. At all. Not for this. Not...

And then I looked around. Really looked around me. I saw pictures of babies. Diagrams of a child in the womb and advertisements for different types of formulas. Sample packs of pre natal vitamins.

And I started thinking, I can do this. I can do this.

And my life did change. It was shattered, but put back into place in a different formation. And I was right about the father. About how everyone would react. But they don't matter. None of it matters.

All that matters is you.

Mothering gene...

My mom wrote the annual Christmas letter recently, and it got me thinking. I'm going to use her own words to establish my point.

'Ah, the ever dreaded holiday letter, filled with the musings and celebrations from the Pottinger family. I told the kids this year that I was going to write one line, "Nothing has changed, see 2009 letter." Daniel and his girlfriend of six years, Amanda, have still NOT gotten engaged or set a date, Brooke and Nick keep talking about the next step but it seems to be one step forward and two steps back. Lauren is single and a workaholic. I have no grandchildren, (though I am lucky to have 10 great nieces and nephews, and two on the way) so I spoil my dog.'

Now, I know my mom loves me and my siblings. The rest of the letter goes on to say how great things are going in all of our lives, and is really sweet and well written. This is in no way about her and her desire for grandbabies. It's about me. Which may be the problem.

I have been told for years that I would be a great mom. I get along with kids, I have fun with them and treat them like mini-adults, and they seem to like me. I remember Thanksgivings as a teenager/early twenty something spent in the front yard with my young neighbors or relatives playing, while the adults would be inside. I was the babysitter to call in our neighborhood, and I would come with a box full of books, games, and costumes so that the kids would go to bed exhausted and creatively fulfilled. I took one of the kids I babysat trick or treating one year. His costume was Darth Vader, so I dressed like Princess Leia, buns and all. I enjoy spending time with kids and helping them to become decent teenagers who will grow into fantastic adults.

All that being said, I'm just not sure it's right for me. I have the inkling that I might enjoy it, and I understand that as a woman I won't know until it's happened...at least, that's what all my married/babied friends say. But the concept is a bit overwhelming to me even in the abstract. I would be responsible for a human life? A child which cannot defend itself and can't tell me what he/she needs? I can be honest with myself and say that I am a pretty lazy/self indulgent person. If I want to stay in bed til 11, I do. If I want to go to a movie, I'll take myself. I don't know about scheduling a whole day for another person, let alone myself. I look at all the moms in my life, mine included, and I wonder how they do/did it. They have a patience I don't see in myself. A selflessness that I don't know that I have.

So, it may be a wish unfulfilled for dear old Mom. She'll have to make do with grandpuppies, and I'll be the best darned Aunt on the planet. I'll always buy the loudest toys and give them the most chocolate and soda before I drop them back off at your house. I will give them the biggest and best gifts and be the one who is there when you get in a fight with them, to tell them the exact same thing you have been trying to say, but they'll listen to me, cause I'm "Cool Aunt Lauren.".