Hermey Needs to Make a House Call

Can you hear that? That sound that is vaguely reminiscent of small rodents trying to build tiny mansions in between your walls? That’s me, chomping at the bit. Today is the day I break open the first package of ovulation predictor sticks. I’ve used them before, prior to having the endometrial biopsy and found the whole thing a tad irritating. Limiting fluids for four hours, not going to the bathroom for four hours, hanging out in a work bathroom for three minutes waiting for results, is not exactly what I’d call thrilling. Ah, dreams are made of this. In addition to using the little predictor gizmos, I’ve also been obsessively consulting Dr. Google every five seconds: the connection between folic acid and miscarriage, MTHFR and miscarriage, miscarriage statistics, stress and miscarriage, standing on your head and miscarriage, going to the circus and miscarriage, what to do when everyone you’ve ever met is currently pregnant and miscarriage. Because I enjoy self-torture, I’ve also been watching an absolutely insane amount of television about babies. First it was "Bringing Home Baby!" or some other equally inane title. It covers those first twenty-four hours after the family returns home with the newborn. Riveting! And yet, I watched and I watched and I watched. I attempted on several occasions to bring the husband into the fold, "Come look. Ha ha ha. They’ve just gotten the baby to sleep! Wow. Now the family is eating. Looks like chicken. Oh no! The baby is crying." Strangely, he wasn’t at all interested. Then I began watching programming on twins–identical twins, identical quadruplets, identical quintuplets, whatever. The husband did make a brief appearance during the show about identical quads. He took one look at them, shuddered and muttered something about "scary teeth." "You’re horrible!" I squealed. "Those are the most adorable little girls!" And then I looked closer and their teeth really did look somewhat sinister–a tad pointy and jabby. There are FOUR of them and they are IDENTICAL. They really could DESTROY you even at age six if they really wanted to. And all they’d need is to take a few quick bites with those maniacal choppers. Once I pointed out that they were pretty witty for age six, the husband was a little more lenient on the lack of good orthodontia. Wit, oh that is something he can always get behind.