“Oh, is your teddy bear sick? What’s wrong with him? Does he need to see a doctor?”
“Yes, he has a booboo on his arm.”
“Well, then, you’re in the right place. Walk right into my office here and I’ll see what I can do for him.”
The Teddy Bear Clinic happens once or twice a year at our hospital, and I happened to have volunteered this year to minister to various bears, dinosaurs, barbie dolls, GI Joes, etc. that had suffered random (and often creative) mishaps. Children from the neighborhood bring their inanimate friends in for “booboos”, coughs, runny noses, tumors, amputations (I’m not kidding)…you know, typical emergencies that might befall a stuffed animal. In any case, it was a good cause: trying to get children to feel more comfortable in the hospital. I think those kids are actually too smart to fall for the charade. In reality, they’re just playing along with us idiot adults. But, hey, I’m not about to point this out to Admin.
That day, I tried to keep a straight face as these kids directed my attention to the assorted ailments I needed to address. At the back of my mind, however, was the nagging thought that my period was late. Also at the back of my mind, but perhaps less farther back, was the realization that I was kind of hoping that I was pregnant. Was it the room full of kids? The adorable (and occasionally maimed) stuffed animals? Hormones? Lack of caffeine? I’m not sure. The husband and I had sort of, kind of started trying a month ago, with no realistic expectation of getting pregnant right away. We had read the statistics and whatnot and knew it could take 3-4, maybe even 6 months. Not to mention I’m in my mid-30s, so there are some stale eggs in here. However, I like to pride myself on the very fertile women from which I descend. No one has ever had any difficulty conceiving in my extended family. And I’ve got the same wide, “please-fertilize-me” hips they all have/had. So…this should be a piece of cake, right?