Attempts at confirmation

We’re now at something like six positive pee-stick results. M’s nothing if not thorough. She is, however, prone to second guessing. So an actual medical professional will be weighing in today. Apparently there’s a thing called “chemical pregnancy” which means you’re not withchild after all, but rather with-beaker-full-of-chemicals. Or something.

I’m working at home today, through a cold. Out the window there’s a snowstorm sweeping over the mountains toward us, framed by leafless tree-branches. Bare ruined choirs and all that. A nice melancholy winter day. Hopefully I can crank out a few pages before talking to a doctor about things like cervical distention and yolk sacs.

So, in the past year: a possible mini-stroke, the appearance of gray hairs behind my ears and in other odd places, a new prescription for cholesterol medication, buying a house, a total of three mortgages, going up for tenure, and a possibly successful attempt at procreation. Oldness, decay, gravity. It’s a good day for a snowstorm.