I was about halfway through my work out when a blur of plastic with one solitary line flew into my head.
Lisa muttered something about “when everyone else is a week late it’s because they’re having a baby.”
All that was missing was a Johnny Depp like character to start some drunken musings about the return of the curse of the EPT.
You would think nearly 11 years after having our biological daughter the curse would have lost all of its power.
But it hasn’t.
It makes no logical sense that we would seriously entertain the possibility that our reproductive biology could produce a child without any medical assistance in our forties, given that it never succeeded in our twenties and thirties on its own.
Then again, this isn’t about making logical sense.
It’s about hearing those old familiar demons laughing at you for thinking you could actually join the naturally reproducing population of the world.
The curse doesn’t have as much power over us now that we have jumped over the primary infertility hurdle and made it to the finish line.
But it still has its sting.
Especially when it hits you in the side of head when your wife whips it at you from across the room.