We’ve already established on this weblog that I’m a touch crazy. I’ll show you just how crazy I really am.
In the past, the only times I’ve been involved in car accidents have been when I’m pregnant with a boy. It’s gotten to the point where, when a woman pulled out in front of my car last January, my Patient Husband only said, “Of course. She’s pregnant, so someone had to hit her car.”
It’s been consistent. Twelve weeks pregnant with Kiddo#1, I was stopped at a red light when two sixteen-year-olds rear-ended me going thirty-five miles per hour. (They were late for school, so they did what anyone would do, and stopped at Dunkin Donuts. I wish I were making that up.)
Twelve weeks pregnant with Kiddo#3, two sixteen-year-olds pulled out from an intersection right into the side of our car. Again, the driver was so new that she didn’t even have her permanent license yet, and in her case, she was clearly looking at her friends three blocks away rather than at the big blue minivan of doom right in front of her.
Seven months pregnant with Kiddo#4, someone pulled out in front of my car, and didn’t bother turning her head to see the big blue minivan of doom.
All of these accidents have left me unhurt (although my guardian had a heck of a time keeping me from being killed with the first one) but I’m convinced that something evil wants to kill my children and gets one shot at it before birth. But only my boys.
Two weeks ago, on the way to Vacation Bible School, I stopped at a right-turn-on-red in order to let an ambulance pass us. Because, you see, it’s “right turn on red after stop, if no one else is coming.” It’s not “right turn on red regardless,” although many people seem to think that’s how it works.
I had the thought, “I’m going to get rear-ended,” but then both I and the car behind me were not moving as we waited for a green light, so I didn’t think of it again.
Until the behind-me driver accelerated from a dead stop in order to rear-end my car.
I checked out all four Kiddos, made sure they were okay, exchanged information, and made sure the cars were both driveable. They were. No one was hurt, but I brought the baby to the pediatrician just to make sure, and then went to my doctor to document mild whiplash. Went home and filed a claim. Then got on one of my message boards and vented.
But at the end of the post I laughed and said, “Before now, the only times I’ve been in an accident have been when I’ve been pregnant.”
People began posting in telling me to take a pregnancy test.
Perfectly normal, sane people became very, very urgent: I must go pee on a stick. I HAD to do it. My unborn baby’s life depended on it.
I assured them I could not be pregnant. They insisted. I told someone in real life, and she got a panicked expression: I must take a pregnancy test!
My response: until I take a pregnancy test, I cannot be pregnant, since I won’t have tested positive. Once I take it, I might be pregnant. In order not to be pregnant, I shouldn’t test.
The posters on the message board referred to this as a “Schroedinger’s pregnancy,” and then came up with their own stories of strange coincidences, and urged me again to test.
That night, I told my Patient Husband what they’d said. He turned to me in panic and said, “You can’t say something like that and then not take a test!”
My Patient Husband is ordinarily the sanest person on the planet. I blame the cloud of pheromones that must have been swirling around me for intoxicating him into a state of holy terror. While I blinked, he said, “Can you go buy a test?”
I said, “Well, I have a test –”
He said, “Then go take it!”
So I went and did the POAS test.
Apparently it is possible to be in a car accident without being pregnant. Who knew?