Pop-Tarts and menopause

Ladies, can we talk? Okay it’s been 84 days since I got my period. And there is no way I could be pregnant because my husband, Tom, had the big V, when my third daughter Melanie, now 6, was just five months old. After having three in just under four years, I told him flat out, that’s it—I can’t have anymore kids and meant it, banishing him to another bedroom. All bets are off honey. Go away with that thing. And he ran like hell to the urologist’s office to get snipped thinking we’d have wild, passionate unprotected crazy sex like we used to…..or at least we thought or Jeez could’ve sworn we did…once.

Now, I’m hormonal, bloated, breaking out with acne, crying and just plain nasty some days. I’m 42. There’s been no warning of this coming, yet. I haven’t had any hot flashes. Although I’m very dizzy sometimes to the point that I can’t even watch my kids go on a Merry-Go-Round let alone go on any rides with them at all. I’m an earth bound mother. I can’t even turn around in the mini-van when Tom’s driving to answer a question or hand them juice. I get that dizzy.

So I buy a pregnancy kit. Because I've heard all those urban legends about vasectomies...it can get reconnected somehow; someone knew someone after 10 years they had a child...Tom sits on the bed waiting, while I do what the instructions tell me to do in the bathroom. I’m cranky. I thought I’d never have to buy one of these kits again in my life. I fuss with the thing, put the cap back on and wait.

I open the door from the bathroom and look at my husband. And I see, in his eagerness to hear the news, I can’t believe it and blink twice. There it is—a giant Cheshire grin as wide as the parting of the Red Sea spreading across his face. He’s HAPPY. He wants another child. Number four!!! He’s acting goofy with a twinkle in his eye I haven’t seen since the hospital when he cradled each newborn in his arms. And this makes me…MAD. Because I just got my life back.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my children all three crazy kids that run through my house, screaming, fighting and gluing things onto the refrigerator. I adore it. Wouldn’t have it any other way, except for those stickers on my hardwood floors that I can’t scrape off. I’m blessed, but I just came up for air. I began to have full length conversations with my friends again while out to lunch. Shoot, we actually GO OUT to lunch! Our family’s sleeping through the night just about every night. I am absolutely no good without sleep-as all moms are. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t do it, again.

We wait. The line was negative—thank god.
Tom’s sad but I realized, he was more puffed up and proud at the thought, although cut off for five years, that maybe his boys, or just that one miraculous rebel golden seed, broke the boundary, escaped and found its way to glory.

Me, still bloated cranky and irritating to everyone within a 2 mile radius of me, scheduled a doctor’s appointment to see what’s up. Then I ate four Pop-Tarts at once and cried at a sappy commercial.

Help. Any advice?