Killing the Rabbit

So I took a pregnancy test yesterday. I know, I know . . . pretty ridiculous at my age. But things that have been happening for years have stopped happening lately. And things that never happened before are happening now. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that. So I thought, what the heck, may as well eliminate that vague possibility.

Of course the test turned out negative. I mean, what kind of miracle do I think I am anyway? But the idea of it being positive conjured up some pretty scary images. Can you imagine having a teenager in your seventies! Heck, it’s hard enough reigning them in when you’re in your fifties — may as well just hand over the car keys on their tenth birthday. On the other hand, it might be nice having a strapping young kid to push your wheelchair around.

   

Anyway, my husband and I had a lively little conversation around it this morning, somehow ending up on the actual test itself: little blue line = yep / no blue line = nope. A far cry from the tests we used to take that involved a doctor, some urine and a rabbit. I don’t claim to know how all that worked but I remember the old phrase about how, if the rabbit died, you were pregnant. Dead rabbit = yep / rabbit still hopping = nope. Things have sure advanced a lot since then! All we have to do now is to pee on a little stick. As opposed to peeing on a little rabbit and hoping (or not hoping) that our urine turns out deadly.

My husband got to wondering if other animals peed on rabbits to see if they’re pregnant, and whether that might be the reason why rabbits tend to be so quick when you try to catch one. Their mommas much teach ‘em young: “ya see another kind of animal approaching, don’t ask any questions — just hop your furry little self out a there ‘for you find yourself all peed on.”

So anyway, thank you technology for coming so far in the arena of pregnancy testing. Thank you little blue line for staying the hell off of my pregnancy test. And, thank you aging body for dodging that miraculous bullet.