Recently, a friend of mine told me a story that made me laugh out loud. The more she told, the more convinced I was her story should be a blog post. She’s a good sport and wrote it out for me, even though not all people like to share the intimate details of their lives on the Internet. (What, that’s not normal?)

How do you know that you are in the throes of a post partum life? When you approach the checkout of a pharmacy and have the following three items in your basket:

1. A pregnancy test

2. A box of tampons

3. A box of condoms

As any menstruating woman can tell you, in theory, if you need any one of these items, you should not need the other two. Some may argue that #2 and #3 could go together but that has never really been my thing as I have been blessed with severe cramps and have too high of an affinity for my linens.

So there I was, waiting for a post pubescent high school short stop to check me out, daring him to smirk and violate his company “do not make a face when people are people are buying things you find amusing” policy so I could point out that at least I was not buying cigarettes and prenatal vitamins. After seven months of exclusive breast feeding I still had not gotten my period and I was sure that my mood was either a result of 16 months of back logged PMS or my early pregnancy phase exhaustion. To make matters worse, for the past week I had had bouts of that “I am going to get my period any freaking second” cramping with no visit from Aunt Flo in sight. This reminded me just enough of how I felt 16 months prior to warrant the pregnancy test.

When I convinced myself for the third time that morning that I really was going to get my period any freaking second I went to try to locate a box of tampons and discovered that they were inconveniently packed away with my skinny jeans, my dangle earrings and any other evidence I had of a pre-baby life. I looked at the down pillow sized pads I had left over from the hospital and decided to add a box of OB Super Plus to the list just to be sure. On the short but blissful solo drive to the store the reality of a possible pregnancy began to set in.

Flashbacks of midnight feedings and three hour stretches of sleep being classified as a ‘good thing’ came back to me in the parking lot. By the time I walked through the automatic doors I realized that kids 16 or 15 or however many freaking months pregnant I could be apart would mean two in diapers at the same time. It would mean needing to buy one of those double strollers I eyed with pity at World-of-Baby. It would mean no sushi, no wine, NO BRIE CHEESE! I panicked. I promised myself with all of the earnest sincerity I had shown my OB and my 11th grade health teacher that I. Would. Use. Condoms. And that I would use them every time. I practically ran to the Family Planning aisle (HA!) and threw a jumbo pack into my basket. I was officially prepared for everything.

The next morning I peed on the stick. Not pregnant. That week I waited. No period. The box of condoms? Still unopened but residing in my bedside table which seems like a step in the right direction.

Oh well. Life is what happens when we are busy making other plans right? And lets face it, I’m too old for the skinny jeans anyway.