A certain something-something that used to plague me once a month is not coming around much anymore. In fact, I’m wondering if it’s ever coming back.

Six years ago I assumed it was gone for good. I called my doctor to set up an appointment about this and the nurse said, “You may want to take a pregnancy test.” My response was something like, “If you say so.”

I knew better than to get my hopes up. Surgery, five IUIs and one IVF hadn’t produced a single positive pregnancy test, so why should I expect one to occur out of the clear blue? I had gotten tired of throwing my money and my hopes at fertility, so I gave up. We gave up. I had a partner in all this. Someone who stuck needles in my legs, subjected himself to really embarrassing procedures, held me when I cried in frustration. He let me convince him to adopt. Even though he already had three children of his own, he agreed to a fourth from a foreign country. After that, we never went back to the OB/GYN.

Our sweet little brown Boy was two years old and watching a Thomas the Tank Engine video in my bedroom when I cracked open the pregnancy test kit. He burst into the bathroom while I was in midstream, asking, “Whatcha doin’ mommy?” “It’s medicine, Honey, go watch Thomas,” I said.

It didn’t take long to get the test results — a blue sign of the cross formed in the window within seconds. Positive. For the first and only time in my life.

When I showed the test to Bob, he didn’t speak for about three hours. That’s a very rare occurrence.

If I make a doctor’s appointment now, nothing that exciting will happen. She’ll just confirm what I already know.

I’m getting old.