Four. And four. And four.

In the beginning of November, I flew to Phoenix to attend my the wedding of my fourth friend from high school to be married. They're a slow bunch, as we're in our mid-thirties now, but when they actually commit, they do it well.

I was particularly looking forward to this wedding because I have been pregnant for every single other nuptial of these lifelong friends. I was so pregnant for the last one, in fact, that I was unable to fly out to attend the wedding at all, and Adelyn was born a mere two days later.

Suffice it to say that Xanax works, as it got me one the plane at least. Xanax also made it difficult to concentrate on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but even when I'm high as a kite I can maintain some level of focus on Johnny Depp.

What followed the flight was several days of decadence - there was drinking, and eating, and lounging by the pool (which was too cold to actually swim in but how can I complain) in my bikini, yes, bikini, and of course there was my weekend objective to smoke cigarettes with abandon with my old friends who do in fact still smoke, and while that made me slightly ill it was fun and reminiscent and no I do not claim to be the rolemodel of good health.

I was a bit spooked by the Xanax though, since the pharmacist freaked out when it was prescribed to me - she held the package and wouldn't let the pharmacy tech give it to me until we "had a word." I have been taking prenatal vitamins since 1999, and she was apparantly fearful that I might be pregnant, hell, most people taking prenatal vitamins are pregnant, right? So I got a song and dance about the dangers of ingesting Xanax while pregnant, and a lecture on the exact half life of the drug - which is in your system for approximately two and a half days for those of you that must know.

Now, since I was allegedly ovulating upon my return from Phoenix (with the old PCOS I am never really sure if and when I ovulate), and Vincent and I were contemplating a fourth pregnancy, I decided to self medicate the old fashioned way (read: get rip-roaring drunk!) on the flight home.

So I step into a bar and proceed to ingest 40 ounces of beer and six cigarettes in about 15 minutes, the first time I was actually intoxicated all weekend (Alcohol has calories in it, you know. Must choose battles). It is the wild wild west in Arizona, and you can actually smoke inside of the airport! Bizarre.

Hiccupping, I sashayed up to the gate with about ten minutes to spare before my flight, and, as I approached, I notice that plane appears to be moving. "Must be drunk," I think to myself.

The moral here is that in the days post-911 flights stop boarding at least ten minutes before they are scheduled to leave. Who knew? The plane was moving. Without me.

So I am now drunk, and all alone in an airport in Phoenix, incredulous that I've missed my flight. As it turns out, I am very very lucky, as there was another flight in an hour and fifteen minutes, and the airline was able to get me a seat. Of course, I still needed to call my mother-in-law and tell her that I was drunk and missed my flight and basically a dumbass and her son really could have done much better and I'll try not to have sex with some cowboy at the airport. Or something like that. I can't really remember what I said because I was drunk, but the woman was at my house with my three children, so I needed to tell her something.

So...where are we? Yes, four weddings. Check.

Of course, nothing is more fun that attending the wedding of an old high school friend than doing so in a size four. It was a dream. I love being skinny again. It's fabulous, really, but it makes me wonder whether I'm willing to gain it all back and get pregnant again. Losing weight is getting harder and harder for me, and I've finally put all of my "fat clothes" back in the attic. I haven't actually given them away yet - that would be committing to never being fat again - which I cannot promise as we want a fourth child.

Yes, the last four. Baby number four. Do we want four? Should we have four?

So, in late November, Vincent and I are debating a romp under the sheets, and the subsequent condom wearing, when we decide to take a test run for pregnancy. Really, I should have missed my ovulation, and am due for my period any second. This fills me with some sadness, as I had secretly thought I might end up technically pregnant for my friend's wedding, you know, that I had attended after my LMP but before I conceived but then there's that whole we-start-counting-on-the-day-of-your-last-period thing and my streak remains unbroken.

So, we threw caution to the wind and had unprotected sex.

And well, you know what happened next, don't you?