So much to say, so much to do
So anyway, I’m pregnant. Perhaps this is surprising news to you! Or maybe not, but either way, it is not possible that you are more surprised than I was when I took the test. Not by a long shot.
When I got pregnant with Noah seven (7! Sunrise sunset!) years ago, it took a little bit of doing. Now, I know people whose pregnancies took a lot more doing; people who endured pills and injections and negative test after negative test and heartbreak beyond belief. This was not that kind of doing—it was a little bit of doing. And while I would never claim to know how it feels to try for years to conceive, I do know that even one month of a concerted, eager attempt that results in a negative test can feel pretty awful. And each one after that gets worse. So the fact that I had to do any “doing” at all to get pregnant was seared into me when I started thinking we might want to try for a second child and I went to the doctor straightaway. Pills were prescribed, and I steeled myself for a lesson in patience but before I even got close to the designated pill-taking days, I felt a curious hunger pang one afternoon at lunch, took a test on a whim and BLAMMO: Rosie Mae was on her way. I was dumbfounded, because I was convinced that this was not the way my body worked.
I don’t veer a whole lot into TMI territory (or at least here anyway), but hang on to your hats, because we’re going there: we were actively not trying to get pregnant this time. Like, little yellow pills every day, still deciding whether it was feasible for us, Whoa-Nelly-we-have-have-more-debt-than-the-U.S.-of-A. not trying to get pregnant. So when things started being a little wonky for me—lady-parts-wise—I thought it might be some sort of weird dealio that needed a cream? Or a potion? Or an exorcist? I wasn’t sure, but I bought a pregnancy test for something to do before calling a professional. Bought it with a chuckle! Tossed it up on the drugstore counter feeling like a ridiculous poseur with pipe dreams. (Because I’ve wanted three kids forever ever, and as Rosie’s birthday approached, the baby thoughts took a turn for the HEY-OH-intense-I-really-think-we-should-do-this-now vein.) I didn’t even tell L I’d bought the test, because I wasn’t pregnant, duh, so better to keep the embarrassment to myself in the safety of the bathroom than admit I’d spent $11 of our hard earned money on a test of which we already knew the results.
They always say that the morning is the best time to take a pregnancy test, because the baby juju is most concentrated then, but I didn’t even give that a second thought. Besides, who has five minutes to themselves to take a covert, silly pregnancy test in a house with a sleepy six year old boy who stumbles around after he wakes up, not aware of what door he’s just opened, or a very much awake 2 year old who knows exactly which door she’s opening, thankyouverymuch? Not me, that’s who.
So after the kids were asleep one night, I casually peed on the stick, muttering “This is so ridiculous,” under my breath as I went, and then watched as the screen immediately showed me a plus sign in two blazing purple lines. My heart skipped about 50 beats. And then I died. And then I came back to life, picked myself up off the floor and stared at myself in the mirror for about five straight minutes (which is pretty much impossible to do unless you are having some sort of Moment—otherwise it’s just weird and awkward) and then hid the test. And then unhid the test, because WHAT WAS I DOING? I didn’t know. I was feeling crazy.
I walked out into the living room where L was sitting doing work on the computer, and I locked the front door for the night. Tidied up a few things. Walked through the room 13,247 times on my way to nowhere before finally sitting down in the chair across the room from him and saying, “Um.” It was clear I was nervous, and L shut his computer, looking concerned. Then I said “Um,” about 47 more times before just letting the bomb drop: “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” L said. (QUITE INCREDULOUSLY, AS YOU MIGHT HAVE GUESSED.)
“I … I just … um … yeah. I took this test, and yeah. I’m … pregnant?”
For the rest of my life I will be grateful to L for what he did right after this. He sat back on the couch, both hands on top of his head, quiet for a full minute (while I’m thinking AHHHHHHHHHHakjfaojfa;dkfjf;sa in my head) and then he slowly smiled, bobbed his head up and down a few times and said, “You know what? I’m alright. This is good. It’s alright.”
To which I replied “WELL I AM GLAD TO HEAR YOU FEEL THAT WAY BECAUSE I AM FREAKING OUT JUST A LITTLE BIT RIGHT THIS SECOND AND CANNOT STOP SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS.”
So we started talking. And we talked some more. And I moved over to the couch, in hopes that I could absorb some of his chillaxed mojo. (It kinda worked.) I finally ratcheted back the ALL CAPS FREAK OUT to Capital Letters At The Beginnings Of Words Only before we climbed into bed, fully recognizing that my mind was capable of thinking only of the fact that I was pregnant. None of the future parts could be considered at this point. Due date? No idea. Where will the baby sleep? Dunno. Could we afford full time daycare for two kids? Fingers in ears + plus a LALALALA. Boy or girl? Baby. There’s a baby. I could start to wrap my head around that. So I stayed with that and the present moment, figuring the future stuff could be dealt with far in the future. Like after my heart rate dipped back down below 245 bpm.
Which it would have, had I not remembered just before I fell asleep that I was leaving for a business trip that would definitely involve social drinking with co-workers in only three days. And that’s when insomnia really set in.
For more on the ill-fated business trip and why I feel compelled to add a waitress and two or three bartenders from Kentucky to my Christmas card list, stay tuned until the next installment of Yestertime: You Can’t Make This Shit Up!