Internet, I simply cannot bear to keep this to myself any longer:
Yes, those are mine. Yes, they are positive. Yes, I am still pissing my pants with glee and what-the-fuck?-ery. Can you please hand me that towel?
Don’t ask me how this happened. I mean, yes, I know how it happened, but according to some very annoying and not-very-accurate-as-far-as-I’m-concerned ovulation tests, there was no way in hell it was happening for me this month.
I had actually given up on the mad temperature-tracking and ovulation-testing months ago. I couldn’t find a pattern, nothing was lining up, and it was just making me doubly frustrated whenever I wasted money on a stupid, goddamn [negative] pregnancy test every month. So I adopted what you might call the, “Fuck it, I’m going to drink and have sex whenever I damn well please” attitude towards life. Which, in my experience, was a much happier way to live.
Just ask them.*
Then there was July. For the first time in, well, FOREVER, I kind of felt like I was ovulating. Since I still had some of those (very annoying and not-very-accurate-as-far-as-I’m-concerned) ovulation tests lying around, I took one. And it gave me a reading that came in somewhere between “Sahara desert,” and “Are you sure you don’t have a penis?”
I may have uttered some profanities at that point.
So, life carried on as per usual. The play opened, the play closed. My period was late once again, despite the cramps I was having. And then there was the one night we opened a bottle of wine and it…just didn’t taste very good to me somehow. And of course I had those fleeting twinges of “OMG, what if…?” but I really, truly, suspected nothing.
Is more attuned to his womanly parts than I am.
Then Friday the 1st rolled around. Still no period, and at this point I was a week late. I had gotten a big, strong cafe misto at Starbucks that morning, and I was in caffeinated hyper-productive mode, checking things off my to-do list left and right. When it got to be noon and I was preparing to go out for a walk, I called Brad and said that I was thinking about taking a test at lunch – you know, just so I’d know before the weekend and would be able to get it off my mind. He said, “Are you sure? You won’t get frustrated?” “WHAT? I NEVER GET FRUSTRATED!” I replied, screaming (and lying) probably a little bit louder than the conversation warranted, but see above, re: cafe misto. I ended up telling him that I probably wouldn’t test (especially since I didn’t want anyone in my office to possibly see a pregnancy test in the trash), but I’d let him know if I did.
Am a liar.
I made a beeline for the Rite-Aid, where I bought one cheap-ass store-brand test, and set off to find a bathroom that was not shared by coworkers. This left me with a few options: some of the nearby college classroom buildings, where pregnancy tests are probably disposed in the vending machines; the McDonald’s down the block, which would require me to swallow a significant amount of pride and possibly also a McFlurry; or the local public library. “To the library!” I thought. “What better place to find out if you’re pregnant than in the hallowed halls of literature and knowledge?”
Of course, pregnancy tests require pee, and seeing as how I had spent the morning peeing as a result of my cafe misto, the well had pretty much run dry, if you will. So I forced myself to wander around the stacks while waiting for my bladder to fill, trying to act perfectly casual before heading to the ladies. I think I lasted about 5 minutes in the “new releases” section before I gave up and tried to make a new release of my own.
That sumbitch plus sign showed up in mere seconds. I promptly 1) freaked the fuck out, 2) stashed the test in my purse, and 3) high-tailed it to Brad’s office, a convenient 5-minute walk from the library. I just kept praying that he wasn’t in a meeting.
Pardon me, sirs and madams, but I’m afraid I need to brief my husband on the contents of my uterus.
Luckily, Brad was not in a meeting, but alone in his office finishing up lunch. I thought for sure he’d see PREGNANT written all over my face as soon as I walked in the door as he is eerily receptive to any disturbance in the force, but he didn’t seem to notice a thing. So I engaged in possibly the stupidest small talk on the face of the planet before remarking, “Oh yeah,” and plunking the test on his desk. Without really looking at it, he gave me a look that said, “I TOLD you not to go doing that if it was only going to piss you off,” and then he took a good, long look at what that stick was really trying to tell him.
Don’t make me take you on Maury.
Then followed much freaking out, some tears, lots of disbelief, and an afternoon spent being more distracted than I’ve ever been in my damn life. Thank God I’m not a surgeon.
So, that’s one reason, Internet, that I’ve been so quiet over these past 20 days: because I was finding it very hard to come up with things to talk about that weren’t related to pregnancy, when my whole LIFE has been overtaken by the news. Also, the bone-crushing fatigue and near-constant need to gag makes blogging a little…difficult. I know it might be a little early to spill the fertilized beans (I’m 8 weeks, but possibly 9 depending on Monday’s ultrasound results**), but I tend to share the same mindset as Leah when it comes to this: Sharing the happy news early isn’t a jinx; if something goes wrong, I’d rather you share the sadness AND the joy with me, rather than just the sadness.
But for right now: JOY. Also: lots of banana peppers. MMM.
*As Kristin probably noticed, this is the third appearance of these girls on this blog, and what can I say? I fucking love them. Seriously. How can you not?
**I am trying (and failing) to wrap my mind around the fact that something like an ultrasound is happening TO ME. I mean, WHAT?! We had our first prenatal appointment yesterday, and I have to admit I expected the nurse to test my pee and tell me to get my non-pregnant ass out of there.***
***That did not happen.****
****OH! It must be noted that Kristin , Shelli, and The ConstantC ALL picked up on what I thought were subtle hints and Twitters, and have known about my pregnant ass for weeks. In the wise words of Joan Crawford: “Don’t fuck with [them], fellas. This ain’t [their] first time at the rodeo!”