I am currently in my 20th week of pregnancy, each Tuesday becoming one week closer to the arrival of our little bundle. But where do I begin? Now, already half way through the journey? At the very beginning, when the little "+" greeted me in the digital window of my pregnancy test? I'm a first time blogger, here. I wanna do this right. But just as I'd like this entire pregnancy to go off without so much as a hangnail and to birth my child with a backdrop of gospel singers in my hospital room, not everything can be perfect, and I can only do the best that I can. So here goes...
While the story of how we discovered I was "with child" is not exactly Nicholas Sparks material, it was actually pretty cute. Josh had planned for a night out with his cousins. Sitting on the couch, I kissed him goodbye and blankly changed channels on the TV until I heard the garage door close, after which I promptly raced into the bathroom to take a pregnancy test. For a couple days, I had just felt something was different. No nausea, no hormonal outbursts - though Josh may object to that account - but just a feeling, a knowingness. After a few long minutes, I looked down at the test's window to see the word "PREGNANT", figuratively high-fiving me and infusing me with a rush of adrenaline. I scrambled to find another test in the cabinet, just for good measure. Ah! One more left in the box; let's do this.
To maximize the chances of success with my one remaining test, I chugged two bottles of water to get myself good and ready. Showtime followed soon after, and I was rudely awakened from my state of maternal nirvana when I looked down at the test. "NOT PREGNANT". My personal soundtrack of "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" record-scratched to a halt. How could this be? Confused, did what any mother-to-be but-not-totally-sure-of-it-yet would do: I Googled it. Sitting on the couch with one positive and one negative test beside me, I looked up what could have happened, because I was sure I was pregnant. Click, click, double-click . . . . .ohhhh. 'Water dilutes the hormone that detects pregnancy'. Ohhhhhh! Nirvana made its comeback, and I was just beany.
Since I didn't think ahead in my game plan of finding out I was pregnant, it didn't dawn on me that my husband wouldn't be home for, oh, about another six hours. What to do with this incredible information? Should I call him and yell into the phone that "I'M PREGNANT!", hoping he hears me above the crowd and pulse of Rihanna's latest single? Should I text him a picture of the positive test? I decided to wait and relish in the amazing news while imagining telling him in the middle of the night, as soon as he got home. A scene to inspire Rockwell, no doubt.
Not dawning on me either was the likelihood that upon returning home, my husband would be, let's say . . . ..impaired. Which he was.
Well scratch that.
In bed, "asleep" but with one ear open, I could hear that Josh was in no way ready to receive such news as that which I had to give, nor would it have been fair to either of us. So I asked my higher self to practice restraint and patience, and to wait until the perfect time when we would both be refreshed, composed, at our best. At 6:00am, I decided that time was now and shook him awake to spill the beans.
Telling your husband that you are expecting is something akin to surprising him with a set of golf clubs only available at NASA, only so much better because you get a baby out of it.
Tears streaming, Josh happily complied with my request that he run out and purchase another three boxes of pregnancy tests right away, as we were out of them and were still technically left not knowing for sure if I was indeed pregnant. Did I mention that this all happened on Thanksgiving. Josh was finally able to track down an open grocery store and supply me with the goods. Eleven positive tests later, it was official.
Parenthood, here come the Kaplans!
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