I wrote this post way back when I first found out I was pregnant.
I woke up early in the morning, well before my alarm. I’d been waking up early all week, even on Thursday after staying up late reading the night before.
I lay in bed petting the cat and trying to decide whether or not to get up. If I got up early I could walk the dog and still have time to wash & blowdry my hair before work. If I stayed in bed I could stay in bed for an extra hour. But if I got up early I could take a pregnancy test. But if I took a pregnancy test I might end up disappointed again.
Taylor and I started trying to conceive at the end of November, and every month I’d worked myself into a frenzy thinking my period was late and I was pregnant. Like, FOR SURE this time. In December I was late and I was so sure I was really and truly pregnant that I bought Taylor an extra Christmas present that would let him know. On Christmas morning I hid in the bathroom and took a test to see if I was, but it was negative so the present went into my desk drawer. I finally got my period a few days later, an entire week late.
Apparently my body had decided it was on a five-week cycle instead of a four-week one, because I didn’t get my period again until February 2nd, which meant it was due again on March 8th. I had some pms symptoms at the end of February and the beginning of March, but they felt off- some symptoms that usually stopped well before my actual period persisted and worsened, and other symptoms never showed up at all. Then there was the waking up early and the crazy, jittery energy I’d had all week. Something was up.
I decided to take the test. I mean, my period was technically only one day late but I had a couple tests in the house (they were on sale so I stocked up) so why not? I’d taken so many tests in the sixteen months since I’d gone of the pill that I didn’t bother looking at the instructions- a peestick is a peestick is a peestick, right? After doing my business I recapped the test and idly watched as the liquid travel up through the first little window and the lines appeared. Wait, what did they mean? Why didn’t I read the instructions???
I quickly unfolded to paper insert from the test box and found the little pictures that help you decipher your results. I was supposed to wait until a single line appeared in the second window to show that the test worked correctly, and the first window had the results- a minus meant not pregnant, and a plus meant pregnant. Even a faint plus meant pregnant. I didn’t have a faint plus. I had a dark plus. A very solid plus.
I immediately burst into tears. Every time I’d taken a test that turned out to be negative I’d cried in disappointment, but these were tears of joy. I’d been pregnant twice before, but neither time had I been trying and hoping and praying for it to happen. This was everything I wanted.
When I found out I was pregnant my first instinct was to tell Taylor straight away. He was still at work, but I thought about calling, or just texting him a picture of the positive test, but instead I decided to wait to tell him. Our third wedding anniversary was on March 21, so if I could keep this secret for twelve days, I could give him the gift I’d bought back in December as an anniversary present. I was worried it might be tricky though- I’d already complained to him that I was ready to get my period and when he came home the first thing he asked me was if I’d gotten it yet! If I was going to keep it a surprise I’d have to fake having my period and think of plausible excuses for not having any weekend beers. I was determined to do it though.
First of all, though, I needed to confirm my test. On Saturday morning I invented a fake errand (buying envelopes) so I could go out and put my name on the list at the walk-in clinic. There was an hour wait, so I came home and worked on finishing & packing a couple of banners so I’d have a second (and real) errand to use as an excuse for going back to the clinic: shipping packages. I got back to the clinic ten minutes before the end of the hour wait, but as usual the hour wait was more like a two hour wait. Fortunately Taylor likes to spend his Saturdays playing videogames and has no concept of the passage of time while doing so.
When I finally got in to see the doctor he confirmed what I already knew: the test I took at the clinic gave not just a positive result, but a strong, solid positive result. I was walking on air the whole way home (and at the post office; I really did need to mail those banners!) and as soon as I came in all my resolve the keep it a secret until our anniversary crumbled.
I asked Taylor to pause his game and gave him the present I’d been hiding in my desk. He took it into the kitchen to open it, and after cutting off the ribbons, opening the box, unfolding the tissue paper and teasing me for my dollar store gift wrapping he pulled out a teeny little hockey jersey. Yes, I’m THAT Canadian.
He looked at me. “Is this for your dog?” he asked. I shook my head. He asked, “Is this for my dog?” knowing full well that his dog already has a hockey jersey. I shook my head again. “Are you… are you trying to tell me something?” I nodded. “What is it?” “I’m pregnant.”
I was worried he would be freaked out- this whole baby plan had been my idea and it took a lot of cajoling to convince him to try. There’s a big difference between saying “Let’s try to get pregnant” and “I’m pregnant now.” He told me he was actually less freaked out than he thought he would be, so that was good! I told him all the things I’d been holding in for the last day and we hugged and kissed and he said he was happy too.
Not long after Symphony came home from her friend’s house and I decided to tell her as well. If I kept it a secret Taylor and I wouldn’t be able to talk about it openly and anyway, I am CLEARLY terrible at keeping secrets. We’d previously discussed the possibility of my having a baby, but she was still a little flipped out when I first told her. We sat down (on the floor in the hallway, where I caught her after she tried to lock herself in the bathroom) and talked it out. Once she calmed down she only had three concerns:
1. She doesn’t want to share her room (we have a three bedroom apartment so that isn’t an issue).
2. She doesn’t want to change poopy diapers (we’ll see…).
3. She wants the baby to be a girl (I told her I’d do my best because that’s what I want too, but you don’t really get to choose).
With her fears allayed she jumped straight into hardcore planning mode, pulling out all our old Martha Stewart Kids magazines from the early 2000s to try to find any good baby things, and borrowing Taylor’s iPad so we could look at the baby stuff on the Ikea website while snuggled up in my bed. I can already tell she’s going to be a great older sister.