By the time I took a pregnancy test at the end of July, I had no doubts about the result. Weeks of increasing nausea, fatigue, swelling – and the conspicuously absent “monthly visitor” – had already told the tale. “Yep, I’m pregnant,” I whispered to my husband as I crawled back into bed, feeling like a rebellious teenager caught in her own carelessness. Haven’t we been telling people we were satisfied with two kids? Haven’t we been rejoicing over our daughter’s potty-training and the banishment of diapers from our house? Didn’t we give away our crib, our high chair, and the majority of our baby stuff?
And yet, there it was, proof positive on the bathroom counter. We weren’t as ready to be done as we thought.
We spent the rest of the day grinning at each other and bursting into laughter like fools. Better that than tears, than giving in to the worries lurking just outside the bubble of our shared secret. Soon enough, they would begin to creep in, some mundane, some Big Life Questions:
How will we afford this?
Where will the baby sleep?
How will our kids take it? (See “Where will the baby sleep”, above. Someone’s going to have to share a room, eventually!)
What if there’s something wrong with the baby?
What will this do to our dreams?
We were just beginning to glimpse opportunities opening up in the next few years: time to work, go back to school, pursue new callings, improve the home we bought in 2009 (an early sign that we might not be the most prudent life decision-makers, perhaps). All that will have to shift – maybe some just down the road a few more years, maybe some will go away forever.
But on that July Saturday, we hugged each other and indulged in the luxury of a happy moment. “After all,” I said, “This happened because we are crazy about each other.”
Or maybe just crazy.