Wednesday September 8th.
A friend and her son had been over for a toddler play date filled with the sounds of excited shrieks, little toddling foot steps, and lots and lots of “We don’t play with that”. (O, toddlerhood. I can barely remember back to when parenting involved being able to sit down.)
Over the last few weeks I had been confused by my body. I felt like I was. I mean, I had to be, right? But there was that test that I took in the Target in Portland right after getting off the plane for my friend’s wedding. It told me I wasn’t. At least, I thought that’s what it told me? (I didn’t really have time to look closely.) Have you ever taken a pregnancy test in a Target family bathroom with your toddler in tow?
It was one of my finer moments, let me tell you.
(But I HAD to know if I could have wine at the wedding.)
So I wasn’t and that was that.
I was sipping chicken noodle soup with my friend, the boys were chewing away at their respective peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, when she turned and told me. SHE was. I was positively ecstatic for her. She is a wonderful mother and her boy will make such an adorable older brother. Not to mention, our boys are mere weeks apart, and Lord willing our next babies would be close in age, too. This was impossibly good news.
I didn’t come down off of my excited cloud for quite a while. And when I did, well, there it was stirring in me again.
Maybe I was, too.
I mean, it had been almost 2 weeks since Portland. And no signs of anything that comes around approximately every 30 days. But, there was that day, in the back of my mind. That impossibly hard day that I somehow floated through, smiling. It probably would be a while before my body would even be back to normal.
My friend and her boy went home and I laid a very tired OBaby down for his afternoon nap.
As I walked out of his room and down the hallway I thought about the multipack of tests I bought. They were just sitting in the linen closet waiting to be peed on. Practically calling my name.
But it’s 2:00 in the afternoon and everyone knows the morning is the best time to take one. What if I am but I take it right now and it says I’m not because it’s 2:00 in the afternoon?
Then I could take another tomorrow morning. I told myself. There are three, after all.
I totally had a point. I took that pink box, waltzed into the bathroom, and gave it a go (which is a glaring euphemism for ‘I held a pregnancy test while I peed on it’). Usually I can’t look as the results come across the screen. I have to distract myself and look away for a while, brush my hair, file my nails… something. But this time it was so low pressure. I probably wasn’t and even if I was, it was 2:00 in the afternoon. I watched as the screen began to display a pink line.
A really dark pink line.
A few seconds later, the 2nd line appeared.
I filled with joy.
At 2:00 in the afternoon.
On a Wednesday.
(May this day live on in infamy as the first time I showed the interwebs a picture of something on which I had peed. You are so welcome.)