Date: July 31, 2007
Place: Madison, WI
Time: 6am
Is that? No, it couldn't be? But it looks like.....a second, pink line. 3 months after my miscarriage, and I'm struggling to breathe. I've only tested because I'm in a wedding this weekend. (I'm pretty positive I haven't gotten pregnant this cycle, but before I go to town on the white wine train, I'd better be sure. We don't need a three legged baby.) The line is faint. I run down the hall, desperate for a second set of eyes to confirm that I haven't officially lost my mind and started imagining lines. And maybe drive me to the nuthouse if I have. Mom's dead asleep but leaps out of bed when she sees what her eldest (and perhaps at this moment, craziest) daughter is holding. 6:17am, we're in her bathroom, staring at what most definitely is a faint pink line. And, my friends, a line is a line. A line means you're pregnant. A line means, holy shit, where's the Tylenol. (Right, Clark?) And yes, my mom knew before my husband. As this newest pink line developed, he is 1,257 miles away, on his way to work with no way of knowing he's about to partake in "Pregnant Wife Craziness, Round 2". Can't tell the guy by phone.
The week drags on, I test every morning in the wee dark hours, sure this pregnancy will be yanked away from me before it begins....and they're all positive. Jonathan arrives for the wedding and the look of excitement when I share the news in our hotel room after the rehearsal dinner is unmistakable this time. I pull out the tests and just stand there, shaky and grinning. He's happy, I'm happy, We're pregnant. Scared, nervous, pukey (she), and tipsy (he)....but pregnant. We do a little dance around our room and head off to join our friends for drinks (for him, duh).
However, as any newly pregnant OCD woman knows, it's not true until you get a positive digital test. So to Target we go for that important $10 test the morning after the wedding. ("$10? For a PREGNANCY TEST?" Bet you can't guess who said that. Hint: not me.) No time to actually take it, we're on our way to drop dear husband off at the airport. I figure I'll "hold it" through the 3.5 hour drive up to the lake house, where I'm spending the week with my family before going home, and test immediately upon arrival. I already know I'm pregnant (the 4 tests in the zipper compartment of my purse say so) but I need the literal proof. I need to see the word. If I had any shame, I'd be hesitant to share that this particular test was taken at a truck stop in Curtiss, Wisconsin. It's a really nice truck stop, if that helps. Obviously, patience isn't a strong suit for me. I pull over to said truck stop, race to the lady's, do the pee test, stare at it with a pumping heart as it considers my destiny......and jump up and down and all around in that truck stop bathroom stall when the proof pops up. "Pregnant." I calm down, stash the test with its' cohorts in my purse, buy some cheese, and hit the road.
Place: Madison, WI
Time: 6am
Is that? No, it couldn't be? But it looks like.....a second, pink line. 3 months after my miscarriage, and I'm struggling to breathe. I've only tested because I'm in a wedding this weekend. (I'm pretty positive I haven't gotten pregnant this cycle, but before I go to town on the white wine train, I'd better be sure. We don't need a three legged baby.) The line is faint. I run down the hall, desperate for a second set of eyes to confirm that I haven't officially lost my mind and started imagining lines. And maybe drive me to the nuthouse if I have. Mom's dead asleep but leaps out of bed when she sees what her eldest (and perhaps at this moment, craziest) daughter is holding. 6:17am, we're in her bathroom, staring at what most definitely is a faint pink line. And, my friends, a line is a line. A line means you're pregnant. A line means, holy shit, where's the Tylenol. (Right, Clark?) And yes, my mom knew before my husband. As this newest pink line developed, he is 1,257 miles away, on his way to work with no way of knowing he's about to partake in "Pregnant Wife Craziness, Round 2". Can't tell the guy by phone.
The week drags on, I test every morning in the wee dark hours, sure this pregnancy will be yanked away from me before it begins....and they're all positive. Jonathan arrives for the wedding and the look of excitement when I share the news in our hotel room after the rehearsal dinner is unmistakable this time. I pull out the tests and just stand there, shaky and grinning. He's happy, I'm happy, We're pregnant. Scared, nervous, pukey (she), and tipsy (he)....but pregnant. We do a little dance around our room and head off to join our friends for drinks (for him, duh).
However, as any newly pregnant OCD woman knows, it's not true until you get a positive digital test. So to Target we go for that important $10 test the morning after the wedding. ("$10? For a PREGNANCY TEST?" Bet you can't guess who said that. Hint: not me.) No time to actually take it, we're on our way to drop dear husband off at the airport. I figure I'll "hold it" through the 3.5 hour drive up to the lake house, where I'm spending the week with my family before going home, and test immediately upon arrival. I already know I'm pregnant (the 4 tests in the zipper compartment of my purse say so) but I need the literal proof. I need to see the word. If I had any shame, I'd be hesitant to share that this particular test was taken at a truck stop in Curtiss, Wisconsin. It's a really nice truck stop, if that helps. Obviously, patience isn't a strong suit for me. I pull over to said truck stop, race to the lady's, do the pee test, stare at it with a pumping heart as it considers my destiny......and jump up and down and all around in that truck stop bathroom stall when the proof pops up. "Pregnant." I calm down, stash the test with its' cohorts in my purse, buy some cheese, and hit the road.
No comments:
Post a Comment