So I’m pregnantPosted: January 29, 2012
October 6, 2011
Two days before the six-year anniversary of the first time my husband, Tim, and I made out, I took a pregnancy test. It was a Thursday morning, before I began getting ready for work. I laid the stick on our ugly green bathroom counter, closed my eyes for three minutes, took a picture of the two pink lines with my cell phone, and texted the picture to my husband.
I’ve never been one of those women who is completely in touch with her body, nor have I always treated it that well, but I knew I was pregnant before the test confirmed it, before I missed my period even. I didn’t feel any different physically; I just knew. I must celebrate this in writing for it’s the first and may very well be the last time I just know anything.
Even though I knew, it didn’t mean I wasn’t excited about the pregnancy’s officialness. It was got-a-job-I-wanted, kissed-a-boy-I-liked, won-the-game, received-an-award excited all wrapped into one feeling yet completely different. This was holy-crap-I’m-going-to-grow-and-birth-a-human-being-and-it-may-look-like-me excited. On my walk to work that morning I listened to pop music on my iPod instead of my normal BBC News. Take that, real world.
The day progressed in an excruciatingly normal way. Morning turned into afternoon and I still hadn’t heard from Tim. By the time lunchtime came I was tired of having the secret to myself. Cell phone reception at the school Tim teaches is often poor, but not nonexistent, so I was starting to get annoyed with him for not checking his phone—because of course he didn’t see the photo then ignore it. He didn’t know I was taking a pregnancy test that morning and likely assumed my text was to ask him to get ice cream or tell him I was going to happy hour, but life partner rules dictate that you answer any text within 12 hours. He was cutting it close.
I got home from work, started doing the dishes—which is a guaranteed way to make yourself even more annoyed with whatever you’re annoyed with—and stopped midplatewash to check my phone yet again. Tim had checked into the train station on Foursquare. His cell phone was functioning and he had used it and not to text me back. As I drafted divorce papers in my head I politely texted the father of my embryo.
“Did you get my text message?”
“Yes, but only half of the picture loaded.”
Before committing to what kind of pen I’d use to sign the divorce papers, I called him.
“You didn’t think to maybe ask me to resend the picture?”
“No not really I figured you’d show me when I got home.”
“That’s not the way it’s happening. Check your e-mail.”
Sure, I could have told him on the phone, but I was annoyed, doing dishes, and not about to let my husband know he was going to be a dad in any other way than by a photo of the pregnancy test sent to him before he saw me. Never give up on cute.
Needless to say once he got off the subway and saw the picture, Tim ran home and breathlessly hugged me while the water still ran in the sink. At that point, though, I was totally over the whole baby thing and was pissed at him for ruining my announcement plan. I eventually got over it, but I know you’re on my side on this one.