And we're Off . . .

This week, Staffani (http://www.iffyinklings.blogspot.com/) challenged me with "And we're Off."  This isn't an ideal topic for me, but I kept going back to it every time I thought of the prompt.  I challenged Kiki Harshman. 

And we’re Off!

What does it say about a person who buys pregnancy tests at Costco?

Sometimes I’m so frugal it’s odd.  Especially when I don’t know if I even wanted to be pregnant yet.  The concept was exciting.  We were happily married, had the cute ranch house in the suburbs.  Good jobs, great dog.  But really, Costco?  The other item on the check out belt was, of course, a king-sized bottle of white wine.  Not sure if I was going to cork it or not.

What does it say about a person who takes said pregnancy tests alone, in the middle of the day? 

Not a good idea.  Wait until the husband is home.  He may have convinced me that two positive pregnancy tests were enough.  But there were, after all, three in the pack.  Lined up, all showing that same line, there was nothing in the pit of my stomach that could turn its way around and believe that we had actually made a baby.

Was it bad that I lied to my husband to get him home early that Friday evening?

Complaining of a headache and something about the dog bothering me (???) I asked him to come home as early as he could.  As soon as he was home, I told him.  Same look I saw earlier in the mirror.  Was that fear?  Was that sadness?  Surely fear.  But then I saw his wheels turn and he smiled and assured me with his eyes that we would love this new adventure before us.

So did I cork the wine?

No, no, this isn’t a story about a woman who finds out she is pregnant without a whisper of a try and then drowns her fear in a large bottle of cheap wine.  Instead, I asked my husband to drive me to the bookstore in my pajamas and buy that terrible “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book.  I figured out my due-date.  I paced.  I did not sleep.  My husband, who  reacts to stress by sleeping, was snoring on the couch.  Good training for a new daddy, actually.  

And we’re off . . . . that night will always be remembered as some time spent on the high dive, looking down.  Knowing we couldn’t go back, knowing that what lay ahead was scary but also exhilarating.  I do admit that I long for those responsible-free Saturday mornings with the newspaper and overpriced lattes.  Or less laundry.  Or times with my husband that revolve around us instead of the kids.  But I wouldn’t trade that Friday night for the world.