We were newlyweds in the summer of 2009. Bobby and I had been married for just five months and were still basking in the glory of our recent wedding. We spent that summer visiting friends and family. We attended several special events in various states up and down the east coast. We enjoyed celebrating with our loved ones. It was truly a summer to remember. Every weekend there was a shower, wedding, or party held in someone’s honor. There was plentiful dancing, eating and drinking. I’m sure that our little blessing was the result of one of those summer weddings and perhaps a few too many margaritas…
Love was in the air.
I was thirty-one and Bobby was thirty-four. After being informed (on several occasions) that my biological clock was rapidly ticking, we decided to start our family. My husband became my very own at home fertility specialist. He has three sisters and therefore decided he was well-qualified to guide me through the inner workings of a woman’s body. He had seen it all during the course of his lifetime having been raised in a household full of women. And, his position in his family as the youngest has made him a perfect husband–sorry, all you single ladies missed out on him. Bobby is a rare breed. He is the most patient person I know. He can handle my PMS, mood swings, extreme hunger antics and occasional bitchiness with poise, eloquence and grace.
I made several trips to Walgreen’s during that summer to buy at home pregnancy tests. Those trips were nerve-wracking. I felt uncomfortable looking at all of the options in public since I had spent most of my life avoiding the situation I was now attempting to bring upon myself on purpose. Every time a customer or store employee came down the aisle, I scurried over to the women’s hygiene section. I would rather them see me picking out my favorite brand of adult diaper (I think I will go with “Depends” when the time comes), than a pregnancy test. Here I stood, an adult woman, but this task reduced me to feeling like an embarrassed teenager. I knew most of the cashiers. They had seen me over the years purchase everything from nail polish and fake eyelashes, to tampons to laxatives. But having them ring up those pregnancy tests was far too intimate for me. Now, there was proof that I was sexually active! The jig was up.
I remember the day I found out I was pregnant. It was in the middle of August 2009.I came home exhausted from a twelve-hour rooftop photo shoot on one those hot, humid August days. All I wanted was a margarita. I was dreaming about it on the bus ride home. I called Bobby ahead of time and told him to have one ready for me. I wanted it as soon as I came through the door. When I arrived at home, my margarita was nowhere to be found. Bobby suggested I take a pregnancy test first. I suggested he go take a walk. He claims to possess some psychic ability and was so persistent that I finally gave in. I went into the bathroom alone and peed on one of the sticks.
Bobby paced outside the bathroom door, asking questions and insisting that I let him in. I set a timer and waited for the plus or the minus symbol. We had been repeating this routine for weeks, with negative results. We had learned to be cautiously optimistic. During those three agonizing minutes, I sat on the toilet thinking about how life is a sequence of positive and negative events. Good choices and bad choices. Highs and lows. I thought about how easy it can be to wallow in the emotions of negative life experiences and not savor the blessings that are before us every day. How many plus signs had I ignored in my life?
The buzzer went off on the timer and I stared at the stick. I was happily stunned and in shock. I was also secretly feeling guilty for still wanting that drink. I opened the door and held up the stick for Bobby to see. The blue plus sign was faint. For confirmation, I peed on another stick and we waited eagerly in silence. Another plus sign! This one appeared much more visible than the first. We were pregnant! There was excitement, tears of joy, high fives, cartwheels, lots of hugging and no more margaritas.