October 7th. It was all but marked on my calendar. I couldn’t, of course, mark it on the calendar because it was sort of a secret. I could have put it on the calendar with like a nonsense title or something, but I would inevitably forget what “elephant day” meant and wouldn’t be quick enough to come up with something coherent if someone asked. So I didn’t put it on my calendar. Didn’t matter. I still worked up the courage to go to the store to buy a pregnancy test.
I obviously couldn’t by the cheapest one and there was no need for the most expensive one, but didn’t really have any idea which one was the right one. I opted for the one I saw one time on a commercial and a TV show. If I saw that test in the same week in both places, it must be reliable, right?
After several paces around the house, I went for it and after not being sure if there was (ahem) enough on the stick, the little bars ticked away and there was only one word.
And that was it. I sat on the staircase and stared at the word. I’m not sure I expected fanfare or some magical feeling, but it was just me, this stick I peed on, and the cat napping on the couch. And pregnant staring at me in the face.
I needed to make cookies.
I googled for awhile about ways to tell your husband and landed on cookies because… cookies. I baked pumpkin butterscotch chocolate cookies and carefully pressed D.. A.. D into 3 of them and set about finding a way to make a complete sentence written in chocolate. That was too hard. Chocolate writing is hard. No thanks to you, Food Network. I settled on “you’ll be DAD.”
Tucker came home and it took everything in me to not give him his chocolate plate and cookies. We went to dinner first at Blue Pan Pizza for the Brooklyn Bridge – king of all the pizzas. I got sick in the car on the way down and made a lame excuse about not feeling very well for about the 7th time in a month (probably could have seen the signs earlier). I didn’t have a drink, thinking about having a little person growing inside of me for the first time.
Dessert. Finally. The plate still said, “you’ll be dad” in my best attempt at plating the most important dessert of my life to this point. I handed it to Tucker. “You’ll be… what?” Ugh. Why is it so dim in our house!?
Exasperated. “It says, ‘You’ll be DAD!'”
I cried as I spoke the last word. We both cried. And hugged. And I pulled out the pee stick even though I thought it was gross (the fancy one I saw on TV did come with a cover for the business end).
We are going to be parents.