We had just returned from a long weekend in Northern Michigan when I started to suspect I might be pregnant. I wasn’t officially late, so decided to wait until the next morning to take a test when I would have a good batch of pee and good ole fashion Monday morning resolve. My husband Dan was in the kitchen making our morning coffee when I slipped into the bathroom to defile the stick that would determine our fate.
By the time I was done brushing my teeth, right there on the digital pregnancy test was the wordpregnant. My heart started pounding in disbelief. It was my second month off the pill and our third month of marriage. I wasn’t expecting it to happen that fast.
I was one of those people who knew early on that I was destined to be a mother, to not just one, but many children. Now at 32 years old, this was happening. I knew intuitively that parenthood wasn’t something you are ever truly ready for, but I felt more vulnerable than I ever had in my life—mostly because I had just opened my heart to more love, pain and worry than I could ever comprehend. Life was never going to be the same and I needed a little bit of time to process what our future held. Dan left for work without me saying a word.
It was July 29th.
Of course I got nothing done throughout the day, thinking about how our lives would change; daydreaming about if we were having a boy or girl. I tried not to get too ahead of myself because it was so early, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Dan was at a golf outing all day and wouldn’t be home until late, so I decided I would make a Baby Themed dinner the following night—you know, baby back ribs, baby carrots, Baby Ruth bars, etc.
The second he walked in the door I threw my plan to wait to tell him out the window. On an impulse, I wrapped the pregnancy test like a scroll in a piece of paper where I had written, “You’re going to be a daddy.” The surprise and wave of love that washed over his face when he read the news put all of my other worries and thoughts of “Holy crap are we ready for this” at ease. We were completely together on this path and in that instant, we became parents. I will never forget that moment.
Three weeks later, we were at the doctor, but soon we were early—by about a week. I wasn’t eight weeks pregnant like I thought, we were actually just barely seven weeks along. The error stemmed from me convincing myself I knew our conception date because I had used the ovulation sticks to figure out my cycle. Turns out, I was wrong.
Since our practice doesn’t see expectant moms until they are between eight and 10 weeks, I was nervous they were going to send us home. But after my initial exam, they moved us into the ultrasound room where we found out our due date and met our primary OB-GYN.
Within a few moments, pulsing on the screen was our baby’s heartbeat. The squishy little sound of 144 beats per minute made our own hearts explode.
This was really happening.
Read more on Bump Club here.