I'm pregnant. That's about how I told my husband too. As he walked in the door, and before he put his keys down.
I didn't plan to pee on that stick. My evening was about to begin the way it always does -- by piercing a cork and letting it (and me) breathe. I opened the bottle. And, for some unknown cosmic reason, I POAS (peed on a stick).
Then there was a second red line, and I learned that there's no such thing as a false positive. Yep, you're preggers. No matter how "pink" or thin that line may be. No matter how many different brands of test you take, or what time of day, or even three days later. You are still pregnant.
It's a good thing I wanted to be. I just didn't think we'd be so good at it. It really does only take one time. It's beyond me how this didn't happen in the first eight years of our relationship.
I'm 6w1d. That's six weeks and one day. Another annoying abbreviation I picked up from the countless pregnancy forums I've been reading. Because I can't tell anyone, and my husband is tired of my constant questions, what ifs, and incessant and relentless desire for information. Already. It's gonna be a long nine months.
So I write. Which means, dear reader, that this blog post is 6 weeks old and I am now 12 weeks pregnant, well on my way to delivering our Christmas baby.
Don't worry, we'll catch up quick. For now, ponder this news. Baby. I'm overwhelmed, elated, excited, terrified, worried, consumed, and above all wondering what I did so right that I've been blessed with this precious gift.
We're having a baby. What a difference a year makes. Or three.
Don't worry. This isn't a baby blog. But I had to start somewhere.