Why losing you made me a better mommy (Dear Alyx)

For Jackie

Dear Alyx,

When we met, everything about you seemed wrong.  Your sweet, sharp-featured face and tiny frame were completely inappropriate for your gravel voice and rakish sense of humor. You looked like a teenager, yet composed yourself like a gentleman and worked like a seasoned bartender. I liked you instantly, and when I heard they were sending you to our restaurant to work some shifts I was overjoyed. Our tight-knit group is tough to break into, and although you had my wing to protect you it was unnecessary--you were a chameleon, a sneaky thief who stole our hearts while we were busy laughing with you.

While I was away having my baby, you successfully acted as my stand-in, a friendly face for my regular customers, dutifully answering their questions about me and my baby (even showing pictures on a few occasions). I saw you as my protege, although I can't take credit for having taught you a damn thing. Before I left I had proudly introduced you to skeptical faces ("How old is he? What's wrong with his voice?") who soon came to adore you as much as I did. You made work fun! Impossible! 

Monday night I was nursing the baby when Jane called me from the restaurant and told me that you were in the hospital. She filled me in on what she knew, which wasn't much. I hung up the phone and stared at the wall as the baby ate, her tiny hand clasped around my index finger. When Andy came home I had to tell him, and that's when the tears started. I could only think about your mom, and a terrifying fear gripped me. I was faced with the horrifying realization that my love isn't enough to protect my daughter. No matter how tightly she's wrapped in my arms, no matter how hard I'm loving her, the hand of fate is cunning.

The next night I came to see you in the hospital. I was in a group of people, and your mom made a beeline right to me. She thanked me for being there, which I waved off. She hugged me tight and pulled back to look me in the face, her hands gripping my arms. She said, "This has to be extra hard for you with a new baby." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slowly, afraid to say a word. "You go home," she told me. "You go home and hug that baby, hard, until she tells you to let go, and then you hug her again." 

I was astounded. This tiny woman in her Chucks and hipster glasses, whose son was fighting for his life down the hall, was comforting me. Without tears, without irony, she was offering loving words of advice only a mother can give. "Love that baby with everything you have." I smiled, and nodded, and I promised to do just that. 

The next day, when I heard they had decided to take you off life support, I made my way back to the hospital. The waiting area was busy with hugs and tears, everyone moving under a hanging sadness punctuated with a secret sigh of relief. Jordan came with me to see you, and I was glad for his arm around me. I held your hand as I said goodbye, staring intently into a face that didn't belong to you. I focused on your tattoos, and I ran my fingers through your impossibly full hair. I told Jordan that we were lucky to have known you, and he agreed. I really, really hope you heard me.

Before I left I got to spend a few minutes with your mom, and I felt really honored that she chose to sit with me. We talked about you, of course, and laughed about what you'd have been thinking. "What Would Alyx Say?" was her mantra, your humor comforting her when she needed you the most. As she left me she thanked me for making her laugh, still smiling as she made her way through the thick crowd.

Our time together was too short, but you left a profound impact on me. I'll miss your tight hugs and your ridiculous voice, your hilarious asides and your perfect quips. Because of you I'll hug my baby girl tighter, I'll kiss her more often, and I'll never miss an opportunity to tell her how perfect or how loved she is. Our friendship made me a better mommy, and I'll be forever grateful for that.

Thanks for the love, and for the laughs. I'll never, ever forget you.

With Love,

Liz

By Baby, My Body: The Aftermath

9 months pregnant

"Tell me what it's like to have your body back," sighed my (very) pregnant friend. She was sitting cross-legged on her couch across from me, almost as round as she was tall. Her two year-old was napping in her bed while my baby dozed quietly on my chest; we had a minute to enjoy some adult/pregnant/girl talk.

"It's nice to tie my own shoes!" I told her. She nodded wistfully.

"Tell me more," she said dreamily. We both laughed.

"I can see my lady bits," I began, "and I can clip my toenails, and..." You get it.

But the conversation really got me thinking: do I ever really "get my body back?" Do I want it back? 

Before I had a baby, my body and I were at odds. I spent a lifetime (beginning in early childhood) developing a very co-dependent relationship with food. I ate when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was anxious--and all of these were learned behaviors. I struggled with my weight from an early age, as did my parents and their parents. In childhood I was a food sneaker, and often I felt like cookies were easier to understand than other kids. I was an unusual mix of shy and extroverted, and although I used humor to try to distract other kids from my issues, I preferred books over playtime. I was head and shoulders taller than every kid in my class until junior high, with bright red hair and bad skin. No matter what I did I "stood out like a sore thumb" (as my mother still likes to point out). 

6th grade, at the height of awkwardness

In high school I gained some confidence as my body balanced itself out. Suddenly the boys were noticing the boobs I'd had since girl scout camp, and the smaller waist that had taken shape over the summer. But self-doubt still plagued me, as did a growing body image issue. I hid my figure behind baggy boy clothes. I envied girls in tight jeans showing off their high-school-perfect bodies while I spent hours in the bathroom mirror cursing my round belly and plump thighs.

As an adult, after thousands of dollars worth of therapy, my body and I had developed a fair relationship. I'd finally figured out how to dress myself, opting for form-fitting clothes that flattered my good parts. I married a man who loved my body, and told me so. I had been diagnosed as a "binge eater," and took medication to help ease my depression and curb my binges. I had developed a sort of forced confidence, and it served me well--other women envied my sense of self, and men found it sexy. This conviction was something I hid behind, often forcing myself out of my comfort zone in order to keep up appearances. I had created a woman I had always wanted to be: sexy and confident, well-liked and envied. I was terrified to get pregnant, to completely lose control of my weight and the image I'd created for myself. I didn't know if it was possible but I was sure I'd hate my body even more once that belly started to grow.

I was wrong.

I started to "show" at about three months. That soft little belly represented the tiny life growing inside me. I adored it. I didn't mind the spider veins that appeared on my hips and legs, and I certainly didn't mind my plumping breasts. And the bigger I got, the sexier I felt. In my mind I was the perfect picture of youth, vibrancy, and fertility. During those nine months I loved my body more than ever before, and I felt better about myself than I ever thought possible. I was glowing, I was beautiful, and I was making a little life inside me. Every day, every pound, was a miracle.

My daughter is almost three months old now, and I'm about 10 pounds lighter than I was when I got pregnant. I look at my naked body often, with a new sense of respect. This body made a human, from scratch. This body makes food for that tiny human, every single day. I have eyes that can watch her and keep her safe, ears that hear her cues and tell me she's hungry, strong arms that rock her to sleep when she needs soothing, hands to change her and dress her and stroke her hair, breasts that feed and comfort her...my heart doesn't beat for me anymore, it beats for us. 

My old body was selfish, and jaded. My old body never knew what it was capable of doing, or withstanding, or creating. My old body was a spoiled child that took itself for granted. 

I'm over that body. I don't want it back. And the reality is, that body stopped belonging to only me as soon as I got pregnant.

My new body is a little plumper, a little softer, and maybe a little scarred. But to me, my new body is more beautiful, more perfect than it ever was...and I'm much happier in it than I ever imagined.

11 weeks post baby

The Labor of Laboring (and why I took the drugs)

My water broke at 3 AM.

It wasn't what I expected, like on TV where the audience hears a satisfying "pop" followed by a gush of mysterious bodily fluid. In my case it was a slow trickle, like when you laugh really hard and pee a teeny bit.

I got up, ambled to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet . I examined my underwear, trying to definitively decipher whether or not I'd just peed myself. No, I was pretty sure it was amniotic fluid and I was in labor. I turned on my vanity mirror and looked at myself in the soft, muted light. Nine and a half months pregnant, the desert summer had finally started to break me. I was hot and heavy, tired of carrying around my enormous belly. 'Your lease is up, Baby,' I whispered. "It's go time."

So in the movies this is where the panic sets in, and Dad stuffs big-bellied Mommy into the mini van while coaching her breathing ("Hee hee hoo, hee hee hoo!"). They race to the hospital, the baby's head already peeking out from under Mom's pristine, flattering hospital gown as the handsome Doctor arrives just in time, gloves snapping. It's a bouncing baby boy! Cigars for everyone! Mom looks exhausted but radiant, and Baby latches perfectly on the first try while Dad looks on proudly.

Everyone knows that's not reality. Labor is tricky, confusing, and a little scary. The only thing that makes labor worthwhile is knowing that you're finally coming home with the tiny person who's been growing inside you for almost a year. That's pretty spectacular.

So my water had broken. I opened the bathroom door and declared loudly, "My water just broke." Somehow a sort of calm had washed over me and I wasn't freaking out. I wasn't really having contractions yet, and our birthing class was fresh in my mind so I knew we didn't have to rush to the hospital right away. At that point my goal was to labor at home for as long as possible before heading to the birthing center.

My husband (literally) jumped out of bed. "What should we do? Should we go?"

I laughed (I know, I'm a terrible person), "No, go back to bed. Seriously." I got back in bed to prove my point, snuggling under the covers. I watched as he slowly crawled back into bed, observing me warily.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I feel like we should go."

"I'll tell you when it's time," I promised.

I drifted in and out of sleep for the next few hours, my contractions coming and going lazily like medium-intensity period cramps. I bathed. I stretched. My husband did dishes and watered the plants (all on his own accord, I swear). Around 5:30 AM I texted my doula, Nancy. Apparently she was up doing dishes also and advised me to call my doctor's office. I left a message with the PA letting her know I was in labor but planned to stay home as long as I could. I tried to sleep, but I was too excited. I wanted to meet this freakin' baby, like 2 weeks ago!

Around 10 I got a call from my doctor's office. It was my PA, who was even more adorable in person than her adorable accent was over the phone.

"Ees this Leez?" she asked.

"Yes, hi, you got my message?"

"Umm, are you still at home? You should probably go to the hospital." Was that a little concern I detected in her voice?

I got off the phone and told my husband it was time. While he was rushing for the door, luggage in hand, I was putting on make-up and brushing my hair. "Seriously?" he asked. Come on, I wasn't going to bring my baby into the world looking like a slob! Did he even know me?

We made it to the hospital in one piece, breezed through admitting, and headed to triage. The poor nurse was totally frazzled and all by herself. She got me into a gown and I settled into my triage bay, meanwhile my contractions were starting to hurt, kind of like pretty bad period cramps. She ran through the gambit of admittance questions, finally getting to the depression/suicide portion of the interview.

"Have you ever though about hurting yourself?" she asked absently, typing away.

"Umm no, I would never do that," I told her seriously. "I'm pretty great."

The was an awkward pause as she looked at me in disbelief. I laughed. Then she laughed. After that things were much better.

About two hours later an angel came to escort us to our room in the form of a sweet, soft-spoken nurse named Kathy. Clucking and motherly, she made us feel safe and welcome. It turned out she had worked with Nancy the previous week, so we were all comfortable enough to laugh and joke. After Nancy arrived there was lots of hugging and kissing (Nurse Kathy included) and I was finally able to settle in and hit the bathroom; meanwhile the on-call Doctor (we'll call him "OC")  came to visit.

I'll be honest with you here. I got really lucky and I was actually in the bathroom pooping. I know, I'm sorry, but if you're reading this and wondering what actual labor is like, this is important. Pooping at this stage in the game meant not pooping while in labor, and it actually helped get my contractions going, which is even better. Seriously, I'm sorry.

Anyway, I came out of the bathroom trailing my IV, mesh underwear-covered ass hanging out the back of my hospital gown. There's OC, sitting in a chair adjacent to my hospital bed, legs crossed, fingers laced behind his head. He stood up to shake my hand and remained standing until I sat. Although friendly, I wasn't real impressed by his demeanor, but I was trying to keep an open mind. As I settled awkwardly onto my bed he began asking questions about my labor, the intensity of my contractions, my pain level.

"I'm not satisfied with where you are," he told me matter-of-factly. "You're not really in active labor, and your water broke close to 11 hours ago. I'd like to augment your labor by giving you Pitocin."

Item number 27 on my birth plan: No Pitocin before birth. At all. (Please.)

"How about you give me another hour?" I suggested, smiling through clenched teeth. I knew I was in labor, no matter what this guy was trying to tell me, and I knew I didn't need any "augmentation." 

OC frowned, looked at the clock. "Ok, you have until 3:30," he said, standing to leave. "See you soon," he called over his shoulder.

Yeah, see you soon OC. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.  By the way, never tell a woman she's "not in labor."

Within minutes my contractions started kicking with a vengeance. Wave after wave of nausea inducing pain, open-mouthed crying, lost in a dark downward spiral of agony...voices telling me to breathe, relax, to roll with the pain instead of fighting it...and then Nancy's voice rang through the fog like a beacon, "Don't let the pain get ahead of you. If you don't think you can handle another contraction like the last one, ask for help."

12 hours, people. I went 12 hours without an epidural. A tiny part of me felt like I was giving up, like I was being a baby, like I was failing the primal woman inside my breast by tapping out. But I just...couldn't. I was scared, overcome by this completely foreign, crippling pain, unable to think straight or reason--I was unable to relax and focus on the miracle I was about to take part in. I wanted to be there, like really be there.

"It's time," I said. No, I was pleading at that point. "I need drugs."

And drugs I got.

Dr. Y was suddenly there, a beautiful man cloaked in white, magical kit in tow. I don't remember seeing him enter the room, I don't remember his voice or his face or his needles. I was sitting up suddenly, somehow signing forms, doubled at the waist, contractions wailing one after another. I was doing my best to cooperate with the directions I could grasp through the hot pain in my abdomen, shaking violently, barely detecting my husband crushing my hand in his sweaty grip. I knew he was scared for me, there was no way the could have been prepared for the horror he could only imagine I was going through. 

Dr. Y was patient, waiting for my writhing to subside before inserting the needle in my back. He told me, "You'll feel something like a funny bone bump, just try to stay still."  

A cold shock bolted down my left side, causing my whole body to jerk violently. Suddenly I opened my eyes--and it was that sudden--I was pain-free, relaxed, and excited again. I thanked Dr. Y profusely (I would have mouth-kissed him had it been appropriate) and settled down on my bed. I was 6 centimeters now, up from 3 when I'd been admitted. My contractions were doubling in size. ("Who's not in labor now, OC?") I did then what any laboring mother would do: I took a nap. A great nap, like the best sleep I'd gotten in weeks. I didn't dream, I didn't worry, I just rested. (It's worth noting here that at some point during this interim OC came by my room to apologize for not listening to me, and to let me know that his shift was over and he was 'passing the baton' to Dr. L. He wished me luck. I was pleasantly surprised.) As I began to wake, Nurse Kathy told me she wanted to examine me. It was almost 6:30 in the evening, roughly 7 hours since I put on a hospital gown.

She snapped on her gloves matter-of-factly as her head disappeared behind my mountainous belly. Moments later her head reappeared in my line of vision, her face wearing an excited smile. "That baby is already at plus one, Kiddo. You ready to push?"

"Heck yeah!" (Seriously.)

With Nancy on my left, my husband on my right, and Nurse Kathy in the middle, I started to do work: 10-count pushes in sets of three (sometimes four) with each contraction, all the while I could feel those little baby feet in my ribs pushing simultaneously. Kathy was my champion, cheering me on with honest enthusiasm and excitement. For a lady who'd been in the business for 19 years and seen countless births, her passion was inspiring. At one point, between pushes, I was overcome with emotion and gratitude.

"Kathy," I declared, "I want to tell you how glad I am that you're my nurse, and you're amazing." Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. "You're so amazing, you're making this experience even more special." Another deep breath. "And I'm really glad we can have this conversation over my naked vagina." (Yes, I really did.)

In stride, Kathy replied, "Thank you, Sweetheart. This whole time I've had two fingers in your vagina. Doesn't that make it even more special?" (Yes, she really did.)

After roughly an hour of that type of slapstick, Dr. L arrived. She was a slight lady with dark hair and bags under her eyes. We'd never met, yet here she was, donning the purple gloves that would lift my baby (MY BABY) from my loins and into the world. She had a motherly smile and a Brooklyn accent. 

"OK Honey," she said soon after arriving, "you're going to have to stop pushing so I can get my things ready." I was surprised--you certainly don't see that in the movies. As she was pulling on her mask I felt the pressure of a contraction.

"I'm ready to push!" And as I did I looked at my husband, wide-eyed and a little bewildered. He looked over at me in awe, eyes glistening. I knew it was close. I held my breath as I pushed, pushed...

"OK, stop pushing," said Dr. L calmly. Everyone seemed excited, smiling, staring in the very specific direction of my lady bits. All of a sudden this feeling--like unzipping your pants after Thanksgiving, but times a million--and Dr. L pulled my baby out of me--and she was holding my baby in front of me, placing my baby on my chest. MY BABY.

"My baby," I breathed as I gazed down at her, full head of dark hair and wide-open eyes, blinking, taking in a new world. As her tiny cupid mouth released its first cry, I finally let go all of the fear and tension I had been holding in my belly. Big, fat, joyful tears landed in my sweet girl's hair as I held her, seeing for the first time that little button nose, delicious plump cheeks, and sweet rosebud mouth. I was in love. I didn't care about anything that had ever happened in my life up until the day I finally held that amazing little baby, and I was no longer fearful of the years of hardship and heartache that I was surely in for. I knew that this was what I was meant to do, that all of the love and the pride and beautiful moments would outshine the bad, and I knew it was perfect, that it would always be perfect.

And it is.

Sometimes it's perfectly frustrating, like when I nurse my baby for 20 minutes on each side only to have her spit up all over my clean sheets and my last clean nursing bra.

Sometimes it's perfectly scary, like when she's crying so hard she turns purple for no foreseeable reason and NOTHING I do calms her down. Seriously, nothing.

But sometimes it's perfectly wonderful, like when she smiles at me with her whole face, or when she's babbling happily to herself while I'm bathing with her, or when she falls asleep on my chest and I can inhale her baby smell uninhibited, her tiny hand curled delicately around the curve of my breast. The list is endless. She's a miracle.

In retrospect, I wouldn't change anything. I am proud of how she came into this world--drugs or no drugs--out of a calm, relaxed Mommy and into a room full of love and laughter. I'm grateful for the people I had with me as I experienced the most amazing thing I've ever imagined. I'm lucky to have a "good" baby, a beautiful baby, and a tight network of phenomenal people, friends and family alike, to help me bring her up right.

I made it to the "after," and I'm proud as hell to be here.

Being an "AMA" (Part 2)

My husband read part one and asked, "What's 'AMA?'"
Don't worry, I'm getting there.
I was at my second OB/GYN appointment, and I was feeling a little self-conscious about my lack of baby belly (I know, the only time in my life I'll ever feel too skinny). The nurse called my name, and I walked quickly across the floor under the judgy gaze of a room full of preggos. After the dreaded weigh-in ("Would it be OK if I took off my pants, too? Purely for accuracy, of course.") we went to the exam room where I was told to undress from the waist down. I was asked all the usual doctor questions, and then suddenly the conversation turned.
"You're 34 years old?" asked my gorgeous, thin, 20-something nurse.
"Yes."
"First pregnancy?" She smiled at me, eyebrows raised.
"Yes..."
Scribble scribble scribble.
"What does that mean?" I asked tentatively.
"It puts you in the AMA range, no big deal." More smiles. More scribbles.
Now, let me tell you something about me. Most people here would ask "What is 'AMA?'" But I'm not most people. I'm stubborn and proud, and I was embarassed that I'd lived 34 years on this Earth and never knew what 'AMA' was. I smiled politely through the rest of the interview and waited patiently for the doctor to arrive so as to inquire after my new "no big deal" condition.
That's a lie. I wasn't waiting patiently. I was freaking out. I mean, I was sitting there on the table with my naked ass hanging out the back of a paper sheet, waiting to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Doctor D whisked into the room like a lawyer with a stethescope, all business with a smile and a brisk handshake. She had a tendency to answer questions before I could ask them (still does), which can sometimes be a little irritating. On this day it was welcome.
"So you're 34," she says, smiling. "That's OK. Actually that's great." Scribble scbibble.
"But the nurse said..."
"You're wondering about 'AMA?' It stands for "advanced maternal age," but don't worry about it. You're young, you're healthy, and you made it over the first hurdle--you got pregnant!" She laughed a little. "There are some complications that are associated with pregnancies after 35, but..."
Again, let me tell you something about me. Although the next few minutes were spent listening to my Doc reassure me that the baby would be great, that women are having babies later in life, blah blah, all I heard was, "You're OLD. You're going to be an old mom, and you're going to have an old lady baby (I don't even know what that means)." Meanwhile, she was readying something that looked like a very long, skinny sex toy and outfitting it in what appeared to be a long, skinny condom. Now, I had told my husband not to worry about coming with me to this appointment--I was 9 weeks pregnant, it's not like we'd see anything yet, right? Yeah, I was starting to regret that decision.
"Are you ready to see the baby?"
"Wait, what?"
Before I knew what hit me, she had probed me (eww). The sex toy thing is actually called a transducer, used to perform a transvaginal ultrasound. And suddenly I was sobbing. With almost no warning I was gazing at a little TV screen, watching my tiny blueberry wiggle those tiny arm nubs at me, and I got to hear that tiny blueberry's heartbeat.
Yeah, I had a heart growing inside me.
I walked out of that office feeling like I had a winning lottery ticket in my pocket. I smiled a new smile, I looked at my body in a new light. This body which I'd battled with my whole life, this body that I'd never really respected or admired, was making a tiny human. From scratch. And it didn't matter how the hell old I was, I was actually SOMEBODY'S MOM.
A MOM.
It still blows my mind.
I'm here to tell you that being a "mature mom" is pretty great (not that I have experienced the alternative, which I'm sure is great for some people). But the real truth is, until that night in the bathroom when that second line snuck up on me, I wasn't ready to be a mom. I wanted to stay up all night drinking whiskey and sleep away my hangover all day. I wanted to have long, sultry wine dinners and whisk away to weekend destinations. I wanted to curse like a sailor in the company of ladies and set a bad example for children.
But that's all over now, at least for a few years.
Those glorious ideals have been replaced with Sunday dinners at my bestie's house with the kids and the parents and the grandparents, Blue's Clues playing in the background while we talk about breast feeding and spit-up and the fascinating rainbow of baby poop colors. A walk in the park is something I actually enjoy now, and I'm honestly looking forward to taking my baby to the apple orchard for hay rides and cider. And that's OK. Actually, it's great. Being a little older means most of my friends are moms, too, and being moms together is one more thing to strengthen our relationships--in a few cases, it's actually rejuvinated a few of my friendships. Being in my thirties means I have the confidence to follow my instincts about parenthood; I'm able to sift through the advice I'm given and pick and choose what feels right for us. I will never look at my baby and regret the things I wish I'd done "before." "Before" was basic training, the courtship before the marriage. I'll never look back longingly (for too long, anyway) because I worked hard to get to the "after." The "after" is the first time your baby locks eyes with you, and you really understand that you're in this together, you're a team. The "after" is your baby's first smile, the most beautiful thing you could ever imagine.
It's hard, it's rewarding, it's magical. And for the first time in my life I believe in miracles.

Being an "AMA" (Part 1)

I figured out I was pregnant at the Grand Canyon. I was drinking a rum and Coke at the lodge, waiting for my chili, and I realized that I hadn't yet gotten my period. It's worth noting that my period, the soldier that it's been since I was 9 (yeah, I know), is always punctual.

I was 34, married for 8 years at the time. We'd been trying (and yes, I use the term loosely--we weren't trying that hard) for almost a year. As far as I was concerned, we were at the "shit or get off the pot" stage of our life, at least as far as having kids was concerned. I wasn't getting any younger, the pressure from our parents to make babies was heating up, all of our other friends were already deep in the muck of parenthood...etc. Although I felt ready to take the next step and join my friends in the trenches, never did I say aloud, "I just really want a baby." At that point I'm not sure that I did. I won't tell you I didn't know what I was in for--that's not exactly true, although being a parent you really never know what you're in for--but I was aware that, once there was a baby involved, my life would be full of sleepless nights, poopy diapers, spitting up, sore nipples (and not because of anything fun), and all the other scary things I'd heard ALL ABOUT--trust me, I heard.

So I was pregnant, but I didn't know for sure yet. We drove back to Tucson that Monday, and I went right to work. After my shift I came straight home, vaguely declining my usual after-shifter, and took the last pregnancy test in the three-pack I had bought months before. My husband was asleep, accustomed to my late night routine. I peed on the stick, then continued to get ready for bed. Two minutes of anxious tooth-brushing followed as I tried really hard not to explode.

Spit, swish, rinse.

I closed my eyes. I swallowed hard. I pictured a little auburn-haired boy with freckles, reaching for my hand. I heard his laugh like tinkling wind chimes, sunshine in his hair, "Come on Mommy!"

I held my breath. I opened my eyes. A single line. It was negative.

I was stumped. I sat on the toilet, fighting back tears, maybe of relief? I couldn't tell. I was confused, tricked by my body into thinking I had a tiny life blossoming inside me.

I sighed, picking up the test to throw into the trash. A second line, ever so faintly, had appeared. Positive. It was positive. And I knew it was right. I knew it was what I wanted.

Naked, I threw the bathroom door open.

"Hey," I whispered, like a stage whisper, "I think I'm pregnant."

"What do you mean? What?" My husband rubbed his eyes sleepily, sitting up in bed. "Did you take a test?"

"Come look at it."

He stumbled out of bed, squinting against the harsh light of the bathroom. He picked up the test, scrutinized it. "It looks kind of positive. Are you sure?"

"You cant be "kind of" pregnant. I'm pretty sure."

We looked at each other, a current of excited fear running between us, like we'd found a treasure map. We hugged a little, we kissed a little, and then we went to bed. I mean, it was like 2 in the morning.

I won't bore you with details of my pregnancy (until later, at least), but suffice it to say I had a GREAT pregnancy. No, I'm serious. I never had morning sickness, I never had smell aversions or swelling. I felt sexier than ever. For the first time, I knew that this was what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I was in love with the new life growing inside of me and I was ready to take on the challenges of motherhood.