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.