Whenever we told someone that we’d bought a house in the suburbs, one of the first follow-up questions was, “Oh, are you pregnant?“
And it was frustrating.
1) If we were pregnant, do you really think that’s how we’d tell you?
And 2) one does not necessarily have anything to do with the other.
So we would calmly explain that no, we weren’t pregnant. Yes, of course, we were planning for the future, but we were taking one step at a time. It was a good time to buy a house and we just happened to fall in love with our little colonial rather quickly. In a market like this you have to act fast.
And it was just pure coincidence that we found out we were pregnant the day after our house bid was accepted and the contract was signed.
I wouldn’t have even tested (because I “knew” I wasn’t pregnant) except for the fact that we were going to a wedding that weekend and I wanted to drink with a clear conscience.
Two pee sticks later and that plan went right out the window.
So I pretended all weekend with sparkling water and lime wedges, and prayed that no one would question why Husband was drinking all my wine at dinner (drinking for three, as he says). And then I spent the week at God camp, where I found myself even more tired and emotional than I usually am during that stretch of 17-hour non-stop days.
By the time I finally got home and was able to get to the doctor for the conclusive blood test, I wasn’t at all surprised to hear the nurse call back with the results: “You are very, very pregnant.” (Funny, I thought there was just pregnant and not pregnant.)
I wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make me any less thrilled to have it confirmed.
So, come next spring – possibly even opening day – there will be a new little Phillies fan in our house. Because, in my world, baseball allegiances are like Judaism – passed down through the mother.
I just hope our little one has better luck than I do, and doesn’t have to wait 23 years to see them win another World Series.