That Baby (5 page)

“Like what?”

“You know, like, after you go off the pill when can you start trying,” I lie. What I’m really doing is frantically trying to see if you can sort of get your period and be pregnant. “I see there’s a whole bunch of stuff you’re supposed to do before you conceive. Um, Lori, could you give me your doctor’s name? I think I should go see him. Get started on the right foot.” I quickly put the book down and pick up the magazine.

“Sure, let me get my phone. I’ll text you his contact info.”

Phillip strolls in with a box of donuts.
 

“Jay got sick again,” is the first thing out of Danny’s mouth.
 

“Yeah, I think I’m going to go home and lie down,” I say.

Phillip kisses me and gives me a smirk. “Care if I stay for breakfast?”

“No, go ahead.”

I’m throwing my shoes on when Lori hands me the book. “Why don’t you take this home and look over it. There’s more than a chapter on what to do before you get pregnant.”

“So there are a bunch of chapters about sex?” Phillip asks with a grin on his face. “Maybe we should read that together.”

Danny punches him in the shoulder. “You never should have said that, dude.”

I grab the book and the donuts then run home and read the list of pregnancy symptoms.

Tender boobs?
 
No

Peeing a lot?
 
No
 

Really tired?
 
Yes, but could be the flu.

Nausea?
 
Yes, but could be the flu.

Smells?
 
Yes.
 

Bloating?
 
Doesn’t everyone get bloated before their period?

Spotting?
 
That’s probably more what my so-called period was.
 

Missed period?
 
Hmmm.

I run in the bathroom to check things out.
 

Still nothing.
 

I’m eating another donut and rummaging through the kitchen looking for the pregnancy test when Phillip sneaks up behind me.

“What are you doing?”

“Um, I was looking for that pregnancy test thingy. You had it in the kitchen and, uh, you know, with your parents coming for the Super Bowl party, I didn’t want them to see it and get any ideas.”

“Oh, good point.” He reaches into the pantry, moves a box of protein shake mixes, and hands me the test. “Why don’t you put this in our bathroom. Hopefully it won’t be long until we need it.”

January 29th

Holy shit.
 

I pretend to be asleep while Phillip gets ready for work but the second I hear the garage door shut, I jump out of bed, peek out the bathroom window to watch him drive down the street, then run to the closet, get the test out, and read the instructions.
 

Remove the stick. Take off the cap. Then either pee on the stick for five seconds or pee into the cup.
 

Which do I want to do?

Cup.
 

I sit on the toilet.

And then start crying.
 

I don’t know what I want.
 

I run through the living room, grab the pregnancy book, bring it in the bathroom, and reread the part about how you shouldn’t drink when trying to conceive.

I mentally calculate the number of alcoholic drinks I had on our honeymoon. The martinis, champagne, and beer consumed at the wedding.
 

I don’t know what I want.

But, now, I really have to pee, so I go in the cup.
 

Then I put the stick in and start counting.

One.
 

Two.

Three.
 

Four.
 

Five.
 

I take the stick out, put the cap back on, and lay it down on the counter.
 

Now I have to wait for three long minutes.
 

I flush.
 

Wash my hands and set the timer on my phone.
 

Reread the instructions two more times.
 

One pink line = Not pregnant.
 

Two pink lines = Pregnant.

One dark pink line + One light pink line = Pregnant.
 

I’m not even going to think about looking at it until the three minutes are up.

I stare at the seconds counting down on my phone’s timer.
 

Two minutes left.
 

Shit.

I peek.
 

There are two faint pink lines.
 

I look at the instructions again, wondering if they turn pink first but then the second one disappears.
 

But the two lines just seem to be getting darker.
 

Holy shit.
 

I think I might be pregnant.

I smile then start crying again.
 

The doctor’s office opens at nine, so I start calling at 8:45. I call every minute until finally someone answers at 8:57. I tell them I just moved to town, am best friends with Lori and
Danny Diamond
—yes, I used his name on purpose—might be pregnant but might not be depending on if these 99% accurate tests are really that accurate, and that I need to be seen today.
 

Like now.

Preferably, right now.

This very second.

She squeezes me in at two o’clock.
 

I hop in the shower to get ready for work, place my hand across my stomach, peek out of the shower to make sure the two pink lines are still there, and wonder if it could be true.

Could I really be pregnant?

I lie to Phillip and tell him I have to go to some showroom to look at bathroom fixtures for the new building. Truth is, I’ve had them picked out since before the wedding.
 

In the OB-GYN’s waiting room, I’m surrounded by women with big pregnant bellies and by the time I fill out all the paperwork, pee in another cup, give some blood, and get in to see the doctor, I’ve convinced myself the home pregnancy test must have been faulty. I can’t be pregnant.

“So I understand the lines turned pink,” the doctor says after introducing himself.
 

“Yes.”
 

“And what was the date of the first day of your last period?”

“Um, Christmas day. December twenty-fifth.”

He picks up a little chart and spins it around. “That means you’re due October the first.”

“
Due?
As in
I’m pregnant
?”

He squints his eyes at me. “Yes, home pregnancy tests are quite accurate. You’re definitely pregnant. Five weeks along today.”

“But, I’m on the pill.”

“Did you take it regularly?”

“Yes, but I took antibiotics last month.”

“Well, there you have it. They can sometimes lessen the pill’s effectiveness.”

“I’m a few days late, but I had some spotting the other night and I thought it was my period. But then it stopped.”

“It’s not uncommon to have spotting.”

“But I didn’t plan on getting pregnant. Shit,” I mutter.

“You’re not happy about your pregnancy?” he asks.

“Not only was I on the pill, but I just got married two weeks ago. I drank every single day of our honeymoon. What if I’ve already ruined our baby?” I get tears in my eyes. I don’t want our baby ruined.

The doctor pats my back. “Being on the pill when you get pregnant does not increase the risk of birth defects. And it’s also not uncommon for women to have alcohol before they realize they are pregnant. Back when my mom was pregnant with me, women would smoke and drink alcohol. I turned out fine.”

“But now we know better right?” I say. “That can lead to low birth weight babies.”

“You’ve been doing some reading,” he says with a smile.

“A little.”

“So, while it’s hard to tell for sure, you probably conceived around the eighth of January.”

“Oh my god. That was the night . . .”

“Did something bad happen?”

“Yes. No.” I start to cry again. “It started out bad, but then it ended up good. Like it was a really special night. I fell asleep and dreamed of fireworks. Could I have known?”

“Some women say they know when they conceive.”

“Except I don’t have many symptoms. Only two.”

“Which two?”

“I’m tired and nauseous.”

“Just like no two people are alike, no two pregnancies are alike.”

“So, I’m really, truly, honestly, actually pregnant? Like for real?”

“Yes, Jadyn. You are,” he says, making a note in my file. Probably something about my mental stability.
 

“Holy shit,” I say.

I leave the doctor’s office, planning to go straight home. I can’t go back to work because I’m dying to tell someone and I’m afraid I’ll blurt it out to the first person I see.

I have to tell someone.
 

Or I’m going to burst!

But I don’t want to blurt it out to anyone but Phillip.
 

But how should I tell him? I remember Lori calling me after the lines turned pink. How she told us before she told Danny. I don’t want to do that. I want Phillip to be the first person to know.
 

And I want to do something special.
 

I go home and search the Internet for ways to tell your husband you’re pregnant. What I find is thousands of videos.
 

I watch a bunch of them. The reactions of the husbands are varied, ranging from tears, to disbelief, to jumping with joy, to a whole lot of,
are you serious?

I try to imagine Phillip’s reaction. He’s going to be shocked. Hell, I’m still in total shock and I’ve had a few hours to let it sink in.
 

I consider the different ways to tell him. Lots of the videos involved things like signs, cakes, dinners, the positive pregnancy test, baby bottles, booties, and rattles. One told the soon-to-be father on his birthday. We are having a Super Bowl party this weekend. Could I tell him before everyone arrived?

No, that’s six days away.
 

Six very long days.

No way I can wait.
 

When a text from Phillip flashes on my phone, I jump, feeling like I’ve been caught. That he could somehow know.
 

I read his text.

MacDaddyLovesYou:
 
Did you get ahold of Lori’s doctor?

Me:
 
Yes. They had an opening today, so I went.

MacDaddyLovesYou:
 
Awesome. Did we get the green light?
 

Me:
 
You could say that.

I notice he changed his name in my phone from
Phillipbaby
to
MacDaddyLovesYou
.
 

Ohmigawd. That’s it.

I call Danny.
 

“Hey, is there a place where I can get a couple custom football jerseys made?”

“Yeah, I drive by a shop on the way to training. Let me look it up and I’ll text you the address.”

“Thanks.”
 

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, just getting shirts made for the Super Bowl,” I lie.

“I heard the parents invited themselves.”

“I heard that too. And Chelsea and Joey are coming down.”

“Did you know they hooked up at your wedding?” he asks me.