*(An unpublished post from several months ago – when I wanted to write, but wasn’t yet ready to share.)*
Nov. 18, 2013
A faint, pink line on a small, plastic stick.
What a crazy thing it is that something so . . . insignificant . . . is how we typically find out our entire existence is about to stretch, and grow, and change into something . . . different; something much bigger.
I took a pregnancy test today. I glanced right away and saw the test line. Only the test line. My heart sunk a little. I had been perfectly fine, a few weeks ago, with the idea of having another baby simply sometime. I was ready. We’d decided yes. Yes to another child. But that child certainly didn’t need to come nine months after that decision. A year later would be fine. Maybe a year and a half.
Still it felt disappointing – only the test line – disappointing because there was the possibility of TWO lines.
I quickly covered my eyes – vowing not to look again for at least three minutes. Clearly it was no; but . . . maybe it just needed a minute? Maybe maybe it was still a yes?
I wandered to the kitchen. I’d throw the empty test box away there.
Surely that would kill some time.
I threw the box away.
I tidied up a paper or two on the table.
I drummed the counter with my fingertips.
I got a drink.
Had it been three minutes?
I went back to the bathroom – hoping, but trying to keep my hope suppressed -- trying to quiet the pounding of my heart in my ears
And then, there it was. The second line.
I looked closer. Bit my lip, and held it up to the light to make sure it didn’t suddenly disappear.
A tiny little notification: “baby coming.”
You’d think maybe that type of news would have lost some novelty for me. Maybe, six kids in, I wouldn’t be capable of the same excitement surrounding the positive line that would accompany a first or even a second child. Maybe I didn’t deserve the same excitement.
But it was there. The excitement. All the same.
I suppose if you don’t know my kids, it might be easy to just lump them into a group – a pack of nameless children. When, actually, they are each their own separate, tiny selves. Perfect, and lovely, so individual; and so individually well-known and adored.
And this one? This one isn’t just another nameless face tossed into a wild and full home.
This one is his/her very own self – as much as anyone in the universe -- with his/her very own path to carve out in the world. Her own name. Her own strengths and weaknesses. Her own talents and preferences.
And she will be ours.
We will be hers.
She will be part of the excitement of baking sugar cookies and putting up Christmas decorations around here. She will be with us building sand castles and riding 4-wheelers at Bear Lake. She will share cousins and grandparents with her six other siblings. She will run eagerly to get to the “popcorn blanket” first on movie nights. She will draw and make crafts with her older sisters, and re-wear my favorite of their summer dresses. She’ll help Mike plant our spring garden, and drag stuffed animals down the stairs to watch Saturday morning cartoons with her siblings. She will be hugged and kissed and written about and photographed countless times by her mother.
No. No less excitement surrounding this pink line. Just as with my others, it feels like the biggest, most significant, and happiest thing to ever have happened. It feels like nothing like this has ever happened before.
It’s hard not to run and share the news with everyone. But I’ve had miscarriages before. I know well enough that that pink line doesn’t always end with a baby in your arms. Part of it still feels unreal. Pretend.
Still, Mike and I have been talking back and forth on the phone all day – like two kids excited for Christmas. Will you want to find a doctor closer to where we live this time? Can we get the basement bedrooms done by the start of summer? How should we arrange kids in rooms? Who should we put him with if he’s a boy? Who should we put her with if she’s a girl? When should we tell people? When is the due date?
Mike did make me laugh a few days ago. I was having such severe – what I thought – were PMS symptoms – so easily frustrated and tense – hot, cold, grumpy that I told Mike I couldn’t possibly be pregnant.
“Maybe you get grumpy when you’re pregnant,” Mike suggested.
“Ha!” I teased – still certain that wasn’t the case. “If so, you’re in for a lonnnng nine months!”
Mike gave me a little smirk and said, “No longer than the last 13 years.”
I love him.
I love the family he and I have created.
And . . . are creating.