Originally written July 15, 2020
The first feeling was relief. Then absolute joy. Then anger. The anger followed swiftly and fiercely. Those two pink lines, staring at me definitively. Dancing playfully. Simultaneously mocking my confusion and sharing my joy. My joy was real, and obvious. We wanted another baby. We were actually trying this time.
Trying. What a strange term.
A politically correct option for publicly sharing the most personal of details. A glorious euphemism that elicits admiration rather than disgust. A rare occasion when simple word choice has the power to dictate such a wide range of extreme reaction. An outcome with synonyms in physicality, but not in intent. The baby-making equivalent of homicide vs. manslaughter.
The relief was expected as well. I had known. I knew the first time, days before my missed period. Emilia slipped into my subconscious long before we confirmed her existence. Two days before we took the inevitable test, Matt and I stopped at a special little spot for a snack and drink on our way to Saratoga. I was surprising him with a weekend away in celebration of his upcoming thirty-third birthday.
The restaurant was significant to me; I had discovered the spot years ago and stopped there many times on my way home from business trips, often to eat my first real meal of the day at four or five PM and shoot out a few emails before making the last leg of my trip to Boston. It was an odd spot for this purpose for several reasons. The building itself is an old railway station, with a lot of history. The architecture is fascinating, but the food is only mediocre. I kept coming back anyway. Geographically, the place is off of the Mass Pike, technically on my route home. But it is several miles of strange winding roads from the highway, and I had to pass by several other restaurants and fast food joints to get there. I kept coming back anyway. I liked it there. I felt drawn to it.
The first time I brought Matt with me, he reveled in the old photos adorning the entryway walls and the black and white news clippings from years gone by. As a history buff and a skilled genealogist, I knew he would love the place. He took his time walking the lobby, scanning the photos. Admiring the old cash register and other relics of a bygone era. The trains of various ages outside of the restaurant caught his interest for only a few minutes, but the promise of ghosts and their stories inside the premises captured his attention for what has turned into years.
Past the lobby, we entered the main dining area. While sitting at the small wooden bar tucked in a corner of the cathedral-like space, Matt immediately became busy on his phone, googling the history of the place and reading up on its noteworthy occasions. It didn't take long for him to uncover an uncanny connection.
It turned out that someone with a family surname of mine had been killed in a tragic accident in this very spot. He died young. He left family behind. Matt could not leave the yarn unfollowed; he never can. We would discover that this man was my third great-grandfather.
Unknowingly, his ghost had been calling me to this plot of land for years.
This hallowed ground where he drew his final breath. I had been under his spell all this time, and although I felt the pull of the place, I could not name it.
On our way to Saratoga that late winter day, the snow still covered the ground in patches. It had turned gray and slushy in most areas, as March snow tends to do, rendering the memory of the clean December crystals of a few months prior a distant memory. I perched on the familiar bar stool in the quiet restaurant, feeling a new significance sitting deep within my core.
Little physical signs had been present but subtle: a tenderness in my body, a persistent fatigue, an easier cry than usual. But the knowing went far beyond these inklings. I just knew. My intuition has always been strong. I have always known myself. I turned to my husband, and we clinked a “cheers” with our mid-tier cabernet. I took a small sip. Room temperature red shoved into a glass intended for white. One of my snobbiest pet-peeves.
“So, I need to tell you something,” I started hesitantly. Matt cocked his head quizzically, expecting more birthday surprises. “I was going to wait,” I continued, “but given our plans for this weekend, I wanted to share this with you sooner rather than later.” Our plans included drinking, drinking and more drinking. We were headed to Saratoga in March. It was not a race weekend that transforms the whole of Saratoga into a summertime gala, full of majestic horses, sunny days at the spa, canapes in white tents, art shows, food festivals. It was St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and when I had planned the trip months earlier, I had one goal in mind: we were going to live it up.
“I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant.” I stated this fact with the confidence I felt.
No tests had confirmed my suspicion, I was not late. I just knew. And I thought my husband should know too. “Really?!” he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. We wanted a family but had not yet been married five months. We thought we had at least a year or two ahead of us to settle into married life and carefully plan a new addition, as I had planned almost everything in my life up to that point. Matt, as I expected, was nothing but thrilled by this development.
I tried my best to answer his questions about why I suspected that we were now three instead of two, but I had no facts.
To his credit, Matt believed me right away. He has long accepted and understood the strength of my intuition, even through we do not always have the right words between us to communicate clearly about it.
We ended the conversation agreeing to take the test on Sunday, halfway through our four-day weekend. We were hell-bent on enjoying a (tame) St. Patrick’s day before confirming the news. My Irish Pride insists in most years that I celebrate the holiday at least at a level of eight out of ten, but that year, I barely reached a one point five. Mostly water, a couple sips of Guinness spread throughout the day, an extra serving of corned beef.
On Sunday as planned, we picked up a test on the way back to the hotel from a leisurely brunch. I couldn't bring myself to go into the CVS, it felt too real. I was dizzy with nerves. I sent Matt in alone. On the sunny drive to the hotel with the moment of truth approaching, a song came on the radio "if it's meant to be, it'll be." Matt reached over silently and put his hand around mine with a little squeeze. I burst out in tears.
I couldn't believe what I was feeling: desperation. I wanted this to happen.
The moment of confirmation itself was far from romantic: it was midday in a Courtyard Marriott hotel room bathroom. We perched across each other in goofy silence, Matt on the closed toilet, me balanced on the edge of the tub. We didn't know what to say. We didn't know how to wait.
And yet, it was the most joyous moment of our lives to that point. Despite my certainty in what the test would reveal, I almost fainted when we saw those two lines. Matt physically caught me as I wilted toward the tub, strengthened by his elation. He was going to be a DAD. We spent the rest of the day lounging around the hotel room and going on an easy snowy hike. Dreaming about the future, giddy with excitement.
I was overwhelmed and ready. I was sure and unsure. I was a mother already, and a child still.
Emilia was unplanned, but exactly what I needed. She changed my life in ways I never expected. She is still my most favorite gift. We knew from the beginning that we wanted her to have siblings. She would be a loving leader, the wise and compassion chief of our little crew. But next time, we would plan it. We would feel ready. We would do it “right” and leave nothing up to chance. Our good fortune with Emilia felt too good, and we agreed that with future children, we would be more intentional and make all the right choices as wise, veteran parents.
A plan, an expectation, is nothing if not an invitation for frustration.
Our story now resumes at present day, and this is where the anger comes in. We started “trying” just last month. Just a few weeks ago. We were not perfect in our tracking and measuring. We did not “optimize the window.” We were just… practicing. But again. I knew. I knew within days. I knew before the window was over. I was pregnant, and I was sure. Maybe from that first day of “trying.” I told Matt right away. He laughed, and we proceeded as if it were true, with this next phase of our family about to begin.
We had to wait about two weeks before my hormones would indicate a positive pregnancy, and let me tell you, I take back every eyeroll I ever suppressed when friends, relatives, or celebrities have talked about the anxiety of waiting to get pregnant. Those days were so long. And the nights were longer, riddled with the anxious thoughts that accompany impatience. I could not confirm my instincts for those two weeks. There was nothing I could do but wait.
I took a couple pregnancy tests early on, just to “get the hang of it again," as if peeing on a stick takes some special skill. I knew with every rational fiber of my being that it was long before I would be able to detect the hormones that summon that second little pink line, and yet, I still hoped. I still set that pee-stick level on the bathroom counter and said a little prayer while I went in the bedroom and set my phone timer for three minutes. I had to give myself a little pep-talk, even then, when the result was negative.
“We have MONTHS of trying ahead of us, this is just the beginning. Be patient. You can do this.”
But still, I knew. I knew I was pregnant. We decided to take an impromptu vacation to mid-coast Maine to escape three-month of quarantine in our little Boston townhome. Our family ate a lot of seafood and stayed close to our cozy rental house on a working lobster pier: the Captain’s Quarters. It was a beautiful and relaxing week, but all I could think about was ticking down the days so I could take another test. I had brought some with me. I had a vision of presenting Matt with the positive test on the last day of our vacation. Capturing his surprised and excited expression with my Nikon, and us telling Millie, throwing her up into the air in a celebration that she would never understand or remember. She was going to be a big sister.
I tested that morning before we left. It was the first day that my hormone levels may indicate pregnancy. Again I peed, I level-set the stick, I timed, I prayed, I breathed. One line. It is not an exaggeration to say that I felt devastated. I was so sure that it would confirm the baby I knew was inside me. We headed back to Boston, and I was moody. Dejected. I tested again the next morning: negative. I tested again the next morning: negative. Six days of tests. Six days of silent agony. Six days of “no.”
I boosted myself up after that last test and gave myself the pep talk again. The first of months of trying. We did not do it perfectly. We will get it right next month. With a practiced optimism in my voice, I shared the news with Matt. “It didn’t happen this month, but we knew it probably wouldn’t. I guess I just got excited and ahead of myself. Sorry if I got your hopes up.” He wrapped me in an embrace, assured me that it was all going to work out exactly as it should.
“On a fun note… I can now have a “last hurrah” this weekend! One more weekend to enjoy the summer before I start seriously prepping my body for this baby.”
“Let’s do it!” He agreed. And so commenced a weekend of summery cocktails, sushi, eggs benedict, and a visit to a distillery. I consumed more hard alcohol in one weekend than I had in months, as I was entirely sure, based on six separate data points, that I was not pregnant. I had attended a bachelorette party while I was (unknowingly) pregnant with Emilia, and I was NOT going to engage in that risky behavior again. So this was the last time for probably a year or so I planned to drink any dirty martinis, and I enjoyed every sip.
The following Monday and Tuesday were tough days. The hangover was not bad in the physical sense, but I felt weighted with this overwhelming sense of dread and guilt that I struggled to place. I felt like I had done something horribly wrong. I started getting angry with Matt for seemingly no reason. My mood swings were epic for those forty-eight hours. I went from uncontrollably mad to uncontrollably weeping sad at the drop of a hat. There has been a lot going on, but my emotions felt extreme, even for me. I was volatile.
That brings us to today: Wednesday.
Last night I could not sleep. At all. I was in bed before ten PM. I finally drifted off sometime around four in the morning. Insomnia has been a long-suffered issue for me, but rarely to this extent. I went down so many rabbit holes of thought. I reconsidered every major decision I made over the last decade. I contemplated starting over again with my little family, somewhere new (I decided after much internal debate that Matt could join us if he wanted).
At some point in the night, a thought cemented itself in my mind, seemingly out of nowhere: I am pregnant. I am sure.
I fought tooth and nail against the urge to take a test right then, at two fifteen AM. But I could not shake the feeling. My period was due, but not yet late. I vowed to give it one more day. On the morning of the sixteenth, if I still did not have my period, I would test again. But my resolve was tested this morning when I received a shock. Literally. I was washing dishes and, fingers still wet, went to turn off a light when a jolt of electricity ran through my body. No burn marks, but a definite tingling, a racing heart, and a strange taste in my mouth confirmed I had not imagined it. My first thought: Oh my God, the baby.
I gave in and took the test once Millie was napping. Two. Pink. Lines.
Once again, this little one has surprised me. Despite my “knowing.” Despite my planning. Despite my needing to control everything this time. I am pregnant. And it started out with several cocktails and a minor electrocution. I feel angry. I feel relief. I feel concern. I feel anxiety. I feel joy. I am writing this before I share the news with Matt. I do not know when or how I will tell him yet (I imagine it will be today, I have never been able to keep secrets from him. And I am so flippin’ excited!) But he and I are still in the middle of several arguments that I likely caused over the past few days due to my wild hormones. So I want to do it right. I need us to make up. I need this to be as joyous as it is. As joyous as the first time. As joyous as this new little one deserves.
I stole away this afternoon, which I never do. I needed to be alone in a beautiful place for a little while. Alone with my thoughts and my words and my anger and confusion and terror and happiness. I needed to be alone with my baby. To have this moment between us, a secret that only we two share. We are already growing together, and I am sorry for the mistakes I’ve already made.
I guess its best to let you in on the truth right now little one: your mom is far from perfect. Many, many mistakes will be made in my raising you.
But now I know about you. I already know you. I love you beyond comprehension. And I will do everything in my power to be better tomorrow than today. We are blessed to have each other, and to have this beautiful life. We are blessed to come from the families that we do. I like to think that my third great-grandfather, John Doyle, called us to the train station that day because he wanted to witness the shared joy of his growing brood.
We are blessed to be able to continue this family, however imperfectly.
I cannot wait to meet you little one. You, just like your sister, are our wildest dreams come true. And as I type this, mere hours into knowing that you exist, I am already calling you a "he," so let's see if that family intuition holds up this time.
-Mama (CJK)
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