by The Wannabe Mom
Wednesday of last week, I’d all but given up. That morning I took a hot shower and convinced myself our first IVF failed.
I wrote a crabby blog post and sent it to the chambanamoms to post.
I chose to be negative and made Wednesday an all-around bad day. I couldn’t wait to get home, jump into my husband’s sweatpants and sleep my sad-sack-sorrows away.
But before I let my head hit the pillow—I decided to pee. On a stick.
Why, you ask!?
Because I’m addicted to home pregnancy tests. Because they whisper my name from a box hidden deep in my closet. Because I’d waited four days past our five day blastocyst transfer and I couldn’t wait another minute. Because I’m a glutton for punishment.
I fully expected to fail that test. I fully expected to see another one-liner—just like the hundreds before it.
And that would be OK.
Because it wasn’t first morning urine. Because it was still too early. Because most women don’t get positives until much later in their two-week wait.
Because. Because. Because.
But damn if there weren’t two. Two! Two lines, that is.
I walked into the bedroom to show my hubby the test. I really got his attention when I said the best few words I’ve said in a long time, “Dude, we’re pregnant.”
Turns out those are the best few words I’ve typed in a long time too.
So we wait for BETAs and sonograms and all the other tests we’ll have to pass before we hold our sweet little baby in our arms.
But for now, we’re a little bit pregnant. I’m relishing these tiny waves of excitement that are oh-so unfamiliar—and fragile–and fleeting for an infertile.
I’m breathing deep and praying—begging. I can’t stop looking at the picture of that two-lined pregnancy test I took with my camera-phone.
Two lines. Two. Two is my new favorite number.