2 minute epiphany

(Originally posted 4/17/2009)
The two minutes spent waiting for the results of an at-home pregnancy test are about the longest configuration of 120 seconds a person can spend.

Test instructions are specific regarding reading your results; put the test on a flat surface, don’t touch it and wait the full two minutes.

It’s that last one that proves to be so difficult.

Imagine someone walking up to you and announcing “Your life is about to change forever, maybe, but hold that thought while I grab a cup of java.”

As I watch the results slowly creep across the testing window I have vivid memories of the last time I went through this.

Andy and I had been married about a year when some genetic switch was flipped in my brain that told me it was time to start talking babies. I think all women experience this differently— certainly some never experience it at all—but for me it was just like something that had been slumbering in the primal part of my being had been activated. Like I was a sleeper agent for the mommy rebellion and had just been called to duty. And the need to have a child was urgent and insisting.

With Andy though, that wasn’t the case. Maybe some couples would handle this better than I feel we did, but if I’m being honest, the situation led to a lot of frustration and misplaced anger. He saw me as being overbearing and pressuring him into taking a step he wasn’t ready to take. I saw it as the ultimate power-play, with him standing between me and someone I already loved though they had not yet been created. And for a few years we endured more than a few squabbles about laundry or dishes or the remote control that were actually about the baby issue. No one was right. No one was wrong. We just weren’t in the same place about that.

And then we were. Time passed, and one day Andy was ready. And the great science experiment began.

I say that because I think in each of us there is this lingering sense of disbelief that we can grow a person. Then add to that the fact that-- in spite of all we were told in middle school implying all it takes to get pregnant is for a man and a woman to look at each other lustfully—there are actually about a billion things that need to fall into alignment for conception to actually occur, and well, those odds seem dubious at best.

But that pregnancy test, in December of 2006 lit up like a Christmas tree. And the whole world seemed changed.

First, there was the fun part of telling everyone. I told Peanut, my dog, right away. Just seemed like she deserved to know. Her reaction was tempered, to say the least.

Then I made a phone call to Andy, who was at work. I know, I know, a phone call. Not the best way to make any big announcement. But all my plans to wait and tell him in person flew out the window the second that test came back positive. I’ve never been patient, and this news was too big to keep to myself.

After a quick trip to the doctor’s office to confirm the wisdom the pee-stick had offered, it was time to tell the parents. My mom’s reaction was the best because there were no words, just a series of primal-sounding, joyful whoops. Amazing what news of a first grandchild can reduce a person to.

But then, as soon as I realized how much this baby meant to everyone, I was overcome with the fear I would lose her and let everybody down. Sounds silly, but it was suffocating. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus—could only worry.

Days passed, months slipped by and with only a few minor incidents I made it to the end of the whole ordeal. Maybe you can tell from the fact I refer to pregnancy as “an ordeal” that I was never someone that loved being pregnant. For me it was the means to a much wanted end, but not an enjoyable time in and of itself. I never liked feeling that the bloated, unrecognizable body I now had was not my own. I was frustrated by the self-imposed restrictions of anything containing artificial sweeteners, caffeine, alcohol or pain killers. Basically if it wasn’t around when my grandma was pregnant, I wasn’t letting it near my body because I didn’t trust it. And that made things difficult. It was my choice—my hang up—but it was still hard.

When Kat was born I was ready for things to get easier. Now, if you have kids—or even know anyone with kids—you’re laughing at that statement. I didn’t know. I really had no clue just how hard it was. My only frame of reference was sitcoms, and when Ross and Rachel had their baby NOTHING changed. There was just the same life as before, but with this cute little kid cooing at appropriate moments.

But it’s not like that. Not at all. And as bad as the sleep deprivation and the crazy hormones and the constant nursing are, worst of all, for me, was the feeling of overwhelming loneliness. My friends were still young and having fun and living life as I had previously known it. Andy was back at work by our third day home from the hospital. My parents lived an hour away. Don’t get me wrong-- I know others who have had it so, so, so much worse. But for me, it was a desperately lonely time, and I thought I would never want to have another child.

I think I need to clarify that thought; I loved being a mommy. I just felt isolated by the experience. And my daughter was healthy and thriving and it just seemed silly to roll the cosmic dice one more time by having another baby.

It takes about a month after having a baby before you begin to feel like even a shadow of your previous self. At four months things are manageable and by six I was even making progress as far as doing some freelancing, losing the rest of the baby weight and reconnecting with friends who had faded away for a bit. At a year post-partum I was able to eat and drink everything I had before, having successfully met my goal of nursing my daughter the doctor-recommended 12 months. And when Andy spoke about having more kids, I was able to engage him in discussion without bursting into tears or fighting the urge to vomit.

But when I started feeling those oh-so-familiar, telltale, signs of pregnancy, there was no small amount of horror at the idea of diving back into all of that. I did the math in my head and knew nothing would show up on a pregnancy test for a few more days, so I had to let the idea ferment in my head for a while.

Ugh. No cute bathing suits this summer. No wine on warm evenings. No diet coke. No ibueprophen. No coffee. No running the Crim this August.

And the kid would be due in December. Great-- as if I’m not stressed enough about buying gifts that time of year. Then again, it would be fun to have a baby in the winter months. No more enduring the last months of pregnancy in late-summer. And it would be fun to tell everyone again…

I watched Kat run around the playground and other mothers with their own children. Many of them had two or more kids, and they were able to function…

“Momma! Rock!” Kat yelled as she plucked a pebble from the area by the swings.

The enormity of my love for her washed over me. It happens that way sometimes, and is usually a bit unexpected. We fall in love with our children over and over again, each time plumbing new depths of the emotion. And something about the way she was able to get so excited about a rock—and therefore inspire me to appreciate the little things—hit me like a tidal wave of maternal affection.

I touched my stomach briefly, picturing the next little someone who might be growing in there. I thought back to my life before Kathryn. Yeah, it had been easier. And yep, it was entirely devoid of stretch marks. But it was also so much less meaningful. Like one of those hollow chocolate bunnies you get at Easter; Looks greats, but not much going on when you look inside. So, I wondered, who else was I missing out on?

*Bing*

The two minutes were up.

I swallowed the nervous flutter in my stomach and looked at the results window of the test.

Negative.

Those “symptoms” had just been coincidence or in my head. Like my body knew what I wanted before my heart did.

I studied the test a full minute more and fought back tears, confused by the disappointment I felt. How can you miss someone that was never there to begin with? I hadn’t been trying to get pregnant. I wasn’t even sure I wanted more kids.

But now I was.

It was all there for me, in that moment. In seeing that second line missing from the test I realized something else was missing from my life. Someone, to be specific.

And whenever he/she is ready, I am too.

Of that, I’m positive.