We got back from Ireland late on the night of June 26. At 3:00 a.m. on June 28, unable to sleep and desperate to confirm the situation one way or another, I snuck out of bed, tiptoed into the guest bathroom, and took a pregnancy test. As I waited for the timer on my iPhone to count  backwards from two minutes, I went back and forth in my mind about what I wanted the outcome to be. I am of the firm belief that one should not get one’s hopes up practically ever, for in my mind, if you always expect the worst scenario, you can only be pleasantly surprised. I think this makes me a solid pessimist, or at the very least, a total downer to be around. I kept repeating to myself that we’d barely even tried, there was no possibility of all the magic and science that needs to happen for a baby to exist, and anyway, I had a lot of life stuff to figure out. I just needed to know that it wasn’t real so that I could continue with my life and drink without guilt.

I’ll let Luka explain what happened next.


After staring at the pee stick, trying to process what was happening, I walked back into our bedroom on shaky legs, and peered at Mark in the  darkness, trying to see if he was anywhere close to being awake. He very sleepily asked, “So, are you pregnant?” and I answered in the affirmative. He then yelled, “HOLY SHIT, REALLY?” and leapt out of bed like his butt was on fire. I turned the light on, he hugged me and then I cried like the baby we’re expecting in six months. Luka jumped out of his bed and joined the party. It was one of the most perfect moments of my entire life.

We stayed up talking for an hour or so, then I made him go back to sleep because he had to get up early for work. There was no chance of sleep for me, though, and after laying awake in the darkness for about half an hour, I eventually crept downstairs, and sat on the couch for the next few hours, Googling pregnancy symptoms and due dates and midwives (and, in the interest of full disclosure, the phrase “do babies ever come out wearing clothes”).

We are currently alternating between abject terror and extreme giddiness. I was pretty sick for most of my first trimester, so that kind of distracted me from the reality of the situation; it all felt very abstract to me. I was fairly convinced I wasn’t even pregnant, that I was wasting the midwives’ and our doula’s time; that I’d have to explain to everyone that — just kidding! — I somehow screwed up, the nausea was psychosomatic, the excessive naps were just because I loooove sleeping. It wasn’t until we heard the baby’s heartbeat on a Doppler scan, and I made our lovely midwife promise that she was sure it was the heartbeat and not just some weird similar-to-a-heartbeat sound my uterus was making, that it actually felt real. I know people have babies all the time, and yet this feels like the most special, surreal thing ever. When I first met Mark, I didn’t want kids at all. I was so convinced of this that I had it listed on my MySpace page (yeah, it was 2006) and it initially scared him off. Seeing him with his niece and nephew, and all of our friends’ children, completely changed my mind. I already know that he’ll be the best dad ever. I’m almost envious of our kid for just how much he or she will think that Mark invented the moon. I am also scared that I’ll have to be the bad cop all the time (I’m the one who does most of the yelling at the dog), but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. This is the kind of guy who spends 45 minutes setting up a blanket fort when his niece and nephew come over for a sleepover, then introduces them to the pure awesomeness that is Labyrinth (okay, maybe I also had something to do with that).


All of this is to say: Shit is getting real, February 2014. I think this is happening.