Naps are a normal part of my routine these days. Heartburn has subsided somewhat, nausea has shifted to a seemingly more manageable experience — occasional moments where the muscles contract and it feels like I might have no power to stop myself from hurling but so far am able to get water or juice in me quickly and that calms it back down.
I’m round. My boobs are bigger, my abdomen has a loose, falling out quality. I’m starting to not fit into some of my pants and skirts. According to the books, my uterus is now the size of a grapefruit. I certainly feel something moving around down there, making space for itself.
We told my parents yesterday. Surprise went off perfectly, as planned. Picked them up from the airport, brought them back to the house. Mom opens her birthday present, she can tell it’s two books, but they’re upside down — in that way that you tape the paper to the back of a present when you wrap it. She flips one over. It’s a book of knitting patterns for making baby clothes.
She looks up at me with the most incredulous face — like a suspicious child who can’t believe something really good is about to happen, and will hurt someone if it doesn’t.
I grin, sheepishly. “Guess what,” I say.
And all of us, Scott, my dad, my mom, and I, burst into laughter and shake and a little bit cry (well my dad, a lot cry) and hug each other and laugh and my mom says, “How far along?” and I say “eight weeks.” And everybody hugs again.
“It’s a miracle,” my dad says.
“How long were you trying?” my mom asks.
I hold up my pointer finger and mouth the words, “One time.”
A few minutes later she admits to me that in that very first moment, when she’d flipped the book over, she’d thought, “What the f**k am I supposed to do with this?”
At lunch, dad explained his shock. He’d thoroughly convinced himself that we weren’t going to have kids — since we were older, it wasn’t ever going to happen. Not that he’d ever ASKED us what our plans were. But he was trying to not put pressure on us, of course.
By 6:00 p.m., they’d settled on what they’d like to be called. Mom will be Nana, and dad will be Pop-Pop.