After I saw the faintest of pink lines, I smiled to myself and went to sleep. I did not tell Abe. Partly because it didn't feel real yet. The other reason was that we were getting up in the morning to travel to be with 26 of his closest family members for Passover, and so help me if they are the first people to know because he's too excited to keep a secret.
This plan worked well until about 7:30 in the morning when I was standing in the security line at the airport, staring at the full-body scanner. I know they say it's safe, but I also know that I've spent the last 7 years of my life working in research, and I don't know for sure whether they've done long-term studies.
I hopped on one foot to another. I didn't know what I was going to do. It would certainly be suspicious to refuse the scanner and ask for a pat down at this point in our marriage. But fate smiled at me and a metal detector line opened up as soon as I dropped my bag on the conveyor belt. (Interestingly enough, it was the only time I went through a metal detector while pregnant. At every other instance, mostly at concerts and the like, they've pulled me out of the line and ushered me to the other side, which totally reinforces my decision to skip the full-body scanner.)
And then the plan finally went to shit that same day at 4:00 pm. I went to the bathroom and saw some light, very light, spotting. Aww no, I had been pregnant for less than 24 hours. I texted a coworker and she said it could be one of three things: a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage, or implantation spotting. Two of the three did not result in babies. I was stuck at his family's house and could no longer sneak around. My choice was to drive myself crazy or I could trust my husband and use him for support.
He was outside playing baseball in the street with his cousins. "I need to go to Target," I said,
"Sure, What do you need?" he smiled.
"Um. A pregnancy test."
His smile vanished, "Okay. Let's go."
In the car I explained the last day to him, including the 2-out-of-3 chance that I'm not pregnant after all. At Target, I looked for the tests my coworker told me to buy, the ones that are sensitive before a missed period. The exact kind escapes me now, but I remember her telling me to get the ones with the pink lines, not the blue lines.
I hemmed and hawed at the selection. "This one is $1.19 and it has pink lines," I said.
"Oh for god's sake, please don't scrimp now. I will buy the most expensive test there is," Abraham exclaimed exasperated. It was cute.
I picked a box that contained two for $7.00, and then impulsively plucked a flower for a dog collar off the clearance rack. "For the dog," I said.
Those tests came back positive too. "If you tell your family," I threatened, "I will leave you here in New Jersey."
So Abraham spent the night covertly drinking my wine during the Seder dinner. I think he enjoyed being in on the secret.
The next day we were sitting at an Italian cafe in New York City. My doctor's office finally called me back. "He doesn't see pregnant patients until they are 7.5 weeks along. You are 3 weeks and 6 days," she told me. A whole another month away.
So we never got to celebrate. We went from the scare to not even getting medical confirmation for a solid month.But I am glad I told him when I did. What's the point of being married to someone and knocked up with his baby if you can't even trust him to tell him? I guess that's my first advice to my unborn child: marry someone who will lessen your problems, not add to them.With Abraham, I can tell him anything and he listens and tries to carry some of my burden. He's a wonderful person, and I know he's going to be a great dad.
Me? I'm still neurotic.