The only thing my second experience getting pregnant has in common with my first experience getting pregnant is the fact that I ended up pregnant.
Hoping for kids somewhere in the vicinity of two years apart, we started trying to get pregnant a few months before Ezra’s first birthday. We figured we had a two-year slog ahead of us. We figured we needed to put in our time before ponying up for all that expensive fertility treatment, not covered by my new insurance. I heaved heavy sighs as I dug out my basal temperature thermometer and printed off some charts, expecting months of tedious and crushing disappointment.
That incredibly common, almost stereotypical experience of women of childbearing years — my period was late, so I took a pregnancy test — had never happened to me before in my life.
It was a late afternoon, and I brought it out to the kitchen where Ezra was playing so we could all look at it together.
After two minutes of drumming our fingers on the counter nervously, Sandy pulled it out of the wrapper, and even though I kind of knew, had maybe kinda sorta seen that line starting to form as I held the test in my hand, knew that my period wasn’t coming, knew that we’d timed everything right to conceive — even so, I gasped, put my hands over my face, and whirled around as if I’d been pushed.
That line was dark blue. No hazy, watery, maybe-it’s-a-line this time. No running out to the fertility lab for blood tests and early ultrasounds. No injectable medications, no doctors, no lab technicians, no twenty months of heartbreaking failures. Just a plain old-fashioned positive pregnancy test. Crazy.