Four years and two days ago, the Friday evening of Memorial Day Weekend, we had a moment that was at the time, probably the most exciting and terrifying single moment in either Jill’s or my life.
We figured out that I was pregnant.
We’d been trying for 6 months. I was CERTAIN that it hadn’t effing worked again. We’d both had long, frustrating days. We wanted comfort food.
We were living apart, but I was visiting. The place Jill was staying was about a block from an IHOP, so we walked there.
I ordered chocolate chip pancakes with a side of broccoli. I didn’t think that sounded disgusting; I just wanted some vegetables. And some chocolate, and some pancakes. All at the same time.
As we walked back to Jill’s place, she asked me, “Did you say you kept falling asleep yesterday?”
“Yeah….”
“And the day before?”
“Yeah….”
“And you ordered chocolate chip pancakes and broccoli?”
“I told you! I just wanted some vegetables!”
“Are you ABSOLUTELY SURE that it didn’t work this time? When exactly is your period due?”
I paused. I thought. I counted days in my head. I’d had brutal cramps 2 days earlier, but no period. Maybe they weren’t regular cramps. Maybe they were implantation cramps. I was 2 days late.
I was TWO DAYS LATE! And sleeping 12+ hours per day!
Oddly, we didn’t go buy a pregnancy test. We really wanted to be optimistic. We even told the friends we saw the next day the whole “cautiously optimistic” story.
Monday I went and bought a pregnancy test. Afraid of screwing up the results, I bought the kind that says “pregnant” or “not pregnant” and lo, it announced in big digital letters: PREGNANT.
We celebrated today with dinner at IHOP.


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