Two Little Blue Lines
A short story about the week my baby journey began
It’s October, 2019, and I’m just buzzing along, doing my daily Montreal routine—wake up, drink coffee, write articles, make dinner for Hubs, log an hour on the treadmill, shower, rinse, repeat. And then one morning, Halloween to be exact, I realize something’s off: It’s been about a week since my monthly frenemy was supposed to pay me a visit. What if I’m…? I’m probably not—my cycles haven’t been super regular lately and I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more—but that’d be really cool if I was.
The past year has been somewhat of a whirlwind, considering the big life shift from freelance writer in Hawaii with a long-distance lover in Tahiti, to a state of domestic bliss (umm, I’d like to have a conversation with whoever coined that phrase) in Canada. Just a year ago, I was living a highly unscripted life atypical of 40ish-year-olds, my time split between beach snorkeling, training jiu-jitsu, gym workouts, extended summers in Tahiti, and writing magazine articles. One year ago, I was deconstructing my Hawaii life, giving away nearly everything I’d acquired over the past decade (sans two bags’ worth) and getting ready to move to Montreal to start a new life with my Tahiti sweetie. We’d met in July of 2016, two years and two months to the day of a long-sought sobriety that finally stuck—in my mind, living proof that the promises of sobriety aren’t just promises, and that dating apps really work to widen the proverbial romantic fishing net.
Over the past 12 months, Big T and I have tackled our rather sizable relationship learning curve with a whole lot of passion—sometimes gracefully, sometimes not—and we’d come a really long way. Just days ago we had received our “common law marriage” paperwork—officially recognized by the province of Quebec as a legitimate couple with benefits—and were having fun trying out the new “husband” and “wife” labels on each other. Yup, if there was ever a good time to have a baby, it’d be now. But back to being late… I’m 44, so it’s probably just a getting older thing, I think to myself.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I go out for a triple shot of espresso and a pregnancy test. I’d peed on a stick three other discouraging times. We’d been using an app to track ovulation, and had done our best to schedule “sexy time” accordingly, though my fertility profile remained a huge question mark. I’d had a handful of conversations over the last year with my mom touching on the fact that it’d be a good time for a wee one now, me always gently tiptoeing around the subject of my “advanced age” and her always quick with a “honey, age is nothing, it’ll happen when it happens.” In truth, I never let myself actually play out the scenario of not being able to conceive, but it was always looming in the corners of my worrisome brain. But today would put an end to those black-cloud doubts.
Rip, fumble, pee, fidget, wait. Four or five forever-minutes pretending to clean the kitchen because of that whole “watched pot never boils” thing and I’m back in the bathroom blinking in awe at the two little blue lines staring back at me. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I repeat out loud as tears start to come. I take a deep breath and dial. “Mom!” I say, sort of cry-talking, “I took a pregnancy test and it says I’m pregnant! I think I’m pregnant!”
“Calm down, are you sure? Where did you get the test?”
“Dollar Store.”
“Ah, ok, let’s not get excited just yet. Go to the pharmacy and buy a real one.”
Expensive test number two confirms discount test number one.
Redial: “Mom, it’s positive. I’m gonna have a baby!”
Practical Mom: “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Call a doctor and go get a blood test.”
I had to wait two excruciating days for the results to come in, and even then, I got simply an email with a bunch of numbers on it. I Google a bit and surmised that the hCg levels were consistent with a 5-week-old baby. But this was my first rodeo and I had no idea what I was doing. I head back to the clinic to find someone to tell me whether or not I was with child. The docs were gone for the day, so the empathetic receptionist, picking up on the fact that I likely was not going anywhere without an answer, gives me a “hold on” and disappears down the dark hallway. She reappears and asks me to follow her into a room. I’m in luck, she says—there’s a lone gynecologist finishing up some paperwork who agreed to read my fate and confirmed that I was indeed with child. I exhale and save my happy tears for later. Jesus, that was a long couple of days.
Since the morning of the home tests, I had to keep the secret, because I didn’t want to get the Big Guy all excited for nothing. Having this planet of potentially life-changing news altering all of my molecules was a challenge, especially since I’ve never been good at keeping things from people I love. But I also thought of these two days as a special time where me and the tiny nugget growing inside me could bond.
Right from the definitive “yes” at the clinic, I walk over to a children’s clothing store, buy a sweet little onesie and wrap it for Papa. I text him to suggest we go out for a nice dinner at the fancy restaurant in the hotel where he works, then put on my best little black dress and walk to the hotel with the gift tucked under my arm. Since he has to wear a suit to work every day, we look like a couple out to celebrate something big, and I’m beaming. While waiting for a table, we take a seat on a few elevated chairs at the bar. I get a top-shelf whisky in his hand and some sort of virgin mojito for me, and plant my present on him with a mile-wide grin.
“What does this mean?” he says, holding up the tiny garment, already knowing what this means.
“You’re going to be a daddy,” I say.
“REALLY?” This rarely emotional, 6’2", 300-lb Tahitian lunges his body sideways to close the distance between our chairs, puts his arm around my shoulder and presses his forehead deep into mine. This man whom I’ve seen cry exactly once lets the tears go, right there in the middle of a busy restaurant. Everyone in the room disappears and for one beautiful, perfect moment, it’s just the three of us.
This is gonna be fun.
