Written July 31, 2012
Saturday mornings have become my favorite time of the week. They generally begin with a 7:30 wakeup, followed by a quick cup of coffee and a long run. Saturday, July 28th, was no different. Pleasantly overcast, the day promised a vibrant run where I could lose myself in thought and enjoy the music in my ears, the world passing by.
Well, the day lied. A miserable six miles later I returned home, a side full of cramps and my lungs on fire. Greeted by the handsome husband, I reported the misery that was my Saturday morning tradition, poured myself a cup of coffee and relaxed, grateful to have the run behind me.
We had big plans for the day: a 9 mile bike ride on the rusty clunkers to a BBQ at our friends’ house, both to celebrate the summer and to celebrate our friend’s newly earned American citizenship. It promised to be a pleasantly social Saturday, something that is a rarity for us in our new world in Boston. We were excited!
I’m not sure what provoked it, but I decided to take a test, you know, just to make sure. Well…what came next was not the reassurance I expected.
Babe? Umm…I might be pregnant.
And there we were: me shaking, lost in a million thoughts of what those words could mean; him, smiling from ear to ear, the only word of response, what?!
We pondered for five minutes. I chugged a pint of water. Took another test. Confirmed the first test.
Oh God. Oh God.
Well, you still want to ride bikes to the barbeque?
So away we went…to the BBQ with the biggest secret of our lives.