Because sometimes life is funny and G-d is a real clown, on the morning we elected to come clean to the family about our two-year struggle with infertility, I took a way-too-early home pregnancy test. It was positive.
So we Projected Progenitors drove to the clinic demanding an early blood test. Too early to be meaningful, we were told. A kindly nurse acquiesced only so far as a progesterone count which, she informed me, was quite high. A good sign. But still. Come back on Monday.
That afternoon, the infertility turned maybe-pregnancy-after-infertility announcement was enough to make an Aspiring Bubbie scream and Would-Be Zeidy cry. We explained how there were no real guarantees we were a) actually pregnant and b) that, if we were, we’d get our take-home baby from the deal. (They told us otherwise. We were. And we would.) We told them we’d be grateful to know a pregnancy was even possible. (They told us it was.) We’d celebrate the baby later. (They’d celebrate immediately, don’t mind them. And we didn’t.) We needed them to understand that regardless of whether this journey ends with a biological baby, a kid from Kenya or a bungalow fit for two on the beach of Kauai’s North Shore, we had just achieved the little peace we didn’t think possible and we wanted them to be happy for us. (They were. They really, really were.)
That night, there was an epic thunderstorm. We lost power just long enough to put on an intramuscular injection sideshow-by-flashlight for an intrigued (and maybe slightly horrified) set of Projected Pop’s ‘rents. A shot in the dark. Just like our kid.
Fast-forward to Monday and three additional now-bright-blue pee sticks and a long-awaited beta later: We’re knocked up. This still-early blood test reveals HCG is at double the usual count. We think to that consent form we signed on the day of transfer: We hereby promise not to phone the fertility clinic to complain when, at 3:00am, our twins are crying in stereo. We promise not to sue for emotional distress when, following months worth of sleepless nights, one of them has a diaper explosion which soils a brand new dress. In fact, we promise to sit down and write a thank you note instead because, in either event, we’d have gotten just exactly what we want out of this deal.
It’s all a little (strike that, a lot) surreal. Excitement muted for the two years which made us wise.
I might be somebody’s mother soon. Maybe even two somebodies.