Oh Shit.

The first sign was the heartburn. Every evening after dinner, I popped antacids two at a time to quell the fire climbing my throat. Babydaddy asked about the date of my last period, which was decidedly late. The stress of my sister’s upcoming wedding was surely to blame. Between acting as a “mom buffer”, to protect the bride from a maternal insanity of epic proportions, and planning a shower and stagette, I wasn’t surprised that my cycle was off.

Next came the suspiciously accurate sense of smell. Babydaddy gave me a kiss when I came home from work and the trace of pickle on his lips was overwhelming. After being intimate, the smell of my beloved’s fluids wafted right to my nose, prompting him to state, matter-of-factly, that I must be pregnant. Not in this uterus.

The wedding approached, Babydaddy pushed me to take a pregnancy test. Fine, but I’m not pregnant, I said. I peed on the stick, placed it on the side of the tub and returned to the living room to wait out the three minutes. I don’t remember what we talked about. Babydaddy decided it was time to check the test. You look at it, because I’m not pregnant, I insisted. A deafening silence emanated from the bathroom, followed by a “Honey…there’s two lines.”

I panicked. I cried. He had to go for a drive, returning some forty-five minutes later with four pregnancy tests and a box of chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches. I took another test in the morning. And yet another in the afternoon. Yes, I was definitely knocked up.

Oh shit.