‘Twas my happy bun day,
You know what I mean…

Today I woke up feeling anxious and nervous. I lay in bed as long as I could and suppressed the need to pee as hard as I could while trying to finish my book, knowing as I did that as soon as I got up I was going to pee on a stick and sit there twitching, waiting for little lines to show up because my hormones might or might not be throwing a little party.

I succeeded in putting it off for twenty minutes, although that may be a generous estimate.

So I got up, knowing that I should be waiting another three days to take the damned test, but I’m just so IMPATIENT and my boobs hurt, and I’m suspicious of sore boobs because they usually don’t hurt, and I have to pee, A LOT, and I’m worried that if I don’t start reading about being pregnant immediately that I’ll do it all wrong, and realized that my book may be the last book I ever read before I know, qualitatively, that I’ve got a bun in the oven.

Holy crap.

So I peed on a stick. I sat there on the loo, totally forgetting that I should set it on a level surface until it cooked itself or whatever it does, my jammies around my ankles, staring at this stick, mesmerized. I realized then that I should read the instructions (perhaps one should read the instructions first, but really, how hard can it be to pee on a stick?), and they told me to put the stick down, so I did. Once it was out of my hands, I thought maybe I shouldn’t stare at it, so I wandered off and did real work for a minute. Just to prove how calm and casual I was. You know, because it’s not that big a deal.

I went back a few minutes later and there was that tell-tale pink line. It was faint, so I thought, “Huh, well, maybe not.” I read the instructions again, and there it was: “Even a faint pink line is a positive result.” Not, “A faint pink line means ‘Maybe’ or ‘Slightly’ pregnant.” Nope. It means there’s a bun.

Now, I know that this is truthfully the most mundane thing in the world. Everyone I know was in fact BORN and not hatched, or fired in a kiln, or molded by the Ford company. But it’s also the most insane, amazing, idiotic thing I’ve ever done. I have to learn how to do all these stupid things, like eat like a grown-up and shop for life insurance, and grow out of my clothes, and find a doctor and/or midwife who won’t be all mushy and wishy-washy, and won’t refer to a pregnancy as “empowering” or “spiritual” and a “journey of discovery.” I have to get comfortable with the idea that my boobs are going to be a lunch counter and that I may be flabby for the rest of my life.

Did I mention that my husband, who did this to me, left town for six weeks yesterday? So I sat there in the bathroom by myself, looking at this pink line, wondering what to do. Should I send him the test? I could FedEx it to him, but then I realized that might be gross. Although romantic. Should I call him and tell him right away? Maybe he would be meeting his new clients right when I called and he would have a heart attack and would lose this very important job. And now more than ever we need the dough. Should I wait a few days, take another test, and then tell him?

Having established that I’m impatient by taking the test days early, we all know what I did. I called him. After I told him and we both freaked out for a while, he said, “I can’t believe that when I think of this moment for the rest of my life, I’ll be in the bathroom.” But I was in the bathroom too! So it was shared experience, right?

I didn’t send him the test, but I did send him a photo of the test, which doesn’t look very impressive, I have to say.

Bun report: Officially three weeks, we all know that it’s really only about 10-12 days. Holy crap! Bun! It’s a pin head, not much else.

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