Gestation, Station
Well, the secret is out, yours truly is knocked up. With child. Gestating.
Holy smokes.
Let's rewind, shall we?
Mark and I agreed (with varying timelines) that I'd stop taking birth control after my
first marathon
, so I did, and in doing so my menstrual cycle stopped. Completely. For seventy three days. Which was deeply concerning, I could run 50 miles a week with no cycle issues, yet stopping the pill caused more trouble than distance running ever has. So amid a doctor visit (everything was normal and is common when going off birth control so I'm told), educating myself on all that is ovulation/fertility/
trying to conceive
and trying not to freak the eff out (too much), we trudged forward, and even began planning our next vacation abroad. So technically no, I was not surprised I was pregnant since I'd been tracking my period/ovulation for the last six months. Daily. Yet I was completely gobsmacked when it became a reality, if that makes any sense.
I knew my period was coming, so the morning I was suppose to start I tested, like I'd done for six months prior in vain (and amid tears if I'm being completely honest), only to get a glowing positive seconds later. My initial response? Euphoria. Then shock, back to euphoria, and so on. And, because I was convinced my body was playing a cruel joke, I re-tested the next day, just to be sure.
Yep, pregnant!
That week was full of social engagements in addition to the visits of not one, but two(!) of our siblings, so I decided not to tell Mark until the following weekend, hiding behind my career being on call when asked why I wasn't indulging in cocktails. And for the first few days, Mark didn't bat an eye. Halfway through the week he went on a diatribe on "how he knows I was about to start my period (apparently I was, ahem, cranky)" and, because I behave like a child, had a fleeting moment to wipe the smug look from his face and spill the beans. But I didn't because I had how I was going to tell him all planned out and was dying for it to go according to plan.
Spoiler alert, it did not.
Saturday as we were getting ready to go out for the evening Mark asked (again!) if I started my cycle, which took me totally by surprise. He can't change an empty roll of toilet paper or throw away a t-shirt riddled with gaping holes to save his life, but he remembered my cycle was 24 days long? Seriously?! So I cease curling my hair, walk into our bedroom, retrieve his card, return and half hand/half toss it at him while saying something along the lines of, "way to ruin my meticulously planned surprise, and congrats."
Wife of the year folks.
He, thankfully was still surprised and (obviously) elated with the news, adding that I'd been acting "weird" all week and he noticed the glass above the toilet with tampons remained untouched and had a hint something was going on. Which now has me convinced(!) he is not blind, as I once thought, and expect him to take out the trash, before it spills onto the floor...
That past twelve weeks have been wholly humbling, and I am constantly reminded of how I'm
not
in control (which pains a type A like me). Fatigue is real and so strong I could barely keep my eyes open past 5:30 (pm), and snuck many a naps in my car. And morning sickness? I would love to locate the individual who coined the term and physically fight them, if that gives you a hint.
We are incredibly blessed and sincerely grateful to be embarking on this new chapter, and are besides ourselves excited -- its still surreal to think come March we will be, parents!