The discovery

Two weeks after moving back to the US after a three-year stint in London, before we were even out of our temporary housing, we found out we were pregnant. Actually, I found out first. On a whim, I bought a pregnancy test while Andrew was away on business for a few days. I never dreamed that I was actually pregnant, but something made me want to try anyway. I have never been so shocked as when I looked at that thing and saw the little plus sign. I looked at the instructions a million times to make sure it was right. I took the other test the next morning, and then I went out and bought another two-pack when it was positive, as well. News as important as this wasn’t meant to be conveyed over the phone, so I had to wait three days for Andrew to get home before I could tell him. I asked him to sit down; I was shaking so hard. I told him I had something to tell him.

“You’re pregnant,” he said nonchalantly without even looking at me as he was opening a piece of mail.

“Yes,” I replied nervously. His eyes shot up at me.

“What? … What?! … You’re pregnant?! Oh, my God. We’re going to have a baby? We’re going to have a baby!” (I just kept nodding my head through this.)

We figured out that the pregnancy was a result of our month-long drive through Europe and desperately tried to guess the due date. Andrew, whose birthday was the day before I took the pregnancy test, said it was the best birthday present he’d ever received.