two of a kind

Back in the days when I was working (with clients other than 36" tall variety), I regularly moved at a pace only now seen if Emily escapes my grip in a parking lot. One day in August 2008 I had an hour to spare in-between appointments and it dawned on me that I was late. Two weeks late. We had been trying to get pregnant for 6 months (this time), but it wasn't happening. I had made an appointment to begin the first stage of fertility treatments and thus had put it out of my mind. I headed to Fred's, one of the few places you could grab a Starbucks, a pregnancy test, and experience a clean bathroom.

If you've ever had a positive test preceeded by several negative ones, you know that the head of R and D at First Response has to be male. It takes the full 3 minutes for the stripe to tell you you're not pregnant. Conversely, it takes exactly 1.5 seconds for a positive result to appear. It's the only time I've ever taken a clothed seat on the throne in a bathroom stall, and also the only time I've been grateful it was available. I didn't know whether to break into the ugly cry, shout 'woopeeeee!' or happy dance. So I did them all, as quietly as I could.

A few moments later I tucked the test back into it's package and safely inside my purse. As I left the stall praying I could drive to my next appointment without getting into an accident, I heard a familiar voice. It was my pastor's wife. With all 3 kiddos in tow. And then another familiar voice. A good friend that worked at the in-store WAMU branch. Lovely. I handed out quick hellos and bum-rushed the door.

I did manage make it to my car without spilling it, where I waited out the remainder of my spare hour to compose myself before heading to my lunch appointment. Ever wish you had a camera crew following you like the Kardashians? Me either. Except at that moment. What a photo op.

I had a moment of clarity in the car and realized it was Friday. The Friday before Labor Day weekend. For someone who had been praying for that second stripe as long as I had, there was no way I was waiting 4 days to confirm via blood test. Enter stage left: best nurse ever. She managed to squeeze me in to the lab that afternoon, rush the results to my OBGYN and call me with the news before the lab closed at 3p. I'd never been so excited to see the sharp end of a needle. I even got a Hello Kitty band-aid from the lab tech.
My pregnancy was great; I had never felt better. Other than some nausea in the first 2 months, that Mary Poppins clown had nothing on me. Then the kicks began, as evidenced by this post in February 2009. I had two outstanding baby showers and wham! baby Emily came into our lives.


Fast forward (I'm talking the super-fast fast forward button with 3 arrows) two years and here we are. May 2011. 20 weeks pregnant. Up until yesterday, my pregnancies had been mimicking one another. A little nausea the first couple of months. Carrying it in front. Feeling great. Craving the occasional Outback bacon cheese fries and gallon of Tillamook Strawberry ice cream. So why did I keep finding myself calling the baby 'he'?

Yesterday, in similar fashion to what we did the first time around, we planned a date night and ventured out for a little delayed gratification. Our ultrasound and check-up appointment was at 3:20p, dinner reservations at 5:30. The ultrasound tech hid the photos that showed the baby's gender and my Dr. bit her lip. After receiving news I was carrying a super-healthy baby we headed out for El Gaucho, one of our favorite Portland restaurants. The top-secret results made it to the maitre-d's hand still rolled up tight, in a bag with 2 bibs we had found in Hawaii the week prior: one pink, one blue. Instructions were for her to read the results, wrap up the corresponding baby bib and lay it on us after dinner.


Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if the hostess hadn't greeted us already knowing the purpose of our visit. Or if the manager hadn't stopped by to congratulate us and say how excited he was for us (twice). Or if two servers in addition to ours hadn't managed to wiggle in for our tableside service to chat up the nervous parents. By the time our server (whose name was Emily) brought the fruit and cheese plate at the end of our meal I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. I threatened David with the idea of waiting until the birth, upon which time he grabbed the bag off the table and gave me the look.

It was a BOY. A real, live male to bring his G.I. Joes to Em's tea and dress-up parties. I knew he was a boy! I knew it. I didn't get that feeling with Em, but weeks ago I just knew it was a boy. Thank God we were on vacation at 18 weeks and had to wait until now for the ultrasound, because there is n-o mistaking the difference between our first baby's ultrasound and this one.

the restaurant even threw in a cigar with an 'it's a boy!' wrap


high five to the 'rents

yanking the food bell

sucking the thumb
As you can see, he put on quite a show during the ultrasound. It took the tech 10-15 minutes of poking and prodding to get him to stop yanking the 'food bell' (aka umbilical cord) long enough to get a clear shot of his heart.

ethan michael  ::  due to arrive september 23, 2011