Cub

It was a long Saturday night of microbrews and booty drops.  I made artichokes for friends somewhere in the middle, before the dance party and knee deep into the booze party.

I woke up that Sunday morning waiting for something that never came.  When by mid-morning it still didn’t show up, I got a little nervous.  The knower inside of me just knew.  The test said yes.  Four tests later, I believed it.  I looked down at my stack of yesses and was overwhelmed.  And although it was what I had been hoping for, what we had been hoping for, I didn’t have the reaction that I’d seen on movies.  The ones where the women drip with reproductive purpose and erupt in joy and tears when they discover they’re pregnant.  Not me.  It was more like holy-fucking-shit-that-happened-faster-than-I-expected.  More like quiet shock.  Or stunned silence.

Your Daddy was gone for the weekend and wasn’t due home for hours.  I had the whole day to simmer in the knowledge that everything (everything) was going to change.  The taste of you grew sweeter and sweeter as the day went on.  I scampered to the cute knickknack store five blocks away and bought a knockout onesie.  I walked back home, wrapped it up in pretty paper for your Daddy to open, put together a delicious dinner to honor you, and spent the afternoon googling every question I’d ever had about getting knocked up.  I liked having you all to myself for the day.

He opened it as we sat down for dinner.  A few moments of stunned silence later, he snatched me up and held me tight.  For a long time.  Just like he did right after the Judge said we were husband and wife on our wedding day.  (That’s what he does when he’s  having a secret tear about something).

I cried.  We talked.  We ate.  To-do lists formed in our heads.  Sometime that night we started calling you Cub.  It was dumb, but cute.

And that’s the day we found out about you.