There’s a post on being a difficult knock up (DKU). Another day.

I’m also planning on answering the rest of your questions. When I feel like it.

But today – today is pee on a stick day. For those of us who have done it way too many times to count, POAS. You’re welcome for the addition to your vocabulary.

When you’re a DKU every day has a number. You know the exact numbered day when you can POAS and expect a reasonable result. Some of us do it sooner because we obsess.

I might have this tendency.

And so we find me shortly before Christmas, scurrying around to make a flight, late as usual, my ride on his way, my bags not quite packed. I’d been to the office that morning, stayed to finish “just one more thing” which, of course, turned into three. But on the way home I stopped to pick up those silly sticks. I would POAS the next day, the first reasonable number. Likely not to get good news, but in the presence of my husband, and hoping for better if I just wait for a more reasonable number. So I bought the three pack. Fully aware that the first was likely to be wasted, POAS too soon. A few more days and maybe the news would be good. Maybe this month we had it figured out. Maybe.

My ride is nearly in the driveway when I throw the bags next to the door and head back for one more trip to the restroom. Airport bathrooms? No thanks. I eye the package sticking out of my purse. Cue internal monologue:

“Don’t be STUPID. It is beyond too early.”

“You have an extra.”

“You have NO. TIME. Ride is in the driveway, you couldn’t even check the result! You are so dumb! D.U.M.B.”

Aaaaaaaaand cut to me opening a package.

I throw my bags out at my ride and run back in to grab the stick off the counter and toss it back in its package and into my purse.

But there’s a line.

A faint one.

But there’s a line.

How can there be a line?

You’re going to miss your flight, run!

And then it’s a whirlwind of ride to the airport, check in, long security line, dash to the gate and full flight next to strange men. All of this equals not another single chance to stare at that stick.

There couldn’t have been a line.

It’s too early. It wasn’t first thing in the morning.

Exit airplane and head to bathroom. Sit in stall and stare at faint little line. Know it’s really a line.

Cry.

Wish it was Joel’s line.

Apologize to baby.  Promise to love this baby as much as him. Wish it was him again. Guilt cycle continues. I love you so much in your own right, baby. I promise. I still just miss your brother. A lot.

Stare at line.

Tell God he’s as crazy as us. But THANK YOU.

Get in car and hug husband, drive a few minutes and he asks.

Tell him it’s too soon to know.

But yes.

Husband squeals and tears up.

Pretty sure he engages in similar guilt cycle.

Drive on in dazed delirium.

Thank God again.

Drive on.