*Below is my response to a ten-minute writing exercise from our February meeting. The prompt: Describe “That Moment.”
My friend Charlene shared hers first. She inspired me to share mine, too.
We were at brunch, just the three of us, a special treat, for sure.
I probably had an omelet with a bagel and cream cheese on the side. I’m sure I had a mimosa or two. I mean, we were at brunch.
Sometime before we got the check, the thought came to me and I knew. Or at least I suspected.
Two weeks before I’d been sick—sick enough to go to Urgent Care where I told the doctor I might be pregnant. Bill and I had been trying.
We’d given ourselves one month to see if it would happen, because then I’d have another summer baby, exactly two years after Jack.
If I didn’t get pregnant, we’d wait until the following year. Try again for another 30 days.
It was a slim window, so we didn’t expect to be successful. Not necessarily. Still, I hoped.
The doctor gave me a test.
Not pregnant. Just the flu.
I took my prescription and thanked her.
We’d try again next year.
But two weeks later, in the middle of brunch—with omelets and bagels and mimosas; with baby Jack gnawing on a fistful of fishy crackers and sipping milk from his lidded cup—I knew.
I said nothing. Everyone else would hear soon enough.
When we got home, Bill went to mow the lawn, and I put Jack down for a nap. In the bathroom, alone, I took an EPT test.
(I still have it. Is that weird? In any case, it’s true.)
Two pink lines.
I put my hands on my stomach, full of omelet and bagel and mimosa.
“My girl,” I thought. “This is my girl.”
And I was right.
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