*Note: This blog post was written in June, but I waited until now to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed telling the tale.

It started out like any other Thursday morning.

I got up. I wrote in my gratitude journal (ok, fine, I don’t do that every day, but I try to do it most days). I brushed my teeth. I had my morning lemon water. I checked my emails.

But instead of putting on my workout clothes and heading out into the trails for a run, I hit the showers, got dressed in normal-people clothes (aka clothes without lycra in them), got in my mini and drove over the hill for an early morning appointment.

I pulled into the parking structure, got out of the car, and mosied on over to the building.

“Where is building B?” I asked the valet parking dude.

He pointed me to the right, and off I went. Up the elevator I rose to area 347 where I was told to register.

“You’re here to see Emma?” the receptionist, Michelle, asked me as I stood in front of her after checking in.

“Yes,” I said with a smile.

“Congratulations!” she said, presumably to me. I looked behind me, expecting to see her directing the sentiment at someone else, but then it hit me:

She was talking to me.

“Oh!” I said with a nervous giggle, “Thank you!?”

Tears filled my eyes as I started to come to grips with the reason I was here in the first place. I hadn’t allowed myself to get attached to it quite yet (or at all).

Two weeks ago, I was in Peru. It was the last day of a 10 day retreat with my husband and 11 other wonderful people, and Ted and I were celebrating because I hadn’t had any stomach troubles. None. And that’s not like me. I fully expected an upset stomach for the entirety of the trip, but to Ted’s and my delight (and surprise), I had none (it must have been the oregano oil I took every day. That stuff will kill anything!). Feeling cocky, I decided to test the boundaries of my tummy on that final night of our stay (you can probably guess that this isn’t going to end well). The concierge had sent a cheese plate to our room as a thank you for staying there two years in a row, and – feeling hungry – I went to town. This probably wasn’t the smartest thing, given that – as someone who is 95% vegan – I rarely eat cheese anymore (not to mention the fact that Peruvians don’t refrigerate their cheese. Ever. It’s like a haven for bacteria. I knew this going into it. I don’t always make the best choices. I’m working on that.).

At two o’clock in the morning, my stomach staged its inevitable revolt. What ensued was sixteen hours of agony (I will spare you the details), just in time for our thirty-six hour journey through three cities, three countries, and three plane rides home.

De-lightful.

By the time we got back to Malibu a day later, I was spent, to say the least. All I could stomach was bread and crackers, and my smelly self wanted (and needed) a nice, long shower.

Through the trauma of the effects of the cheese plate (oh, the horror), I barely remembered that I was two weeks late (you know, the kind of late that typically makes women panic if they’re not quite in child bearing years yet). Being late was nothing new for me, but since I had a pregnancy test from almost a decade ago (don’t ask), I decided to use it, just for good measure. And two weeks was a bit much, even for me.

Expecting to see a negative sign, I froze when the sign turned to a plus, or rather something resembling a plus. I swear time stopped (and I’m pretty sure my heart did too).

“Huh?” I thought to myself as I held the stick up in front of my face when I could think again, “Well, maybe it’s just because it’s so old!” I reasoned with myself. And besides, it wasn’t really a plus. It was more like a vertical line with a very thin horizontal line across the middle that you had to squint to see. So….not a plus? But definitely not a negative either.

Hm…

I slowly put the stick down and let the gravity of what had just transpired sink in. I took my shower. I got dressed. I went downstairs. I found Ted in the garage, and told him not to get too excited, because it could be wrong. Then I showed him the thing that I had seen only 30 minutes before.

“Wow,” he said with a smile.

I reminded him again that it could be wrong (and he agreed that it wasn’t a clear plus). I would wait another few days to see if I got my period, and then take another test if I didn’t. A brand new one. One that wasn’t from the dark ages!

You have to understand – I was once told that it may not be possible for me to have children. My OBGYN at the time wasn’t sure (and, in fact, her tone and face suggested that she was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to conceive), but she said I wouldn’t know until I tried. I was 21 at the time, and had no intention of trying anytime soon. And I didn’t try until a few months ago, at 32. Obviously, my OBGYN’s comment stayed with me through my 20s, and I think I kind of assumed that my destiny didn’t involve bearing my own children. So perhaps now you can understand why I was skeptical about the sketchy plus sign. It’s like I had spent the last 11 years coming to terms with the fact that I may never get to experience motherhood, and I had somehow found a way to be ok with it. Ted and I would still try, of course, but I would leave it to the gods and the universe and the fairies and all that jazz to decide if I was going to be one of the lucky ones.

Apparently, the universe had spoken (and the fairies too).

For the following four days after taking the initial pregnancy test, my symptoms were aligned with all the makings of a parasite contracted from eating contaminated cheese in Peru (nausea, sensitivity to smells because of the nausea, etc.).

They also happened to be consistent with that of pregnancy.

Interesting, but still, inconclusive, as far as I was concerned.

When my period hadn’t come a few days later, I bought another test, peed on the stick again, and found myself staring at the same ambiguous “plus” sign that had greeted me only a few days prior.

And now here I was. In the OBGYN section of Kaiser Permanente in Woodland Hills, being congratulated by my new friend and receptionist, Michelle.

This was starting to feel real. I was starting to feel like I was the main character in this story. But I still held back from identifying with her completely. I had to be sure.

When I went into the nurse’s office, she also congratulated me.

“Hang on a minute!” I said to the nurse, “I took two at home pregnancy tests. That’s enough to confirm? You don’t even need to do a blood test or anything?”

“Those kits are pretty accurate,” the nurse told me, “But I can do another test if you want me to.”

“Yes please,” I replied to the nurse gratefully (I’m sure she thought I was a nut job. I’m pretty sure she shook her head at me too). I had to be sure. I never thought I would be able to mother a child, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my heart.

The nurse came back 5 minutes later and confirmed what the initial shady plus sign had been trying to tell me: third time’s the charm. Congratulations: you’re pregnant.

I’m pregnant?

Holy shit.

Those were the only words I had! I know – it’s not very poetic. But it’s the truth.

I am going to be a mom.

I am going to be a mom?

Yup, I am going to be a mom. Sometime around February 8, 2016, to be exact. And Ted’s going to be a dad. A great one, at that.

That day, my life changed. And I’m quite sure it will never be the same again.

And now you know. Now you know the secret I’ve was carrying around with me since Sunday June 14, the one that was confirmed at 9am the morning of Friday June 26th in the OBGYN office at Kaiser Permanente.

I’m now 4 months along, and starting to show. I’ve grown pornstar worthy boobs overnight (you can’t miss them, so I might as well talk about them). I’m moody (poor Ted). I’m hormonal (I’ve never cried so much in my life, and you know I don’t cry). I’ve craved everything from truffle fries to fruit loops to entire tubs of ice cream (ok, the ice cream part isn’t new, but the fries and fruits loops haven’t played a role in my life since I was 12. Ok, maybe 19.). I’ve added eggs back into my diet despite being grossed out by them just 4 months ago. I’ve been so fatigued that I’ve had to take naps every afternoon since I found out (and I don’t nap). And every day, my body is changing in ways I’ve never experienced before. It’s all very scary, but it’s mostly exciting.

And through the changes, and the having to accept the new parts of my body that are growing in ways that seem to challenge my self esteem, the most important question I have is this:

Will I be a good mom?

I don’t know. I certainly hope so. I certainly plan to be. But I don’t know. I vow to be my child’s teacher for the first 18 years of his or her life (and forever), but who knows? Maybe this child will be born to be mine.

There are so many questions, so many unknowns. And I’m sure I will figure them out along the way (though I’m equally sure that some of them will remain a mystery, and I will have to be ok with that).

But there is one thing I know for sure:

This child will be loved. Not just by me. Not just by Ted. And not just by our family. But also, by our friends. Because we not only have the best family in the world, but we also have the best friends in the world.

Ted and I have made it a point to surround ourselves with love, and because of that, our child will always be loved, no matter what. And as far as I’m concerned, that is what matters most.

We look forward to introducing him or her to the world sometime before Cupid draws back his bow and let’s his arrow go into the hearts of all who seek him out next February.

Until then, we wait. We plan. We fret. We grow. We spend money on new contraptions we’ve never heard of before (diaper genie?). And we open up our hearts just a little wider, wide enough to get ready to give the love we know this child deserves. It will undoubtedly be the greatest love we will ever give.

Love, love, love,

Lauren, Ted & baby McDonald
xoxo