A little over three months ago, I started a part-time job. At the time, Dustin and I had been trying for the better part of a year to get pregnant. For some reason, I didn't think there was physically anything wrong with either of us. I guess my intuition let me know it was more about timing than anything else.
I decided to work again because I felt like there was a specific reason why I wasn't getting pregnant. The most obvious being finances. Maybe we needed to get a bit more into our savings account before another little one could join our family? Or, something like that.
A month after I started my job, I was asked about a promotion. I still had a lot to learn about the job responsibilities, and if I accepted the promotion I wouldn't have been promoted right away but rather trained for a few months until I was really ready.
I talked to my husband about it. This new job would mean working full-time and putting Isabelle into daycare. I have nothing against daycare until the majority of my paycheck goes to pay for it, making my job somewhat pointless.
At the end of the day, I just couldn't feel right about. But I didn't necessarily feel like it was the wrong thing to do either. I chalked up my feelings to perhaps being nervous about being promoted or feeling like things were moving too fast.
I told my managers that I was interested in the promotion, hoping if I moved forward with things I'd get a clear answer of, "Yes, this is the right thing." Or, "No, don't accept the job offer." But, again, I continued to feel hopelessly confused. There didn't seem to be a clear, cut and dry solution to my dilemma.
Then, one day, I had this thought:
Try one more month to get pregnant. If it doesn't work, you'll know you should take the job.
It was a very clear and distinct thought, one that I believe to be an answer to my prayers. I told Dustin about the impression I had been given, and he agreed to try for one more month. I warned him that I felt very strongly about this and to prepare for me to finally get pregnant. But, honestly, in the back of my mind I didn't think it would happen.
In early June, a few days before my period was expected to begin, I thought I saw a little pink on my toilet paper. My heart sank. I wasn't pregnant. It was nighttime, so as I climbed into bed I began to sob. It was the first time I had ever become emotional during the entire time we were trying. Dustin held me in his arms as I cried, feeling more confused than ever.
But then something weird happened. My period didn't really start. To make things more complicated, I needed to make some changes to my seizure medication, and didn't want to if I was pregnant. So, against my better judgement, I took a pregnancy test. It was still a day or two before my period was actually suppose to start. The test looked weird, but it was negative. It certainly didn't look positive.
I spent the next week on edge, waiting for the dang thing to start. After all, the test had been negative and I had started to sort of spot days earlier.
Finally, 9 days after my missed period, which just so happened to be on Father's Day, I took another test. I felt stupid doing so, but I just had to know for certain one way or the other.
And, holy cow, the test was positive!
Now, a little over a month later, I continue to be in awe about our little adventure. I'm not completely sure why things happened the way they did. Maybe I'll know when the baby is here. Maybe I'll never know. In the end, it doesn't really matter.
...
I'm 11 weeks today. This pregnancy is kicking my butt. I feel sick all the time. The summer heat makes everything worse. We spend most of our time inside because I have no energy to go out and do anything. Food is my worst enemy. Work is no longer fun. I long to always be at home resting. I miss my beloved Dr. Pepper.
But, it's totally worth it.
