So many pregnancy tests.
I grab five boxes. Five. Because apparently, I need confirmation from five different manufacturers that my life is about to completely change.
At the register, the teenage cashier perks up when she sees my purchases.
"Oh my gosh, are you pregnant?" she asks, her voice carrying across the entire store.
"Shh!" I glance around frantically. The elderly woman is now very interested in our conversation.
"Sorry," the cashier stage-whispers. "But this is so exciting! My sister just had a baby—actually, she had twins! She knew right away because she was SO sick. Like, all day every day. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine."
"She couldn't keep anything down except crackers and ginger ale. And ice cream and pickles! She ate so many pickles. Do you like pickles?"
I stare at her. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because twins run in families! And if you're buying five tests, you must really want to be sure. That's what my sister did. She took like eight tests because she couldn't believe it."
"I'm not having twins." I’m probably not even pregnant because I’ve had zero ice cream. Makes complete sense.
"That's what my sister said!" The cashier scans the tests with enthusiasm that should probably be illegal. "And then—boom—two babies. The ultrasound tech was like, 'Surprise!' My sister cried for an hour."
"That's terrifying."
"Right? But also kind of cool. I'm an aunt times two!" She bags the tests with more force than necessary. "That'll be forty-two dollars and eighteen cents."
I pay in cash, grab the bag, and practically run to the bathroom at the back of the pharmacy.
The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. I lock myself in the single-stall bathroom and lean against the door, clutching five pregnancy tests like they're grenades about to explode.
This is it. This is the moment that either confirms my suspicions or proves I'm just stressed and paranoid and really need to stop googling symptoms at work.
My hands shake as I open the first box. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.
The instructions are all basically the same. Pee on stick. Wait three minutes. Blue line means pregnant. Pink line means pregnant. Plus sign means pregnant. The word "PREGNANT" in digital letters means pregnant.
I really wish there was more variety in the messaging.
Five tests later, I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with my back against the wall, watching the results develop on the toilet tank like I'm waiting for a bomb to detonate.
Test one: Blue line appears. Pregnant.
Test two: Pink line. Pregnant.
Test three: Plus sign. Pregnant.
Test four: Another plus sign. Very pregnant.
Test five: The digital one with the actual word. PREGNANT. 3+ weeks.
I stare at them lined up in a neat row. Five positive tests. Five confirmations that everything I suspected is true.
I'm pregnant.
Miles and I never discussed kids. Never had the "do we want children someday" conversation. We've been married for a few years and perfectly happy with just us. We travel. We work.We have wine nights and lazy Sunday mornings and a life that doesn't include diapers or daycare or any of the thousand things that come with babies.
What if he doesn't want this?
