And baby makes five

By Published On: November 2nd, 2011
Written by: Rachel

Why hello there! And welcome to the Wednesday bonus edition of Knocked Up. Subtitle: Holy Cow I’m Going To Have Three Kids.

If you had asked me earlier this year which staff member at P&N might be joining the expectant editor ranks, I probably would have guessed every other female in the room and then maybe moved on to the men before guessing myself. Ok, maybe that’s a stretch, but what I’m trying to say is: When I saw the second line on that plastic, peed-upon stick back in September, my jaw dropped wide open and didn’t close again for three weeks.

When I got pregnant with my son Noah seven years ago, it was a planned and highly anticipated event that was preceded by months of disappointment and an eventual round of Clomid (which amazingly and thankfully worked the first time I took it). Three years later when I was ready for baby number two, I went to the OB and hopped straight on the prescription train, assuming that this was just the way it worked for my shy little wallflower uterus. She just needed a little nudge in the right direction, the poor dear.

Except apparently this time, she had already showed up to the party with her dancing shoes on, because before I could even pop the first pill, I felt a suspicious hunger pang one day that made me stop and think, “Hmm, I haven’t felt this hungry since …” And BLAM: eight months later along came Rosie.

So while I’m not a complete stranger to pregnancy surprise, I never thought in a kabillion years that I would find myself staring at a third positive test one month ago, not only because we were not planning on having a third child (yet), we were actively trying not to. As in, yellow pill from a packet every day trying not to. (My uterus’ nickname:The Comeback Kid?) And yet, there I was, in the bathroom, heart racing, wondering how I was going to walk out into the living room and tell my husband—who had no idea I had even taken a test—that we would be a family of five in less than nine months. So I promptly hid the test. And then unhid the test, because WHAT WAS I DOING? I didn’t know. I was feeling crazy.

After a five-minute staredown with my own face in the mirror, I left the bathroom and passed straight through the living room and walked to the kitchen. And stood there. Then I turned back around and paced 87 times in front of the couch (where my husband was sitting) before finally sitting down in the chair across the room from him and saying, “Um.” It was clear I was nervous, and he shut his computer, looking concerned. Then I just let the bomb drop: “I’m pregnant.”

What?” he said. (He was quite incredulous, as you may have already guessed.)

“I … I just … um … so. I took this test? Like, a minute ago. And yeah. I’m … pregnant?”

For the rest of my life I will be grateful to Luke for what he did right after this. He sat back on the couch, both hands on top of his head, quiet for a full minute (while I’m thinking AHHHHHHHHHHakjfaojfa;dkfjf;sa in my head) and then he slowly smiled, bobbed his head up and down a few times and said, “You know what? I’m all right. This is good. It’s all right.” (P.S. I love him.)


So we started talking. And we talked some more. And I moved over to the couch, in hopes that I could absorb some of his chillaxed mojo. (It kinda worked.) I finally ratcheted back the ALL CAPS FREAK OUT before I climbed into bed, fully recognizing that my mind was capable of thinking only of the fact that I was pregnant. None of the future parts could be considered at this point. Due date? No idea. Where will the baby sleep? Dunno. Could we afford full-time daycare for two kids? Fingers in ears + plus a LALALALA. Boy or girl? Baby. There’s a baby. I could maybe start to wrap my head around that. So I focused on the present moment, figuring the future stuff could be dealt with down the road. Like after my heart rate dipped back below 245 bpm.

So here we go, down the roller coaster tracks towards baby number three. Hang on tight, because it’s going to be a crazy ride.