In Summer 2015 we went on a holiday to Cuba to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, and although that was the official reason for the trip, it was also what we knew would most likely be our last chance to go on such an extravagant holiday. We’d had loads of discussions about procreating before and we both knew a baby was on the cards, but it wasn’t until we were there that my husband actually officially said he was ready. This came in the form of a long and very romantic hand-written letter. Paper anniversary and all that. This written (and in my eyes 100% legally binding) contract instantly made my dreams a reality and we spent the remaining days of our Cuban holiday floating in a pool or the sea, blissfully discussing our future – hammered.
As a woman, I found knowing we were trying for a baby quickly took over my life. It became a huge distraction and I found myself constantly noticing cute kids, babies and every pregnant woman that waddled passed, excited that I could potentially soon be one of them.
The first month went by and all the tests came back negative, and although I knew it was early days, I still felt pretty crap about it.
In October we went to a wedding and the next day, after drinking my bodyweight in gin and performing ‘the worm’ on the dance floor, I was feeling a little worse for wear. The long drive home with my lovely in-laws, step son and husband was a struggle; I felt sick. Morning sick? No, car sick. And hangover sick.
After shovelling a McDonalds into my face I felt a little better and managed to keep from chundering for the whole journey. When we finally got home, I suggested we took a test and together we waited as my dark yellow hangover urine soaked into a cheapo paper pregnancy test we’d bought in bulk from eBay.
Negative. Oh well. I was fine. It was FINE. I wasn’t emotional at all – it was the hangover, honest.
Two days passed and I’d tried not think about it and get on with my life. It was silly to get depressed over not getting pregnant in the very first month. Some couples try for ages before they get any luck. My period was a little late but that’s not uncommon for me. However, when it got to about a week late, I thought it might be time for another test. It was pointless though. It would be negative. My ovaries were obviously just useless, hollowed-out walnut shells.
5 minutes later, I walked downstairs and into the lounge. My husband turned to see a face paralysed with a combination of fear, uncertainty and excitement. There was a line on the test. A very faint line. I think. Was there a line?
We dashed frantically to the Co-Op to buy a “proper” test. Only the overpriced Clear Blue Digital Plus with the LCD screen would do at a time like this. Twin pack.
We took the first test and after a short wait, 1-2 weeks showed up on the screen! My heart (and apparently very much functioning, non-walnutty ovaries) skipped a beat.
My womb wasn’t a desert after all. It was a rich, tropical jungle, bustling with activity. Our lives were about to change forever. I did the second test just in case. The same! I was pregnant!
Shit. I should have had just one more gin…