When we were in Santa Barbara for New Year's, I felt a little off. Okay, I felt a lot off. "You're a drama queen," Adam told me as we walked down State Street and along the Riviera, and I agreed. Still, I took not one but two pregnancy tests. One inconclusive, one negative, both performed in toilet-tissue-strewn drugstore bathrooms.
After we returned home, I went to the doctor for an unrelated visit and asked her to run a test. "Negative, honey," she said, and I sighed with relief.
I didn't want a baby. Neither did Adam. Our life was exemplified by the time we'd just spent in my college town: out drinking until whenever, sleeping as late as we wanted. Sure, there were the dogs to consider, but they could be left for at least six hours at a time. We shared a single car, biked pretty much wherever we needed to go.
And even though that is all still the case, I find myself typing it in past tense.
On Jan. 29, I took a pregnancy test. When the lines appeared, I said: "Aw, hell naw." Then I called Adam and said: "Babe ...?"
Our lives had irrevocably changed.
The chances were that we were going to terminate the pregnancy. Never mind that at 40 years old with a preexisting condition, I was already a high risk. It wasn't about that. It was about the fact that we loved our life, the freedom and spontaneity and flexibility, and weren't so keen on giving it up.
A few weeks' discussion led to this: Adam looked at me and said: "We may be doing this, huh?"
Yep. We are.