The morning I peed on a stick and got a positive result, I’d told at least 20 people by lunch time. Defying decades of cultural compulsion to keep that shit a secret until you hear a heartbeat or get to 12 weeks, I blabbed to everyone. Not because I was so sure my little embryo would go the distance, but because I wanted other people’s loving support and witness.
People screamed in joy with me. One friend bought me a drumstick, nostalgic grammar school confection that I devoured in three bites because PREGNANT.
I’m not good with keeping things under wraps. I suck at secrets, so PLEASE don’t tell me any.
For six days I’ve mumbled quickly or sent soundless emails to friends far away saying that two literary agents asked for my manuscript after I pitched it to them.
And I can hardly imagine a more exciting sentence I’ve ever written about my writing.
I pitched; they asked for a full; I sent it.
I’m in the perfect moment right now. You get that right? This is that moment before the blind date rings your bell and you can project onto him that he’s your perfect soul mate who will light your eternal flame and let you decorate ya’ll’s living room for the rest of your days.
It is the moment before you open the perfectly wrapped present that contains every fanciful dream you have about what’s inside. (Diamonds! The key to a new convertible! A platinum Costco card!)
This is the day you land the job interview for the job you’re sure you want. It’s the morning of the race you hope to PR
It’s peeing on a stick knowing full well you could get your period in two days. Or miscarry in two weeks. It’s saying yes to your co-worker with the weird teeth when she offers to set you up with her brother, the architect, who, you admit, looks pretty foxy in the picture on her Facebook page (his teeth = normal).
I also try not to think about it. I know it will take them a while to get back to me because literary agents. That’s fine by me. Take your time, please. I’m trying to learn my new job, and I’m getting tons of bang for my buck with my therapist these days: “Doctor, I keep dreaming about a door being slammed in my face. What do you think that’s about?”
Yale-educated therapist: “Fear of rejection.”
Yes, my dreams are laced with vivid rejections scenarios, but when I’m awake? I know this is the sweetest moment ever.
It can’t be wrong to root for your fetus.