Day 5 of temporary single parenthood. The nights are the hardest. A neighbor told me recently about an attempted break-in in her home, four floors up from us, and I had a nightmare the first night alone about that and it’s been hard to sleep – on top of the kids’ night waking issues. I’ve decided we have chronic sleep dysfunction. I just made that up, but it sounds like an official diagnosis, no?
Days have been scorching hot – like much of the US right now, I gather – so we’ve been enjoying our wading pool on the balcony and the public swimming pool which omg is so freaking awesome I can’t believe we never went last summer! It’s enormous, clean, and has a wonderful kids’ area. Anyway. I digress.
What I meant to write about was this:
Last night I was reading through my blog archives, backing up each post individually in a Word document, and came to a post that made me cry. It was the BFP post. It came flooding back to me – how I waited and waited and waited that month to take the HPT, fearing the devastation of disappointment, watching in disbelief as my basal body temperature stayed high one day after the next, and then another, instead of the dip that presages my period.
I remember how my hands shook as I uncapped the stick and lowered it into the plastic cup of pee. I even remember what I was wearing – black yoga pants and a red and white plaid flannel shirt, hair in a ponytail at the back of my neck – and the churning in my gut as I paced the room watching my timer. I remember going back into the bathroom, lifting the stick, seeing the vivid dark pink of the second line. I remember falling to my knees right there, holding the stick and crying. Just crying for all the months of one negative after another, for all the fears (I still had) of never becoming a mother. I had to wait until Gimli got out of class to call him. My palms were sweating. Finally, it had worked. Finally.
For those still in the trenches – I remember. I always will.