Let me paint you a picture. In the summer? Khakis, polo shirts (striped, short-sleeved), white undershirt (always an undershirt) North Face shoes, baseball hat. In the winter? Crisp, ironed button-up shirts, earth-toned sweaters (or maybe a sweater vest), North Face shoes (all season wear, as you’ll learn), jeans (reluctantly from the women’s department thanks to my feminine backside). My hair is long (scandalous!) but always tied back into a low ponytail. Always. Well, except when I’m sleeping. Or showering. But otherwise, always.
This morning, the long stick with the blue handle and urine-dampened end told me in record time and digital letters that I was, indeed, pregnant. This evening, for further confirmation, the long stick with the pink handle showed me two clear, pink lines. In a matter of time, my jeans will involve an elastic band, my shirts will have an area making way for my growing belly (sadly, not from my beer habit), and my ankles will swell. I will soon be at the whim of Target’s maternity section. God help me.
This was all planned out, mind you. Tests, x-rays, blood work, donor-choosing (one that looks like her), IUI101, day counting, day after day of sneaking the ovulation test into my work bathroom promptly at 11am, ovulation … ovulationing, try #1 (no go), start all over again, no drugs, no trigger shots, but try #2 (success!), and here we are today. My wife is beautiful and radiant, and I’m sure if you would have asked us that day when we exchanged vows barefoot on the beach in the early evening on a windy day of March which one of us would bear the would-be children, we would insist (laughing!) that she would. Well, folks – here we are. I’m not fluent on all of the acronyms, but all I know is that today is the first day I’m walking around my house stunned that here we are. Here I am, butch… and pregnant.