Special Message

This blog is dedicated to every woman, and especially horsewomen, who started their motherhood journey a little later than most. If you feel like your story is a theatrical event and you've just begun the 2nd act, then this blog is for you. This blog will communicate what I have learned from growing up a suburban latch key kid, to marrying a cowboy-at-heart, to relocating and raising our daughter in the heart of Rocky Mountain country.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Highchairs, Part 1...

...also known as the "pee-stick story".
December, 2010 - It all started with a Sunday drive.  Not a normal Sunday drive or what most of us think of when someone says, "We went for a Sunday drive."  It was an eight mile drive down a switchback filled curve fest from our house on the side of a 7,500 foot mini-mountain to the town center of Castle Rock, Colorado.  Hubby was driving and to this day I maintain he was going a wee bit too fast (we were running late -as usual- but that is another post for another time).  I was looking down but I can't remember why, probably trying to put my makeup on and digging in my purse for one of the seven lipsticks I perpetually keep in it.  Suddenly it came over me.  Completely.  A wave of "eeeeeeewwwwwww."  It was a deep-in-the-gut nausea, like being on a dinghy in the middle of a windy lake for 15 minutes.  Not a full-on wanting to launch breakfast feeling, but more of a "man that is just...not...right" queasiness.  With each curve hubby maneuvered it got a little worse, and me being me I could not keep quiet about it. 
"What is up with your driving?!"  (What do you mean, my driving?) 
"Man, could you just slow down around the curves???" (What is wrong with the curves?  This is how I always take 'em.  Don't look down!) 
"Well, your driving is making me sick!"  (Silence from hubby.) 
"Jeez, David!  Slow down! I am really getting nauseated!"   (More silence. And a singular, very deep breath.)
It is important here for me to point out that I actually used the term "nauseated."  Nauseated is how one feels when one has not taken Dramamine on a cruise.  Nauseous is a cruise without Dramamine.  Blame the English language maven in me.  It's a curse really, especially in this text-happy-let's-throw-every-good-vocabulary-and-grammar-rule-right-out-the-window world in which we now live. Granted, there is probably an English major out there having a small fit regarding my overuse of quotation marks, periods, commas and italics, but this is my blog, therefore my rules.  I feel so empowered! 
Back to my story.  I blamed hubby for my nausea for a week.  Yes, an entire week.  It wasn't until I realized I had been doing all the driving since the "eww" incident, with no significant decrease in said "eww," that I began to suspect more might be up.  Most of my women readers know exactly what came next. Getting out my calendar, counting backwards, trying to remember which day was what and did I or didn't I, eighteen days ago (or was it twenty-two?). A virtually pointless and futile attempt at trying to pinpoint the exact date whence last came "Aunt Martha's Visit."  Sorry, I have no idea what the kids are calling it these days.  I am seriously old, and I think that term pretty much proves it! 
Well, ok, not that old.  The day I bought two generic brand digital in-home pregnancy tests with up to 99% accuracy I was 39 years, 3 months, and 14 days old.  The day I peed on two generic brand digital in-home pregnancy tests while in the restroom at a Safeway Starbucks.  The same day two separate, generic brand, digital in-home pregnancy tests announced, with up to 99% accuracy, that yes I really, really, REALLY was going to have a baby.  My first baby.  At 39.