I’m giving up my normal rant space to the Mr., who really wants — nay, needs — me to take a home pregnancy test. His offering is largely unedited — aside from those dreaded double spaces after each sentence. (Who still does that?) Nevertheless, despite promising ultrasounds and no evidence suggesting that there isn’t p-word outside of our cautious uncertainty, he wants to see a positive home test. Here’s why:
About three and a half years ago, I had a question I really, really wanted to ask the woman I loved. Just a few simple words, but it was a monumental question. The big question. You know the one. It was the biggest question I’d ever asked her. Eventually, after a princely sum on a ring and tickets to a dinner whose taste I still can’t remember, I got my answer.
It was the answer I’d expected, hoped for, prayed for and was relieved to get. I’d seen the signs after all: She told me she loved me, moved halfway across the country for me, she laughed at my lame jokes and allowed me to experiment on her with my cooking. And rare was the day we hadn’t spent thinking of and talking about a future together. So, yeah, the signs were there. But it was the most real when she had that ring on her finger, that word of affirmation ringing in my ear. She later teased me about my nervousness, even while admitting that she wasn’t always sure that moment would ever come. Bottom line, we didn’t know till we knew.
So here we are again, where there’s a question to be answered. This time it’s not about matrimony. It’s about maternity. It isn’t about whether she’ll take my hand. It’s about whether we’ll form a band. There’re no musicians singing in the background, and instead of a diamond ring in my hand, I’ve got a cheap piece of plastic. Ain’t nothing sexy about where this stick goes and she probably won’t walk around with it on her finger (although that would make one heck of a mood ring).
(Now that I’ve conflated my proposal and a pregnancy test, my head is filled with images of how so many other questions would be more simply resolved if it could be settled with a little pee. Does she love me? Is she laughing at me or with me? Is she really mad I ate all of the cookies? Two lines for yes, one line for no.)
So, call it peer pressure. or pee-er pressure. Or just one more time where a guy’s gotta know. Sure it might be beside the point. Even a little bit anti-climactic. But, remember that Kay’s Jewelers jingle: “Every kiss begins with Kay”? Well, every pregnancy begins with pee.
Babe, all I’m saying is give pee a chance.
1 thought on “Pee-er Pressure (in the Mr.’s own words)”
All I’m saying is stick with sparkling grape juice Saturday night when you’re watching that ball drop. Love you both – and any extra family members that might be around for the holidays. 🙂
And that includes the kitty! You still have a kitty, right?