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It is no secret what God can do …

We're breaking out the sparkling grape bubbly with wine glasses from past tastings at Williamsburg Winery, where it all began for the Mr. and I.

Because we spent all of 2011 praying and fasted twice for 21 days at a time in hopes of a baby, I’d be remiss for not actually saying that the lines we saw nearly two weeks ago showed I’m officially knocked up, preggers (even though the Mr. hates that word), with child, expecting, in the family way, or finally, pregnant.

No, I’m not beyond the first trimester, but I’ve told a close and close-casual handful of people what I know to be true based on a four-week ultrasound (way too early — the nurse’s fault, not mine) and the double-line positive pregnancy test. Further, the way I’ve felt the last several days serves as additional evidence, but I didn’t count it as definitive given all the “symptoms” prior to in-vitro fertilization that were likely imagined.

The early morning “chest cymbals” were a clue. But now I’m beyond tired especially after I find something I feel like eating. This is no -itis; this is it. (For you “Karate Kid II” fans: “This no tournament; this for real.”)

It’s official: I’m pregnant. Feel free to applaud while I close my eyes — just for a second.

Conventional wisdom and practice says to keep early pregnancy a secret at least until you’re through the first three months. I don’t think it ever occurred to me to be that clandestine about it. I mean, we’ve been trying, it’s been a struggle, I’ve enlisted support from anyone who could offer it. I’ve had people earnestly praying for us. They — I’d — want to know that God answered and what that answer was.

It would just be rude to go silent; though, I’m sure some imagined that as the reason for my most recent lulls. Nope; I was just tired. That, and I had to call a few people first. (Actually, I didn’t want people from my hometown startling my matriarchal aunt with the news when I hadn’t talked to her since before Thanksgiving.) But outside of that, I’ve been operating, breathing, sleeping (and passing gas) as a pregnant woman. As you can tell, I’m even using the p-word. (Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. Per-regggg-nant!)

Even as I say that — and know it — fears remain that this could end at any moment. Not only does that quiet paranoia have me avoiding all fish, caffeine even chocolate, cold cuts and mushrooms (though I’ve forgotten why about the mushrooms); it also has me claiming every minute of the mini-me in the making. So even if it’s for a shorter time than I expect, I feel confident in saying that if God can do what He’s done at this point having made it so, He’ll do it again. Thus, I don’t feel compelled to hide my pregnancy until it’s “safe.”

Also, in not knowing the future — for example, what tomorrow’s latest ultrasound will bring beyond the awaited fetal heartbeat — I decided to claim every victory in this quest to have my own children. Thus, as the song says, “It is no secret what God can do” nor what He has done.

Sparkling grape juice for everybody!

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Sugar Honey Iced Tea!!!

If you consider that phrase an acrostic, you’ll understand what I almost yelled from my mother-in-law’s bedroom on Thanksgiving Day when the Mr. gave me the first injections. Three days out, I realize maybe it wasn’t THAT horrible, but it did hurt like the devil — especially when he removed each needle.

I’m on two medications administered with inch-and-a-half needles at the highest dosage allowed. One involves two vials of powder that have to be mixed via syringe with sodium chloride. The other requires refrigeration. Both necessitated stealth moves in a house full of folks who seemed joined at the hip Thanksgiving Day. It would’ve been a great time to inform my fairly new extended family that I was in the midst of fertility treatments; I just didn’t want to. It just seemed like a party killer. So rather than say anything, the Mr. and I eyed our watches for about an hour before an unrehearsed signal for a synchronized exit to the kitchen and upstairs. Essentially, he stood at the foot of the stairs over everybody tapping his watch. Real inventive, right?

He was the one who’d been paying the most attention to the nurse’s instructions. I was winging it, trying to teach him “aseptic techniques” that I learned from working one year at a hospital. That didn’t really help me with the specific instructions that I should’ve studied. Once again, I was the slacker and the Mr. saved the day — even if he did make me wanna punch him.

We’re still hanging with the in-laws, so there’ll be a couple more covert operations where photos will be near impossible. Stay tuned.