As we waited for the pregnancy test results, I was silently preparing for negative news. I busied myself with[15] hanging a new shower curtain. Suddenly, I heard a gasp[16]. I was prepared to hold my wife in grief, but instead I held her in joy as we gazed at the plus sign shining from the stick.[17]
Pregnancy birthed hurdles we hadn’t expected.[18] Six months along, Anna was ordered to spend her days on bed rest. An active woman on bed rest isn’t a good combination. The inactivity brought a new hurdle in the form of a blood clot and twice-daily shots.[19] She hobbled from room to room on crutches and in pain.[20] We nursed this new detour in quiet hopefulness.[21] How much harder can this be?
For six weeks we attended prenatal[22] classes. It was hilarious—my wife would hobble in on crutches and I would read the handouts with reading glasses perched on my nose.[23] As I looked around the room at the 20-year-old wearing a backward baseball cap, the woman with an ankle tattoo and the gum-chewing teenager my own son’s age, I wondered if I really was ready to do it all again.[24]
One of the funniest days of our pregnancy journey was when we took our 18-year-old son to the airport for his gap-year[25] travels to Australia. We said our farewells with tears, photos and hugs. Instead of a celebratory beer, we drove home and sat with a prenatal nurse as she explained the birthing process one last time. I burst out laughing when she demonstrated how a fetus slides through the birth canal.[26] An hour earlier our son had slid out the door, backpack in hand, into the world that awaited.
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