He turned two this week. When I found out I was pregnant with him, it was late at night, everyone was asleep. I rummaged through my medicine cabinet to find a generic pregnancy test tucked behind an almost empty bottle of moisturizer. I was sure its results would rival the other hundreds of tests I had taken over the years, negative. I always wanted a house full of children, but after having a girl and a boy, we seemed to settle into our family of four comfortably enough.
When I saw the two lines on the test go from faint to dark, I nearly lost my balance. We had given up and given away everything that reminded us of babies. And that very moment was Christmas and birthday and Mother’s Day snowballed into one.
And he’s driven into our home like an old ice cream truck, bells sounding and music ringing, handing out pieces of sheer joy on a sultry day.
And sometimes I wonder what life would be like without this baby wrapped in unexpected surprise. I am most sure I could sit uninterrupted through a baseball game or steam down aisles of the grocery store. I imagine our television wouldn’t blare of farm animals singing in unison. And I could possibly write more.
Certainly, life would be different, but I’m so thankful that I’ll never know.