How I Told Him is Part II of a three-part series exploring our not-so-straightforward pregnancy/fertility journey. Visit Musings of a Maybe-Mama for Part I, and check back Thursday for Part III.

Three soft horns protrude from the woven green fabric at odd angles, black eyes nestled in between. Made to resemble a triceratops, I bought these baby booties to help me with a surprise for my husband. We’re having a baby. He thinks I got my period last week.

In truth I had thought it was coming, and told him so last Monday evening. A negative pregnancy test confirmed.

Only my period never came.

Early Wednesday morning my husband took off for a week, first to work as a firefighter then to visit family back east. By the time I got up that same morning I was sure; alcohol had no appeal (and hadn’t for weeks), our basement smelled disgusting (as did many other things), and the amount of effort needed to accomplish a simple feat felt like climbing Mount Rainier. 

Two days later I worked up the nerve to finally take a second test. Positive.

Affirmation.

I took a second test this morning – Tuesday – just to be sure.

I’ve waited five days for this moment and in a few minutes he’ll be walking in the door. I baked biscuits, his favorite, and the house is filled with the smell of their flaky, buttery goodness. I hope the aroma greets him at the door. 

Hearing his truck pull into the driveway, I rush to open the oven and place the dinosaurs in front of the biscuits. The positive pregnancy test is nestled among the woven, white horns.

He comes into the house, arms flaying and bags everywhere. His mom always sends him home with luggage full of home cooked meals and Italian delicacies (one of my favorite parts of marrying into this family), and we take a minute to marvel at all she squeezed in. Fresh mozzarella. Homemade eggplant parmesan. Grilled sandwiches. Two tins of Italian cookies. I hope my surprise can compete.

Slyly at first, then more forcefully, I try to persuade him to open the oven. All he wants to do is take a shower. But I am persistent and I need him to look. I cannot be the only person to know this secret not even for one more second.

His hand reaches toward the oven, its black handle dull with decades of use. As he cracks the door, warm air rises to kiss his face, filling the kitchen with heat and joy. He pulls the handle further now, opening just far enough to see into the back – to see the diversionary biscuits. Sensing that he’s about to turn away, I nudge the door farther, pushing until it falls fully ajar. I watch his face. Waiting for his reaction.

It feels like hours go by.

Does he understand? Has he seen or is my decoy too delicious?

Then, ever so slowly, a look of genuine joy and surprise transforms his face. He has fire in his eyes. 

“Wow! Really?” he asks, stepping back from the stove.

Before I can answer he pulls me into a close embrace. He’s rubbing my back and kissing my forehead and not letting go. “Wow,” he keeps repeating, then just as quickly asking “Really?” again and again. I look up at him, our eyes meet and so much is said without a word.

“Yes”, I say, careful to hold onto this feeling. “Really.”

We fall asleep that night in each other’s arms, with smiles so big we wake up with sore cheeks in the morning. I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby. A tiny triceratops to call our own. 

Stay tuned for Part III.