It all started with that statement and it's quite apropos as the title of this entry since I am a week away from my third trimester.
Ryan, my husband, and I assumed we'd start having kids when we turned 30. Seemed like a nice, solid time to have kids. We' be grown up at that point. Obviously, that is not the case.
I was a little late, but that was par for course for me, really. I wasn't really worried about it; in fact, I asked Ryan to pick up a pregnancy test when he picked up beer more as a joke than anything else. I took it in our upstairs bathroom, barely paying it any attention. I'd had a few "near misses", so I was an old pro at taking the test. Of course, when I saw that faint blue line, I scrambled to find the directions I'd just half-hazardly flung into the trashcan. The line was there, no mistaking it, but it didn't look like the control line. Yes, I read the directions which explicitly state that any line at all means you are pregnant. I still wasn't convinced.
I jumped into my car and drove to the grocery store, bought a test that had parallel lines instead of crossing ones and cried all the way home. When I took the test again, Ryan was the one who looked.
