128

I think it is my new favorite number.

While I love 128, I'm still scared witless. I vacillate between pure, unadulterated joy and worry and doubt. It is hard not to doubt and impossible to relax. This was too easy; I feel as if I cheated and didn't pay my fare. Will the conductor track me down and tell me to stay on the train until my stop, MUCH further down the road?

I made it through the weekend by testing. Compulsive testing, if you must know. I bought quite a few HPTs, certainly enough for a Christmas gift or two. In fact, I have enough HPTs to make Christmas ornaments for all the family and neighbors*. [Oh! The thought of my cold, aloof MIL opening her HPT ornament and frowning at the knowledge I have peed on it!]

If peeing on sticks were introduced as an Olympic sport, I would medal. She is totally dedicated to her sport, the press would say. My need to POAS was so out of hand over the weekend that I had to make sure that I went to different cashiers at Target. They raise their eyebrows when you buy three boxes of tests at once, but to do that three days in a row? That's just sad.

Still. I needed reassurance. So I squinted, held the tests up to the light, and attempted to divine the meaning of varying shades of pink and thickness of lines. Sure, the digital test was sexy, signaling PREGNANT with no hesitation, and no ambiguity. But was I just a little pregnant or was I a lot pregnant? That, friends, is what I needed and still need to know.

Where does this leave me? With a bad case of niggling doubts. With a gorgeous first number. With a beautiful image of two children holding hands as they skip on the beach. With two more tests. Just enough to get me through to the next beautiful number.


*My first crafty idea ever. Also earth-friendly.