The Time

Day One:

“I’m late.”

I slip this casually into our post-bedtime conversation. His eyebrows rise and his mouth forms a silent yet emphatic “Whoa.”

No one knows what to say next. Left to itself, the moment swells into an uncomfortably pregnant pause. Appropriate.

Now is not supposed to be the time. We weren’t even sure there would be another time. But if there was, now is not it. My husband is working way too many hours. We are 5,500 miles away from family. And I just accepted the reality of my post baby number two bod and bought clothes that actually fit.

I begged God this afternoon, over a sink full of dirty dishes, to not let this be the time.

Day Two:

Every time I look at my baby boy, my thoughts jump to the one who might be coming next. A brother? Sister? Our family is currently an equal blend, “Two boys, two girls” as my oldest so often says. This one would tip the scale.

As I envision our family of five, an internal tug of war begins. Logic and Emotion jockey back and forth relentlessly. The reality of how hard it would be to have a baby here pulls against the warm fuzzies of a newborn, someone new to discover and love. By dinner time, I realize this war cannot be won. Both sides are true, and strong.

Our post-bedtime conversation avoids the topic for all of five minutes.

“Still nothing?” he bravely asks.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t mention the name I came up with.” He drops this comment so casually it makes me smile. Apparently, our potential surprise monopolized his thoughts today too.

“For a boy or girl?” I ask.

“Boy” he says.

I urge him on, “Do tell.”

He spends the next few minutes explaining and defending his name selection. I find his thoughtfulness incredibly charming. As I listen, I feel the whole of his weight settle firmly on the side of Emotion in my tug of war. It’s almost unfair. Logic, unprepared, loses its grip. I sense my resolve against this possibility beginning to fade.

“So this timing wouldn’t be completely awful?” I interject.

“No, not awful,” he responds slowly. “Hard, but not awful.”

We talk through the scenario as if this conversation could somehow sway what already is. Our car cannot physically hold another child; neither can our home. And having a baby here? Who would take our kids while we rush to the hospital? More importantly, his work leaves me alone for over twelve hours a day. How would I handle single parenting a preschooler, toddler, and newborn for days on end? Would we eat actual meals?

But then, there is the silver lining: a baby! A snuggly, squishy baby. Sibling love that nearly smothers. One giant step closer to complete. And really, between grocery delivery and the park downstairs, we’d be fine. My daughter even has a ride to school. I could do drop-off (an elevator ride down to Level 0) without interrupting the sleeping babe upstairs.

Due to the lingering effects of our conversation or the Holy Spirit himself, I’m not sure, but I feel a calm settle within me. I can tell, by the softness in his eyes, he feels the same. If now is the time, then the questions we’ve long been avoiding (Should we have another baby? If yes, when?) suddenly have answers. No further debate, hesitation, procrastination. I welcome this finality with open arms. If a baby now is His plan, then a baby now is our plan.

The night draws to a close in a prayer flavored by openness, acceptance, and (dare I say?) hope.

Day Three:

The planner in me awakens this morning. I check the online due date calculator: early April. We would celebrate four out of five birthdays and our anniversary within six weeks. My stomach twists into knots at the thought. I love hosting a good party, but just one is exhausting. Back to back to back birthdays might just become one triple birthday party, rotating the date of course, so each child would have a turn celebrating on their actual day.

One issue resolved, I move on to the next: where would this baby sleep? In the pack-n-play, in the laundry room. It’s the only room available with a door. Bonus: I can turn on the dryer during nap time to drown out the sound of siblings.

Finally, the car. Upgrading to a larger vehicle is not a realistic option. Besides, we only use it as a family on the weekends. During the week, he takes the car to work and I take Uber, everywhere. I guess more Uber is our answer.

With these superficial concerns resolved, my mind wanders back to last night’s concluding thought: If a baby now is His plan, then a baby now is our plan.

Is it really that simple?

If there is a baby, God has intervened in dramatic fashion. Surprisingly, I still feel mostly relieved. To have His plan so obviously trump our own is liberating. Because I know His plan is better. I do. It’s just that sometimes, His plan is hard to figure out. Nothing like a surprise pregnancy to bust through and thunder through the megaphone “Now is the time! This is what I want for you.”

There is peace in knowing, without question, His plan. Knowing doesn’t remove the inherent challenges, but it does give me courage to face them; to lay down our plan and take up His. I may not understand how, but it seems now is His best for us. This is the knowing I will cling to when I’m nursing the newborn, warming up chicken nuggets for dinner, and skyping family far away.

This evening, I pour forth the day’s revelations over steaming mugs of hot tea. My husband recognizes a shift in my tone and calls me out.

“Are we going to start trying if we aren’t actually pregnant?” he asks.

“No, no, I don’t think so.”

My voice attempts to sound firm, as though I haven’t been thinking this very thought all day.

My voice fails me.

Day Four:

Shuffling in from work, my husband crouches low to catch the littles launching themselves in his direction. An audible inquiry is no longer needed. He sneaks a side glance in my direction. A slight head shake communicates all that needs to be said.

I am no longer looking for the signs of my cycle. When my stomach turns, I anticipate the inner pokes and prods to come. I am drenched in happy daydreams. Emotion, it seems, has won the war.

“Should we buy the test then?” he asks, emerging from a well-executed bedtime routine.

I feel my breath catch. This (very reasonable) question rouses Logic from the depths of defeat. The peace of the last few days doesn’t vanish, but I once again feel the weight of the challenges pull against the rope. The test could make this daydream, well, real.

We might actually be pregnant.

I repeat this daunting phrase several times over the course of the night, each time with a slightly different nuance. Does this phrase warrant a tone of gratitude, because it might really be true?

“We might actually be pregnant!”

Or is apprehension a better fit?

“We might actually be pregnant.”

I take a deep breath and digest fully, for the first time, this might be the time.

Day Five:

I have two things on my must-buy list today: tortilla chips for three perfectly ripe avocados begging to become guacamole and the test. But the weather today is cold and rainy. I live in a large city without a car, which means I run errands on foot, pushing the stroller, herding the preschooler. A quick trip to the store, in the rain, is not enjoyable for anyone. It’s not happening.

Eventually my husband arrives home, and with him, the weekend. We charge onward into jammies and bedtime. Finally, it is Friday night. We hail this eve as date night and begin the impossible task of selecting a movie that fits our mood (a sloshy mix of excitement and apprehension). After scrolling through unappealing options for far too long, we acknowledge the root of our indecision: We must know. I continue the movie search. He runs to the store for chips and the test, because both are now date night essentials.

He returns, approves my pick of a documentary, sets about making the guac. And I... I finally take the test. It makes my stomach turn, anticipating what we will know for certain in three minutes time. I replace the cap, lay flat and upside-down, to avoid accidental glances before I’m ready for the reveal.

The chips and guac are served. The documentary is queued. To whatever lies on the other side of that test, these will serve as a welcome diversion. A place to process silently under the cover of entertainment. No need to form words, to feign excitement… or relief. Just watch the show. Eat the chips.

We stand close, wrapped in each other’s arms, whisper a prayer, then flip.

“Not pregnant.”

“So that’s that,” he says. We hug again, though this time is decidedly more mechanical than the last.

I can’t tell if I feel relieved or disappointed or simply numb. Whatever it is, I avoid it, for now, and lose myself in the noise of someone else’s story.

I watch the show. Eat the chips.

Now is not the time.