So, last September we finally decided to take the plunge. My professional life had settled down and become more predictable. My wife had completed her postgraduate training. 

Most of our friends were already parents by this time, but we also knew of several couples that had struggled to get pregnant. We agreed to give ourselves time.

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My wife was pregnant within 3 months. But convincing ourselves that she was, in fact, pregnant took an additional week of pregnancy tests.

At first, we tried the tests that showed 2 lines for “pregnant” and 1 line for “not pregnant.” Unfortunately, those tests always had a second line that was about 50% as intense as the control, which left us doubting that the results were valid.

We went back to the pharmacy and purchased more tests — apparently a common experience — with smiley faces, plus signs, and my favorite: the text “PREGNANT” for a positive result. All the tests agreed that we were pregnant. However, not yet convinced, we repeated the tests.

It wasn’t until the pregnancy was confirmed by our obstetrician that it finally became a reality for us.

The day I found out, I had been sick overnight and started vomiting all over the obstetrician’s office. To make matters worse, when he told us the good news, I nearly had a syncopal episode. 

To my embarrassment, he pulled out smelling salts, reassured me that “this happens once a week,” and started to calm me as if I was just a very nervous dad-to-be. 

Maybe I was nervous that day. Or maybe I was just really sick. Regardless, it was one of the most amazing days of my life.

Until I saw the 12-week ultrasound. 

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