Last night, as I stood there holding the positive test in my hand, I felt nothing but numb. I wasn't screaming, as I imagined I would, and I didn't burst into either tears or laughter. Instead, I walked quickly but calmly over to the computer, logged on, and sent a message into cyberspace asking whether or not that particular brand of pregnancy test is known for false positives. The messages came flooding back: no, it wasn't. I still felt nothing, other than a growing shock; Eric wasn't home from work yet, and the silence of the apartment was almost deafening.

I went to the cabinet under the bathroom sink. From the very back corner, I pulled a small plastic bag that was covered by a thin layer of dust. Contained inside was a small purple gift bag and a card with a picture of a sleeping baby - purchases from many, many optimistic months ago, when I was so sure that we would be vaulted into parenthood quickly and easily. My hand didn't even shake as I opened the card and wrote:

The positive test stick went into the bag, the card was clipped to the outside, and I sat down to wait. Eric arrived home not too much later, and I listened from far away as I asked him how his day had gone. Then, "Oh, I got you something."

A quiet moment as he read. His eyes rose from the card almost immediately. "You're pregnant?" I pointed to the bag, and he reached in quickly for the test. When he looked up at me a second time, I was finally, finally, flooded with all the emotions I had expected. I couldn't cry, for the laughter wouldn't be stopped. I shook; Eric grabbed me and held me. We felt complete.

As he released me, he gazed into my eyes and said, with a voice filled with elation and a twinkle in his eye, "My testicles work!"

I was through being patient. Now that the end was within sight, I didn't want to wait a few days for the results; I wanted them immediately. I began calling doctors, searching for somebody that perhaps had a lab in the building, or perhaps somebody that would give me a lab order without a fuss. I was stymied by the fact that I have no real primary physician at the moment. Call after call, I met with frustration; Planned Parenthood offices were either closed or only did urine tests, Eric's doctor doesn't work Wednesday afternoons, and the other doctors insisted on an appointment first and were booked through next week.

Finally, I found a receptionist who was somewhat willing to listen. "Look, I've already had the positive urine test," I said for the fiftieth time. "I just want this confirmed, by blood, as quickly as possible. We've been dealing with infertility for some time, and I need this for my peace of mind. Can't something be done?"

And suddenly, I had good news once more. She put me on hold, went to have a talk with the doctor, and came back with the message that the doctor would leave me a lab order at the front desk, which I could retrieve and take to the lab across the hallway. Success! I told Boss-Lady that I had to go be tested for anemia (should explain any future exhaustion pretty well), and flew across town.

Fifteen minutes later, I was listening to a very friendly, very adept phlebotomist explain that this particular office no longer did in-house pregnancy tests. He was wonderfully kind, though, and said that he would make a note that the results should be faxed back to the doctor ASAP. I should know something by tomorrow afternoon, God willing!

As a consolation prize, I took another pregnancy test just to see the two lines. I used a less sensitive one this time, and was quite gratified to see a second positive.

The notify list was the next to learn the truth, closely followed by the rest of the journal readers. Hundreds of people were learning of our little miracle, yet it still felt like an intimate secret to us. A few quick emails to our closest friends were sent.

This morning, neither of us could keep our mouths shut completely. I felt a rush of guilty pleasure as I snuck into Tech-Girl's office and spilled the beans, and Eric likewise confided in one of his coworkers, the father of a new baby girl.

The question remains: when should our parents join the crowd of those "in the know"? Neither of us has decided about that, but the fact remains that both sets of parents were aware of the appointment with the clinic for this Friday. Eric's already planned to merely say, "We had to cancel that," and offer no further explanation, but I have a sinking suspicion that that won't hold them off for more than a day, and Rita far less than that.

I would have liked, in a perfect world, to wait until after the perilous first trimester to tell most of our family members and circle of acquaintances. Oh, for that perfect world!