One year

So here I was in mid-September. I had begun teaching my second year of first grade, and it was one year from the weekend I had discovered I was pregnant for the first time. My husband had planned a road trip to Pittsburgh with some of his buddies, which was fine. I'd spend some time with a friend, whose husband also happened to be part of this road trip. I'd read. I'd do school work. I'd relax. I'd wake up on Saturday morning to another high basal temperature. As per instructions from the automatic software I'd used to chart these temps, I'd take a pregnancy test. And when it was positive, I'd take another. And then, because I really didn't beleive it was true, I'd go buy one of the new digital ones that actually displays the words "pregnant" or "not pregnant" And when this, the third test I'd taken, read "pregnant" I would tremble. I would cry. And I'd regret that my husband wasn't home. I couldn't tell him over the phone. I'd wait two more days to tell him in person. And, of course, I'd begin worrying.