An unexpected surprise…

Back in November of 2015, I spent the better part of a weekend believing I was pregnant. It was an exceptionally refreshing experience, one that I’ve not had for a number of years now.

It was a fantastic weekend to begin with. Halloween was celebrated in conjunction with seasonally low temperatures AND daylight savings time. That, my friends, is every parent’s dream! We also enjoyed dinners with family, played board games, built LEGO, watched a movie, walked our pup at an off-leash park for the very first time (hilarious!), and played many rowdy games of soccer in our back yard.

On Saturday, I checked my app when it occurred to me that I was late, and realized that my cycle had endured for 36 days. I was convinced that my cycle had not EVER exceeded 35 days, though my husband seemed to recall a 38 day cycle. I am willing to admit that he was likely correct, what with his brain being the vault that it is, but at the time I was keen to forget.

And with none of the usual signs or symptoms of impending flow present, I allowed my hopes to rise. I did not have a pregnancy test at home, nor did I feel compelled to rush out to purchase one. All of me just wanted to believe.

I thought it best to allow myself that experience.

The dear husband always laughs when I do this. He’s far more pragmatic than I. But I have long been a believer in the greater Mystery of all things and still, after all this time, hold fast to possibility. Belief becomes reality when it quickens in our bones; this much, I know. Also, I am young(ish) yet, and would rather remain ever the foolish optimist than suffer myself a cynic. Or a realist. I do not sit well with limitation, preferring instead to ponder potential.

In my search for answers, the all-knowing app revealed that I have been “trying to conceive for 79 months, 1 week.” I typically choose to think about this time in terms of years, (that’s 6.5 years for those of you wondering,) but the rise and fall of hope is best captured when considered in months. After 79+ months of disappointment and/or indifference one might think I have no further hope to invest.

This is not how it works, Folks. At least, not for me.

I do have hope. I do have faith. Even still.

Sunday morning I woke to the same lack of signs and my rising hopes soared. It was a beautiful experience; one filled with love and dreams of a future belonging not to me, yet one that I could share in. The planning and the wonder of it all; I had forgotten the joy of believing. It’s amazing how quickly it all stirs.

I began to suspect the arrival of my period after dinner on Sunday. By midnight my suspicions were confirmed. Many may expect me to have felt disappointed, but truthfully, I was and still am grateful for the experience. Believing is inspiring, soulfully uplifting and all-around good fun. It was a lovely reminder of what it feels like to be fearlessly pregnant. It’s been seven years since last I felt that and what a gift it was!

As always, forward I face…

To the future and whatever it holds!



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