Pepe the Cuban Love Child

There are many different paths to motherhood. Mine was a combination of boredom and an all-inclusive resort.

A month after I returned from Cuba (with my husband, it should be noted), my co-worker confided that she might be pregnant. The pharmacy in our building had a “buy one, get one free” promotion on pregnancy tests, so I (as a JOKE) offered to take one alongside her for moral support.

She sauntered out of the employee washroom a few minutes later with a relieved look on her face. Then it was my turn.

I peed on the stick and put it aside while I washed up. Applying some lipstick, I glanced down and froze: the pee stick was branded with a giant plus sign. My stomach dropped and my knees turned to goo. I thought of all the sushi, brie and—shit!—martinis I’d consumed that month. I fumbled for my cell phone and called my friend at her desk.

Her: “?”
Her: “Oh shit.”

She ran into the bathroom and we both stared at the stick. I refused to accept the results and ran to the store for another test—one that wasn’t in the bargain bin—and got another positive result.

I sat at my desk in a stupor for the rest of the afternoon and pondered the best way to tell my man.

It ended up going like this...
Me (thrusting stick at him): “Check this out.”
Him: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s a pregnancy test that says I’m pregnant.”
Him: “What do you mean?”
Me: “It means I’m pregnant.”
Him: “No you’re not.”
Me: “Yes I am.”
Him: “No you’re not.”
Me: “Yes I am.”

He insisted on getting another test, which I administered in the grocery store washroom. Still positive. Still pregnant.

I immediately demanded a Big Mac (a sign of things to come) and we sat in the parking lot, gorging on grease while staring at our trio of pregnancy tests.

I was most definitely Knocked. Up.

Everything’s fine, why do you ask?

Everything’s fine, why do you ask?

Lori SImeunovic