IT'S POSITIVE. OH SH*T.

You know that scene in the romantic comedy where a woman is sitting in a perfectly organized, colour-coordinated bathroom in a stylish slip with a pregnancy test sitting tidily on the counter next to her waiting for the results? And then when it's positive her husband makes a romantic dinner with roses and sparkling apple juice (since she can't drink champagne anymore) and they're both glowing and ecstatic? Yeah, that's probably not how it normally goes down. At least, that's not how it went down in my house.

At first I thought there must be some mistake. There's no way I was pregnant. We'd been "trying" for almost a year with no luck. I'd reached the point when I figured in another month, I'd go back on birth control and call it a day. I'd even stopped being so careful not to drink leading up to my time of the month and drank until my due date. (To be fair, though, I'd done some research and had been advised that this was okay - of course this was pre-CDC's super strict guidelines on not drinking if you could get pregnant). We'd even started booking a trip we were planning to go on a few weeks later. So pretty much my reaction was, "No way. Shit." I'm pretty sure my husband's reaction was along the same lines.

I'd like to say that as the shock wore off, excitement took over and I started swooning over baby clothes and stuffed toys and imagining tiny toes and fingers. I'd like to say that I marveled at my body's ability to give life and looked forward to feeling my baby move. I'd like to say I handled it like a champ and stepped seamlessly into the mommy role. But I can't, because it's been 7 months and if anything, I'm even more freaked out than I was at the beginning.

So what do I have to say about those Hollywood movies with their bullshit romance? Fuck right off. We're dealing with reality over here.