So

It turns out having to pee all the time is an early sign of pregnancy. As is feeling all week like you’re just about to get your period. As are breasts that suddenly weigh as much as watermellons and nipples that have been standing at attention for six tiresome days. (Did I neglect to mention that before?)

I peed on a stick this morning and a big blue plus sign emerged before I could even set the stick down on the side of the sink.

I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant?

I’m pregnant!

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

I’m pregnant.

I took Dr. Fiancé to the beach to tell him the news, figuring it was a nice echo of his marriage proposal. It turns out that South Beach isn’t quite as private as a beach on Molokai’. Even in this struggling economy, people are vacationing in Florida. I pulled him out into the ocean until the water was up to our knees and the nearest people were a few yards away and asked him if he wanted to be a dad. He smiled his sweetest smile and said of course, and I said that’s good ’cause you’re going to be, and he said, yeah—like someday, yeah, of course I’ll be a dad. “No,” I clarified. “I mean—you are going to be a dad.” Dr. Fiancé’s eyes got all big and his eyebrows went way up and he hugged and kissed me and said, “Wow”—and couldn't stop saying it all day long.