When I was 9 and Â½ years old, I was dared by friends to jump off the high dive at Brittlebank Pool. Realistically, the high dive is only about 12 feet tall but when you, yourself, are only 4 ft. and your lifelong phobia of heights is just beginning to manifest itself, the task seems much more daunting. Most of my friends had already jumped off the high dive, which is why they were trying to convince me to do the same. They had already experienced the thrill and exhilaration of the 12 foot free fall into the icy cold, refreshing waters below. I made a deal with said friends: I would climb all the way up to the top of the high dive, I would even stand on the edge of the plank but one of them would actually have to push me off, because there was just no way I could will myself to jump.
This is analogous to how I have felt about having children since the very beginning of my married life. So many people around me were having babies, were LOVING parenthood, and were reaping the great emotional rewards of this new stage of life. And while I KNEW I would love having a mini-me; walking around quoting my euphuisms, imitating my facial expressions, and later hating me for my unjust rulingsâ€¦I just couldnâ€™t jump!
The joke among Jason and myself is that we had a planned-accident. Because, quite literally, we planned to have an accident. After 2 years of marriage we decided to do our part by climbing up the high dive and walking to the edge of the plank, with the hope that science or God or just plain luck would give us that last little nudge we needed.
So, here we are nowâ€¦5 months later. I am 3 months pregnant and still experiencing that great free fall feeling (among other things; like nausea, heartburn, frequent urination). And while I havenâ€™t plunged into the icy cold, refreshing waters below yet (that will be Nov. 29, according to the medical professionals) I am already thrilled, exhilarated and any other synonym you can think of for elated. My friends werenâ€™t kidding, this is awesome.