I know nothing about karma, really. But I think I had a healthy dose of it during the past week.

For years, I’ve scoffed at dumb teen girls who find themselves in the unenviable position of decision-making regarding an unplanned pregnancy. I felt truly sorry for my dear friends who faced changing their lives to accommodate a child they hadn’t planned, but at the same time, secretly felt superior, knowing I would never make such a foolish blunder.

Well, apparently, karma is a bitch. And to be honest, my holier than thou attitude was just aching for a slap in the face. And I got it in spades.

I’ve been dealing with low-grade nausea for what seems like forever, but is more like three weeks. The nurse practioner waved it off as a virus. I was always tired. Virus, she said. I began eating everything in sight, especially anything with the words cinnamon or red meat attached to it, which was beginning to wreak havoc with my recent 45 pound weight loss. One night, as we lay in bed, Stephen patted my tummy and joked about our baby.

And I promptly freaked out.

I remembered that I had utterly fouled up my birth control pill cycle last month. I remembered that as careful and responsible as we like to think we are, there had been more than one occasion when, well, we weren’t. I remembered that people in my family are more fertile than the Nile valley after a good flood.

And then I freaked out even more.

I broached the subject with Stephen. We had an amazing conversation, reaffirming my love for him and my resolve in maintaining our relationship. We talked calmly, rationally, honestly, for several hours. Emotions ran high and we came to the best decision for us at this time, were we to be pregnant. And we also decided I was going to be peeing on a stick at the very first opportunity to see if all the worrying was for naught.

I sat at my desk and worried incessantly the next day. My mind flip-flopped from being happy at the prospect of having a baby to be utterly horrified at the thought of being unmarried and pregnant. I was secure in our decision, but at the same time, worried if it was really what we wanted or if it was more what we thought we should do. I decided mid-morning to pay a visit to the CVS across the street from police headquarters.

Now, I should have KNOWN better,right? The close proximity to my place of employment? Not a good thing. The fact that I make a daily run to said store for my fix of Oasis Balance Bars and chewing gum? Also, working against me at this point. Because, you see, I ran into two officers who wanted to chit chat at the pregnancy test/condom display, while I turned a very becoming shade of scarlet. And then at the check-out counter, the very sweet woman with whom I exchange pleasantries daily, looks down at my purchase and nearly squeals in delight, “Ooooh! A baby! Are you excited? Happy?” I very much wanted to snark, “Look, ring up the fucking thing and shut up with the squealing before one of the pigs I work with comes over to investigate!” I merely shrugged and swiped my oft-abused Visa. Lemme tell ya, peace of mind in the form of an Early Alert Pregnancy test does not come cheap, my friends.

And peace of mind was not to come until the next morning, anyway. Apparently, it’s only the first morning pee that can tell you whether or not you’re going to be dodging militant pro-life nut cases at the clinic or whether you can breathe a sigh of relief until your next period. Stephen came over that night and we watched t.v., talked, and worried ourselves insane. We fell asleep,scared, resigned, and holding one another.

The next morning, I practically vaulted into the bathroom to pee on the stick. After the enduring the longest two minutes of my life, I let out a jubilant, “YES!” and Stephen, who had been standing at the door, laughed and hugged me.

And we vowed to be more careful. We love each other. We will be married. We want babies. We just don’t want one right now.

**orginally written last month; please don't write to me to take me to task for carelessness. We use condoms and birth control pills. We thought of naming our child Broken Condom Necon 35. So there.