The Discovery

While on a recent overseas holiday, we found it necessary to take a pregnancy test.  This was merely a precaution, as clearly jet-lag was to blame for Wifey's pregnant-like symptoms and this would confirm that fact.  Well, so we thought.

We had once before felt it necessary to take a pregnancy test.  That time around a bun-in-the-oven would have been rather poorly timed: living arrangements were not ideal and there was the big overseas holiday in the works.  Yet, all the same, as the golden 2 minute mark passed and I peered upon the magic wand that could determine my destiny, I was struck by an intriguing disappointed sensation when it displayed a negative result.  I'm not sure if it was my overwhelming internal paternal desire, or a masochistic addiction to drama.

So what do you do when you ARE faced with a positive test?  Well the instructions (which I have read cover to cover...thrice) tell you to contact a doctor.  However, being 23 (and thus having learnt most of what I know about life, love, sex and babies from popular culture), I know better: you take more tests.

One week later we arrived home and made an almost immediate appointment with Wifey's doctor.  She would confirm (or deny) what we thought we knew with her bigger, better, doctory test.

"So why do you think you're pregnant?"

"I'm late and I took a test...well...four."

"And they were all positive?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations, you're pregnant."