I told my mother tonight.
We were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table having a good girl-talk gab session. We haven’t had one of those in a while. We were talking about Donte’s death and the funeral Saturday. Mum mentioned that while it was sad, it was still nice that Auntie Thelma still had four other grandchildren to love.
“And I don’t have any,” she said, half-jokingly.
I figured that was as good a time as any to drop my bomb.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked. She nodded, and I could tell she hadn’t the slightest inkling of what I was about to say. “I’m pregnant.”
“Yeah…?” She was shocked at first. I knew she was trying to process what I’d just told her. She was stunned. Confused. It just did not compute. I pulled the fabric of my dress tight and showed her my rounded belly.
And then it all sunk in.
She got up from her seat to hug me, laughing and crying at once. I laughed at her reaction – not meanly, just…happy – delighted, really, that I could finally deliver the news she’s waited so long to hear.
“You mean I’m going to be a grandma?” She asked, sitting back down and wiping her eyes. She was, as the British would say, well chuffed. She was beaming.
“Yes. Surprise, grandma!” I said, smiling.
Part of me is a little worried that I didn’t wait until my ultrasound, but I feel good; I’m healthy and the bean seems to be growing, so all I can do is cross my fingers and hope that nothing happens to take this away from her. From me. I’m getting attached to the idea of this little one.
Nine months is a long, long time.