I don’t remember exactly what day it was, but I remember it clearly: I was standing in a coworker’s office and I could tell that my office phone was ringing. I picked it up from Marie’s desk.

It was Cigna calling with the results of a pregnancy blood test they’d drawn the day before. Good news! they said. Baby! they said. I nodded, promised to make an appointment, hung up, and hightailed it down the hall to my office, with only a detour into my boss’ office to burst into tears with the overwhelmingness of it all.

I still don’t blame myself. This was my fourth child under the age of 8, after all, and that’s a lot of kids when you’re holding down a full time job.

My boss was wonderful. Judy was so excited about a baby coming and she made it sound as if she’d been hoping I’d start a new job with her and promptly get knocked up and need maternity leave.

Once I staggered out of her office and into my own, I sat down to make the most important phone call: not to Dad, Interrupted, who was also so excited to have another baby coming. Not to my best friend, who knew enough not to say “AGAIN?” to me. Not to my mom, who would exhale sharply and point out that God doesn’t give us anything more than we can handle. No, the most important phone call was to the company-sponsored day care center to reserve a spot for same time, next year in the baby room.

This place was paradise for day care. On site, so I got visits from my wee one in the baby buggy. On site, so I could run over and give him lunch. Paid for with a payroll deduction. Clean, new, and fabulous.

So yeah: the second person to find out I was pregnant that day was the person who would save my upcoming, working-mother-of-four life. The day care director.

P.S. As I’ve made it abundantly clear: I was overwhelmed that day. I’ve been grateful every day since that little guy was born. That’s a trade I’ll take.

What the heck is she doing now?

© E. Stocking Evans 2016