1983

Something must have gone terribly wrong with the spermicidal foam I had counted on for years to attack the little vermin before one of them could become too attached to a lonely, waiting egg in my clearly fertile womb. My husband had been the grateful recipient of a trip to Hong Kong on business and it was definitely my pleasure to accompany him. My parents generously volunteered to take care of our two daughters, Heather and Vanessa, while we were away.

It was a very...did I say very...long flight from Dallas, Texas, to Hong Kong, and in 1983 no one was safe from the smokers at the back of the plane. The sun never went down. Honestly, it was daylight all the way from Dallas to Tokyo. It is not my disposition to sleep when I am excited and cigarette smoke makes me nauseous. Probably a throwback from the long drives in the family car when my dad smoked with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on. I threw up at a lot of gas stations and roadside parks. I once puked on my Christmas doll. My mother cleaned the doll up with gasoline which, it seems, sealed the rather disgusting odors of both gas and puke into her plastic skin for eternity.

When we arrived in Hong Kong from Tokyo, it had somehow become the middle of the night. However, my body clock was fatally destroyed by then; so, as my husband slept away, I sat by the window looking at the slumbering Pearl of the Orient, antsy for the morning light. The ebony, star-flung sky had slowly evolved into the early pinkish light of dawn when I decided it was time for Bill to get up and take an early morning run with me so that we could see Hong Kong awaken. After all, he had enjoyed a good four hours of sleep. Bill is a beautiful man with a wonderful heart (and great legs); so, he did not seem to hate me for ever so gently jumping on the bed to awaken him from near comatose sleep. My man did not even need coffee to help him find the energy to don Nike's, shorts, and tee-shirt and hit the dew-slicked streets of this wondrous Asian metropolis.

We stand out in Asia. Both of us are very tall and fair. Add running and sweaty to the mix and we were a virtual circus kicking it through downtown. Hong Kong waked up rather quickly, I thought. The sun had just made its way, golden-pink and voluminous, over the horizon, sending rays of sparkle and sheen onto the Pacific Ocean when the women stepped out onto their porches to set up their Buddha shrines. The air was permeated with the heavy sweet fragrance of incense sticks and oranges. School girls were already appearing on the streets, helping their mothers with the preparations for the day. Merchants were loading their carts with their goods, and the aroma of rice and chicken broth already wafted through the misty air from the clusterings of urban homes.

On the edge of the downtown area was a large park with swaying cypress trees that seemed to caress both the blue sky and the emerald grass at once. Beneath the spreading arms of the mighty cypresses, the graceful, slow motion "tai chi" movements of a group of elderly Chinese men and women were so precise they looked almost like tiny wind-up dolls all set in motion at once.

As we careened back toward the hotel, a school rose up on the horizon before us. We heard the giggles and laughter before we actually saw the beautiful Asian children with black hair shining and procelain skin flushed scurrying happily onto the playground. I felt almost as if I had been the one who had awakened each of them that morning and sent them packing off to school, or at least that they had arisen early to their day just to bring me the joy of seeing them aglow in the post-dawn sunshine.

There were, of course, the Stanley Market, the downtown jewelry district, the boat people and all the wonderful food to enjoy in Hong Kong. We also spent one night in Canton, China. I will never again see so many bicycles, so many perfect little doll-faced Chinese babies, or come eye to eye with such a diversity of entire roasted, baked, broiled and boiled wildlife that looked back at me, dead-eyed and mournful, from a plate in the center of the table. I am a pretty good sport, but I passed on the "hog's eye."

Hong Kong was enchanting and romantic, and we returned to Texas with suitcases full of cloisonne and rice bowls, tapestries and photographs, and a sperm that got away from the pack. Of course, he and the egg conspired together to keep their little secret from the rest of us for a few weeks. We all thought everything was perfectly safe. However, a month passed and it became clear to me that I needed to buy an early pregnancy test because I had a nagging suspicion and feared espionage. It could be asked why I decided to make my drugstore purchase on a night when my husband was out of town on business. It is not something I would recommend. Advanced technology is such an amazing time and sleep saver. In 1983, a woman had to wait to take an early pregnancy test until her first morning pee so that all those hormones could have time to swim around and group up and play for a while. Of course, I was not sleeping because I was waiting for a dampened stick to answer yes or no to my pregnancy question. When the clock ultimately slowly slid its little arms to shape 5:00 a.m., I burst out of bed like an extricated prisoner of war and ran to the bathroom. The truth of the conspiracy between egg and sperm was confirmed. I was "with child."

Holding the little plastic stick and looking at the evidence of the hormonal collusion, I pondered at once the miracle of the new person within me determined to come forth in about eight months and the shock of such a life-altering event sneaking up on us like this. I wandered in my motherly daze back into my bedroom and sat down on the side of the bed. I allowed the joy to seep into my consciousness. Our daughters were seven and nine years old at time. I had been done with nursing and baby beds, strollers and spit-up, high chairs and baby food for quite some time. However, unlike many mothers, I loved being pregnant and thrived on motherhood. This would not be so bad. Just had to rethink life a bit. Maybe it's a boy! That would be so great. Our girls will love this. It'll be like having a doll to play with! But what if they drop the baby? What will Bill say when he hears the news? I looked at the colored dot on the plastic indicator and welcomed our new little family member.

I wanted desperately to tell someone. It was the time before cell phones and texting and I had no number for Bill; so, I would have to wait to hear from him. How many hours until that call? I glanced at the clock. I did a double-take. It said 4:15 a.m. How was it possible that the clock could lose an hour? I retrieved my wristwatch from the dresser. Sure enough, 4:15 a.m. I was certain it was 5 a.m. when I got up! Who am I going to share this great, impossible, miraculous news with at 4:15 a.m.? The newspaper person was not even up yet! E.P.T. stick still in hand, I walked around my darkened home pregnant with an announcement I could not give birth to until at least dawn.

Then I remembered Daddy. He was always up early. Quelling the urge to call right then, I sat on the couch in the living room and counted down the minutes until 4:30. That seemed to my addled sense of decorum to be so much less rude than calling at the ridiculous hour of 4:15! And Daddy loved little children. I wonder if it is a boy. I really want a little boy. But, if it's a girl, that will be wonderful, too - I mean, I just want a healthy baby. I hope I have enough energy to do this again. After all, I am thirty-four years old. Will people think that's just too old? It's not really that old. Oh, well, I was old when I gave birth to Heather. I did not start having babies until I was twenty-six. The girls are going to freak out! What time is it now? 4:20! I still had ten more minutes.

Patience not being my most prominent virtue (in reality it is way down the list), I jumped up from the couch and headed for the telephone in the kitchen. Certain that the paperboy had to be up by now, I reckoned it to be okay to call Daddy. I dialed the number as my heart beat wildly. My mind was already rehearsing the announcement that would make my dad's heart beat faster, too.

Ring. Ring. I should have been embarrassed, calling so early. Ring. Ring. Oh, Daddy, please be up!

Click. "Hello?"

"Daddy, were you up?"

"Yes, Kay." Pause. Early morning swallow. Of course, I woke him. Clearing his throat, he asked,"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm pregnant!"

Now he was awake, and maybe not sorry that he was!

"I took an early pregnancy test this morning and...." looking again at the colored dot.."it says I'm pregnant!"

"That's wonderful, Kay! Maybe it is our boy!"

"That's what I was thinking, too, Daddy! Looks like it'll be a Christmas baby!"

There were so many things my daddy did not say to his overly anxious, newly pregnant middle daughter before daylight that morning. He did not say that I woke him too early; why didn't I wait until the sun came up at least. Nor did he say, "You know the doctor said you should not do this again." He was, instead, joyful - ecstatic, actually - and animated and hopeful; he encouraged and blessed me. I loved my daddy.