Although it’s never occurred to me to ask of other people, many people have asked me when I knew I was pregnant.  At first, I wondered if they were offended for not having learned sooner (and I often felt badly saying we knew two or three months ago!), but now I think it’s really a matter of curiosity.  And it’s a curious story, indeed, so here it is.

I started out this blog with a brief history of how John and I found one another and some of the important events and revelations that led to our relationship, our marriage, and now, our family.  I love telling our story.  I’m grateful for every twist and turn, the sweet moments that to the untrained eye might seem like coincidences, and all in all a fantastic chain of events that I couldn’t have dreamed up.

The way I came to realize that I was pregnant happened much in the same manner—although more strange, less sweet.

Early in January I was in the Verizon Wireless store near the subway stop closest to our apartment.  I’d recently gotten a new cell phone, and I was hearing an echo of my voice when I called my parent’s house and other landlines in that area code.  I’d tried a bunch of different solutions, and thought maybe switching devices would finally do the trick.  The kind folks at Verizon tried, but that didn’t work either, so before I left, I asked to switch my plan back to the phone I’d come in with.

At this point I’ve been standing for forty-five minutes or an hour.  I’m still wearing my pea coat and my Uggs (please don’t judge; my extremities get very cold in the winter).  And I start to get a little bit warm.  I unbutton my coat, take it off.  Not quite enough.  I consider taking a foot out of a boot.  But I don’t have socks on, and I’m in a public place in New York City, so I just kind of loosen it in the shoe.  Now I’m getting a bit woozy.  I reach in my purse for a lollipop I’ve had since the last time I went to the tailor’s at home (he still lets me take a DumDum whenever I’m in).  I’m crunching down and trying to pound the sugar into my system, when finally I decide it’s time to ask for some water.

The closest Verizon employee is helping a customer to my left.  I lean over, and as politely and clearly as I can manage, I ask if I could get some water.

Next thing I know I’m waking up on the floor of the store.  Someone is holding my head and somehow I’ve come to sit on a bench against the wall.  People are asking if I’m okay, should they call an ambulance.  I refuse most help, even though I’ve never passed out before and don’t really know what just happened—I’d eaten well that day, I’d had a bunch of glasses of water at work.  Half the attention I can muster is focused on trying to figure that out, while the other half is just trying to get me out of the store and home.  Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like I’ve made too much of a scene, but maybe I’m just not aware of it.

The kind lady next to me searches her purse for something to eat, but she’d just cleaned it out so she has nothing.  I ask for water fifty or sixty times until I learn a harsh truth.

They don’t have cups at Verizon.

Some kind soul must have gone to one of the vendors on the street, because in a few minutes I have a cold bottle of water in my hand, which I happily drink from.  The nice lady tells me I’m starting to “get my color back,” and in another few minutes I have my phone situation sorted out as best I can.  Finally I’m on my way home.

But all I can think is, how can a business that thrives on hand selling manage not to supply their employees with cups for water?  The world may never know.