If you would have asked me ten years ago where I saw myself in five, I never, in a million years, would have told you that I wanted to be a stay at home mom.

My goal was to graduate college, move to NYC and become an ad exec. Dreams, right? But then life happened… I met this really cool guy that I kind of liked, and kind of liked turned into making my heart skip beats. And he felt the same way, so we got married and bought a house and never moved out of state.

We tried for… well, a long time — for three years after we got married. I was so convinced that I didn’t have an actual problem, that I put off seeking treatment. I finally saw my gyno in winter 2009, who sent me for blood work. He wasn’t happy with the results and referred me to a reproductive endocrinologist for further evaluation, who ran 5 months’ worth of tests and diagnosed me with poly-cystic ovarian syndrome — which is really just a mouthful for Mrs. Jump Rope is overweight with multiple cysts on both ovaries and probably can’t have kids (which I suppose is a mouthful too).

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Then I was faced with another challenge. I was in a wedding  last summer, and the bride frequently questioned when we would be pregnant. I’m sure she meant well, but I can’t tell you how painful it was every time she asked me if we were pregnant yet. Or “do you know when you’ll be pregnant?” or “how far along do you think you’ll be in XX month?” I couldn’t predict these things, and if I could, I wouldn’t be undergoing fertility treatments. Didn’t she understand how insensitive it was to ask me these questions? That it killed me a little bit inside every time she asked me about us starting a family? That it was not a big deal for me to buy a bridesmaid dress because worst case scenario, I’d have to buy a larger dress (in case we were pregnant at her wedding) and have it taken in (if we weren’t). Or that it wasn’t any of her business?

{Thailand 2010 — we took a little trip to get away from it all}

Around that time it seemed like everyone around me was pregnant, and every other day there was a new announcement on Facebook that someone else was expecting. I tried to feel excited for them, but I selfishly admitted that a tiny part of me was jealous and wishing it were me. Jealousy is one of the ugliest emotions, yet I felt it all the time. I did my best to try to be strong, but hearing “Did you know that so-and-so is pregnant?” over and over again was a painful reminder that we were alone. That we didn’t have kids. That we might not have kids. That I was broken.

I had been hoping for joy, but preparing for heartache. There was absolutely no guarantee that we’d ever become pregnant, but the odds were (thankfully) in our favor. But after several rounds of unsuccessful treatments, I couldn’t help but wonder if this would ever happen for us.

By January 2011, I was undergoing yet another treatment.  My RE Specialist doubled the dose and the length of time I was supposed to take Clomid, so this “double whammy” was really supposed to do the trick. If it didn’t, then we’d move on to something else, like an IUI. I was supposed to be able to take a pregnancy test on February 13th/14th. I already had my test bought because that’s what I do… get excited, anxious and hopeful.

I’d been having a lot of pain, and it was something I’ve never experienced before. I called my RE’s office in a bit of a panic, and was told that it could possibly be two things: my follicles growing or ovarian hyper-stimulation.  I was asked to come in that Sunday for an ultrasound.  A million thoughts raced through my mind.  A Sunday?!  Were they serious?  How bad could this be?!  My ultrasound Sunday morning revealed that I had 12 healthy follicles, and three mature. THREE!!  That was a huge increase from the big fat zero I had the previous month, so I jumped for joy (literally) when I found out that the Clomid worked this round.

They seemed surprised that I hadn’t ovulated yet, and told me to expect a positive in the morning on my ovulation kit. But that morning there wasn’t a smiley face, and that made me very discouraged.  I tested again the next two mornings, but never had a positive result. I had one OPK test left and on a whim, decided to take it late that afternoon.  I got my first – and only! – positive ovulation predictor kit on February 2 in the late afternoon, after that morning’s OPK had been negative!  All this means is that my body was preparing for ovulation, and I should expect it to occur within 36 hours. It’s not an exact science, but it does take out some of the guesswork when trying to figure out your cycle.

About a week later, I started feeling funny. My breasts were sore, I had mild cramping, and exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe how tired I was. I googled my symptoms and diagnosed myself with every disease under the sun. I read fertility message boards, trying to see if other women experienced the same symptoms. I decided I was just going to get my period and these were PMS symptoms. And then, I just had to wait. Was my period going to come? When could I start testing? Was I going to be able to handle another negative result?

I started testing on Friday, February 11. Negative.
February 12, Negative.
February 13, Negative.

I told myself that I wasn’t going to test again until Tuesday, but on Monday, which wasValentine’s Day, I just had a feeling. I bought a test during my lunch break at work, took it later that afternoon and literally said to myself, “Holy S**T that’s a line.”

It was positive.

But I had to be sure, so I took another test. Positive. I took a picture (lame, I know) and texted it to my sister.  “How many lines do you see? TWO. What’s that mean?” I guess she figured it out, because she called me and there was lots of screaming and squealing and jumping up and down.  I raced to the store and bought a unisex onesie and wrapped it up for Mr. Jumper. I didn’t want to just blurt it out to him, but I didn’t want to do anything over the top either. It was Valentine’s Day, so I figured he wouldn’t suspect me giving him a gift.

I waited for what seemed like forever for him to get home from work. He came in carrying a dozen long stemmed roses for me, and I didn’t even pay attention to them. I threw them on the couch and I told him that I had something for him, too, and gave him the tiny present.

I will never forget the look on his face when he unwrapped his present.  He looked confused at first, but then you could see the wheels turning in his brain and suddenly he registered what exactly it was that I was giving him.


Littlest Jumper, wearing the onesie I bought for Papa Jump, on Valentine’s Day 2012

It was so surreal. We did this. WE MADE THIS. It was made with love.

I saved three roses from the bouquet Mr. Jumper had given me:  One for me, one for him, and one for Baby Jumper.  This Valentine’s Day, Mr. Jumper came home with two bouquets — long stemmed red roses for me, and a long stemmed pink rose for Baby Jumper.

When did you find out you were pregnant with your baby?