I didn’t mean to get pregnant with Babboo. That’s right, my Sweet Babboo was an accident. An oops! An unplanned and unexpected pregnancy.

In the grand scheme of things, he was very much planned. Just maybe not for that specific month.

When I found out I was pregnant with Babboo we had just returned from a glorious (and topless) vacation in Tulum, Mexico. I thought my period was so late because of the international traveling.

Or because of all the fish tacos I ate.

(Have you ever eaten a fish taco from a street vendor in Mexico? If not, I highly recommend it.)

My period was late and I wasn’t too concerned. You see, I had spent the last seven months pregnant. I knew what being pregnant felt like. I knew what day I ovulated. Day 14, just like most women. I knew what days I had participated in acts that would render me knocked-up.

As far as I was concerned, I was not pregnant. Being pregnant was not on my radar.

If you’re new here to holaisabel.com you might have missed the few times where I mentioned that Babboo was actually my third pregnancy. After experiencing two miscarriages at 9 weeks pregnant I discovered that I am the proud recipient of a genetic blood disorder that allows my body to self-abort fetuses.

After discovering why my body kept rejecting perfectly good babies and learning how to avoid the repeat occurrence, The King and I decided to hold off on trying to make another baby. At this point we knew that I could get pregnant at the drop of a hat (you know, a hat covered in semen). We also knew that going through yet another miscarriage might physically break our hearts in two.

And so we had stopped thinking about babies and the art of making babies. At least until the hole in our hearts healed.

Months passed and we slowly forgot pushed the memory of our miscarried babies out of our minds. I boxed up the few pieces of maternity wear I had purchased. I put away my copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and life went back to normal.

I looked at my planner. Again. And then again. I checked the dates and noted my markings. (Like most woman who are of baby-making age, I was a pro at tracking my cycle, even though we weren’t actively trying to get pregnant. Dude at this point we were actively trying to not get pregnant.) Since I had the two pregnancies to prove it, I knew without a showdown of a doubt what day I ovulated. And honey, my notes indicated that nothing sex-ay had occurred near those dates.

And yet, still no visit from my monthly friend visitor nuisance.

On a whim I bought my one and only pregnancy test from The Dollar Store we passed on the way to dinner with friends who lived in the ‘burbs.

As I recall I took the test the next day. Or maybe even the day after that. What was the hurry? While it was a little daunting to find a cup I wanted to pee in and very confusing to figure out how to mix the powders and what to use to dip, I was pretty sure I took the test correctly.

After the allotted time I got the No Loser, You Aren’t Pregnant! message from my $1 pee stick. I went and informed The King and patiently waited for my period to start flowing. Fifteen minutes later and still no period. (Hey, I honestly thought it was all psychological and as soon as I knew I wasn’t pregnant, my period would arrive.) Eventually I went back to the bathroom and more specifically, the trash can.

I looked at the pee stick again. Against my better judgment. I knew they pregnancy test people say to never look at “delayed results”. But um, my $1 pregnancy stick was now very surly stating that I was with child.

I was horrified. How had this happened? I mean, besides the whole “semen meet egg” thing, how did this happen? I was a pro at getting pregnant. I seriously knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what day of my cycle resulted in babies. I had control of my body and my fertility. I had proven it two previous times.

I told The King about our impending parenthood and with a blank look on my face I went back to my planner and rechecked my schedule (again!). Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little “x” on day 21 of my cycle.

For those of you that aren’t familiar with the key to my cycle schedule (and hey, why would you be), an “x” means I engaged in sexual activities that day.

I quickly flipped back to September. The month of my first conception. Yep, another “x” on day 21.

And then I looked at January. Day 21. Another damn “x”.

And now I looked at June and saw the third, and most recent “x”.

Day 21.

I had it all wrong. All this time I was dead a@@ wrong. Those months of tracking and counting and being so careful I had it wrong.

I was like one of those pregnant teenagers that realizes that you can, in fact, get pregnant on your first time, or standing up, or in a hot tub, or any other myth out there.

We were okay with being pregnant again. While it was a shock and a surprise, clearly The King and I weren’t against having a baby together.

We were simply against miscarriages.

A quick call to my doctor assured us that this time, there would be no miscarriages. With the help of some simple vitamins and a few other things she pert near promised us that this pregnancy would grant us a take-home-baby.

And thus we looked forward to the upcoming 34 weeks with anticipation and hope.

Of course the pregnancy went off without a hitch and we got the best take-home-baby in the world. At least we think so.

I still keep my planner updated with a little “x” every now and again. And I remind myself that it’s day 21, not day 14.

DAY 21!