The Tale of Mom Telling Dad She Was Pregnant

It was a pretty ordinary Monday.  I was closing the store.  On the nights I closed, your mother would call me when she got home from her job at the call center for the mortgage company so we could have a few minutes to share our days.  So when around six p.m. the announcement over the P. A. said I had a call on line one I had no reason to suspect it was anything more than our usual chat.

Mere words cannot describe.

I picked up the phone in the stockroom and heard your mother sobbing--she had recently moved into my apartment and my first thought was that something had happened to Squeakers.  Through her sobs your mother blurted,  "When I got home I took a pregnancy test and I'm pregnant."

Believe it or not, the first thought I had was, "God, if ever you let me say the right thing, please let it be now."  The thought had barely escaped my head when over the P. A. came the announcement:  "Mark to the Service Desk for an override!" Being the only manager on duty for the evening, I told your Mom I had been paged and was heading to the front of the store--just relax, I told her, I'll be right back. 

On my way to the front of the store, it dawned on me that this was a matter that might best be discussed in the office, so I decided to take care of the override and head to the manager's office for some privacy.  After I had taken care of the override, I picked up the phone at the Service Desk to tell your mother I was going to the office, when over the P. A. came the cry, "Mark to Layaway for an override!"

I walked as fast as my two little legs could carry me to Layaway (naturally, on the other side of the store).  I took care of the customer there, and had just picked up the phone to tell your Mom I was heading to the office (alas, also at the other end of the store), when over the P. A. came the announcement, "Mark to Sporting Goods for a license!"

A lesser man would have had a nervous breakdown at this point, but not your Dad.  I merely cursed the day I was ever born and headed to the Sporting Goods counter to sell a nice young man a license to shoot Bambi.  Once finished, I reached for the phone--do I dare?-- and told your mother I was finally going to the office.

Once there, the only thing I remember is making some lame comment about her craving ice cream and pickles which elicited a small laugh from your mother (considering the lameness quotient of the comment, the miracle that was your conception wasn't the only one of that February--your mother didn't bail out on my fanny, too).

You should know, however, that for the next nine months your mother kept the Claussen pickle company in business--two jars a week's worth.

                                                                                  The End