I have a lot of “things” that I can say are “my thing.”

Being able to sing all of the lyrics to every Coolio and Salt-N-Peppa song ever released? My thing.

Knowing an abundance of useless eighties movie trivia? My thing. In fact, I am the reigning undisputed champion.

Tying a knot in a cherry stem using only my tongue? Totally my thing. And also a great way to score a date while out at the bars. Because if I can do that with my tongue, I must have mad skills with other tongue-related activities, right?

Wrong.

But peeing on command? Yeah, that is sooo not my thing. Even after a liter of apple juice.

This one time at Christmas, when I was in college, my mom told my then boyfriend Leo how I used to sing America the Beautiful when I would go to the bathroom when I was little like the music would somehow coax my body into compliance. For the rest of the visit, Leo would stand outside the bathroom door humming patriotic tunes whenever I was trying to take care of business.

I look at the white stick in my hand and anxiously bounce my foot against the tile floor of Tara’s guest bathroom.

Oh, why the hell not?

“O’ beautiful, for spacious skies … for amber waves of grain … ” I start singing softly before I am so rudely interrupted.

“How’s it going in there?” Tara asks from the other side of the door as she taps her knuckles against the wood.

“I have stage fright!”

“Um, okay? Is that why you’re serenading me?”

“No,” I sheepishly retort. “My bladder is shy.”

“So you were serenading your bladder? Okay, then,” Tara says matter-of-factly.

I hear her footsteps trail off down the hall, and I look at a random hole in my undies. I’m a mess. It’s a miracle that Jeff even wants to have sex with me.

Then it happens.

I hear Tara belting at the top of her lungs from a few rooms away. “For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plains!”

By the time she gets to from “sea to shining sea,” the moment of relief has come, and I’m peeing faster than a racehorse.

At the sound of the flushing toilet, Tara bursts into the bathroom. We’ve never been friends with personal barriers. She probably would have held the stick in between my legs if I’d asked her.

“Did you do the deed?”

Oh, I did the deed all right. A few weeks ago when a security guard held my Spanx ransom in front of my boyfriend’s family and closest friends.

“Yeah. And now we wait.”

I set the stick of fate on the side of the sink and wash my hands. Tara closes the door behind her and leans against it, examining the pregnancy test without actually touching it.

“Well, it looks like we don’t have to wait for long.”

I dry my hands on my shirt and look at her, then down at the test. My heart is in my throat and my stomach at my feet. A faint little pink plus sign slowly appears and grows increasingly bolder over the next minute.

Stupid little stick.

“Maybe it’s a false positive?” I try to convince myself weakly.

“Or maybe you really are pregnant?” Tara wraps her arm around my shoulder. My breath quivers and my body starts to shake even though no tears fall. “Hey now, this is really exciting. Babies are good things.”

“Right. Babies are good things when you’re emotionally and financially and mentally equipped to handle it. I’m not even married. Jeff is gonna freak out. He’s going to leave.”

“Don’t you even worry about him. Women have been having babies without men for ages, and now, more than ever. I can go with you to all of your appointments if you want. We’ll let the doctors think we’re the ultimate lesbian tag team.”

“Do you have any idea how totally un-p.c. that is of you to say?”

Tara just shrugs and brushes me off. My eyes zero back in on the little white stick and the pink plus sign that has changed everything forever.

“Maybe …? Maybe he simply won’t notice?”

“And maybe, just maybe, you’re going to give birth to a polka-dotted unicorn that will sing America the Beautiful to you every time you head to the bathroom?”

My glare at her says it all without even muttering a word.

“Oh, sorry. The thought of a unicorn horn ripping through your vag probably isn’t one you want. It’d be like a self-inflicted episiotomy.”

“Episioto-what?”

“Never mind.” Tara’s shoulders rise and fall as she sighs. “But you are going to tell him, right?” I hesitate, and she shoots me the silent scolding look that she’s perfected over the years with her triplets.

“Right.” The word comes out more like a question than an affirmation, but I know she’s right. In a few months, I’m not going to be able to convince him that I look ginormous because I ate a really big burger for lunch. I mean, that will probably stop working once I hit the second trimester.

“Everything will be okay, Henley. You … You will be okay.” Tara gives me a small, friendly smile like the kind you’d give a persnickety old lady you nearly ran into with your shopping cart at the grocery store. It feels all too polite, and I don’t like it. I know she’s being genuine when she gives me the beefy grin of a fourteen-year-old boy who is hiding a secret stash of porno mags underneath his mattress.

“I’ll be okay,” I repeat, nodding. Because it’s true. In the future, I will be okay.

Just not right now.

My heart sinks, and I shut my eyes tightly, trapping the threatening tears.

“Oh, sweetie …” Tara pulls me into her arms.

“I’m so scared,” I whisper into her shoulder.

“Shhh…” Tara runs her fingers through my hair. “You weren’t scared of that dick, though,” she feebly jokes. I don’t find it funny, though.

“What have I gotten myself into?” If you can’t have a complete meltdown in front of your best friend, then who can you meltdown in front of?

“Hey now, pregnancy is a little fucked up, but the end result is pretty fantastic. Let’s get a few things straight—you don’t have contractions. You have birthquakes. Everyone, especially strangers, thinks they’re entitled to put their grimy hands on your stomach. Pregnancy brain will make you do a ton of stupid shit, like getting in the tub while you’re fully clothed, and don’t even get me started on trying to shave your snatch patch once you hit the third trimester. It’s as if Edward Scissorhands and Stevie Wonder’s secret love child are all up in your business.” She cracks a sinister smile that makes me more worried than relieved.

“In short, the next nine months and eighteen years are going to be the most horrifically glorious time of your life, Henley. Come on, let’s move this party to the couch and I’ll tell you all about it.”