Good evening, and welcome back to Nighty Night with Robbie A. Chaudhary. Bedtime stories to keep you awake.

I'm DJ Lubell, the show's producer. Tonight's tale is about a child who seems to know too much.

Please enjoy California dreaming.

When I got the news, I was squatting awkwardly in a gas station bathroom, staring at that tail tail little plastic stick.

Three to five minutes, that's how long the package had told me to wait. It felt like hours.

Those two thin blue lines were simultaneously the most beautiful and most terrifying thing in the world.

I wasn't sure whether I wanted to jump for joy or throw up. Well, I definitely wanted to throw up, but that wasn't due to any sort of emotional outburst.

A series of sharp knocks at the door interrupted my personal emotional roller coaster. A roadtripper was losing what little patients she had.

I postponed any up-chucking for later, pulled up my blue jeans, and slunk out the door as the woman glared at me from behind her cat eye shades.

My husband, Alan, gave me a perplexed look as I hopped into the car he'd just finished filling with gas.

He made a few carful jokes about wondering if I'd fallen in while taking care of my business to dispel the palpable tension that hung over us.

We hadn't exactly been trying to get pregnant, but we talked about how having a little one running around might not be the worst thing in the world.

I could tell he had been getting the same suspicions I had been wrestling with since that first bout of morning sickness.

Thankfully, his response to the news didn't contain that trace of terror that mine had. He'd always been more the optimist, the voice of reason that drowned out my constant cynicism.

Still, I couldn't help but feel it was easy for him to be excited in this case because he knew he wouldn't be the one having to give birth.

Still, his jubilant settled my doubts, and soon I began fantasizing about little baby booties and onesies.

Mine wasn't an easy pregnancy, but then easy pregnancy is probably only existed in whatever universe unicorns and Instagram influencers lived in.

Luckily, I had Alan to lend a hand. He was ever the patient and doting father to be.

There were never any complaints from him as he rushed to the supermarket at all hours of the night to purchase yet another jar of pickles and a box of chocolate chip cookies.

I used to dunk the cookies into the pickle juice. Don't knock until you try it. He never questioned my mood swings, never told me to calm down or that I was overreacting.

He just took it all and stride and offered a hug or tissue when needed. Not even when I was nine months pregnant, taking up 80% of the bed with my giant belly and cocoon of pillows, did he so much as a grown.

I had the perfect husband, and he would be the perfect father for our baby. Or so, I thought.

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