I want my Mommy

Okay, so there's a cross.  Shit.  There's a cross. A friggin' blue cross on this friggin' pregnancy test.
(Insert a rather long and colourful Tourette's syndrome-worthy diatribe)

Hands start shaking and the tears start running... Tyler is so excited and I'm just shaking and the first thing that pops into my head - I want my Mommy.  Not a rational "I should inform my parents of this developing situation" kind of impulse, but the I-just-fell-off-my-bike-and-only-Mommy-can-make-it-better kind of impulse.
Thank God for speed dial on my crackberry because I don't know if I do more than hold down one button right now.  Phone ringing... Ah... Mommy answers.  Try to sound cool although I realize my voice sounds closer to the suppressed panic of one being chased by an axe murderer.  Of course, being THE MOMMY, she knows something's up.  I tell her I have a little surprise and that - I'm pregnant.
I can hear it in her voice.  She is struggling between concern for her one and only daughter who seems set on having a slight aneurysm and sheer delight - the fact that, after so many years of hope and eventual waning of said hope, she was going to get to be, better late than never, THE GRANDMA.  Not the Auntie, or the Cousin, but THE GRANDMA.
You see my Mom loves babies.  I know, I know, you're saying who's Mom doesn't like babies? I mean my Mom really loves babies.  To the point that family members know they will have a blood match on their hands if my mother does not get her requisite time holding the newborn.  She even spends her free time as a volunteer at the hospital as a baby hugger - she can sit for HOURS (not even a slight exaggeration) cuddling and cooing and rocking at least once a week.
Crap, my child isn't gonna learn to walk until they're 2 because she isn't gonna put them down.
Where's Dad when I need him.