Ah, the age-old question. But there is nothing philosophical here. At least not yet.
I am Katie–a wife, a mother, a business owner, a dreamer, a bit of a control freak, and an extremely tired pregnant lady. In may ways, I am an everywoman. I married my high school sweetheart and started trying to have a family not long after. About eight months into that endeavor, we were told that we would never become pregnant on our own. Ever. Sure, we would have a good chance with IVF, since the fertility doctor could “give us the baby that our God wouldn’t” (seriously, he said that to me), but don’t expect any spontaneous manifestations of our love for one another.
After four years of trying, giving up, praying, and trying to decide which way to go in, we finally adopted our oldest son, N. Even though we adopted domestically, we were not a couple with “mini-me” syndrome. We are both white, with light brown hair and blue/green eyes. N. is biracial–beautiful honey-brown skin, dark brown eyes, and curly black hair. Even as a toddler, he had no body fat, was working on a six-pack, and had the most unbelievably long, thin legs. Our genetics could not have ever produced a child like that. He is handsome, sweet, energetic, and very emotional. He is now 4 1/2 years old.
When N. was eight months old, something very unexpected happened. I became pregnant. No doners, no medical procedures, no doctors, no timing. Just the experience of randomly throwing up one day (I pretty much NEVER do that), then having a positive pregnancy test. Well, not the first test. For some reason, I don’t seem to show positive when they say that I should. It was the test I took two weeks later that confirmed what a missed period already suggested–I was pregnant. I had a pretty uneventful pregnancy, a labor from hell, and my second son, W., was delivered by c-section 31 hours after they started the pitocin. He was big, his head was bigger, and he was facing the wrong way. There was no way that he was going to come out on his own, but part of me (and it was a small part) regretted that I missed my one chance at experiencing actual childbirth. W. is about to turn 3.
I settled into the happy craziness of having two sons. Since we knew what caused our infertility, we had tests redone to see if anything had changed. We were told that the problem was still there, and still extremely severe. We should take this pregnancy for the miracle that it was and never expect it to happen again. Between the infertility and the fact that I was breastfeeding, we didn’t bother with birth control. Eight months later–you guessed it–I was pregnant again. Another uneventful pregnancy, a hard-earned VBAC (even though he was every bit as big as his brother, he at least had the courtesy to be in the correct position), and son number three, C., entered our family. He is now 1 1/2.
We didn’t bother with any more fertility tests after that. We just decided to be more careful. For awhile we were really good, but then we relaxed a bit. When C. was eight months old–nothing happened. No pregnancy. Just the normal hectic life with three little boys. We relaxed some more. Four years of infertility makes you feel pretty silly being THAT careful. When C. was 14 months old, I became pregnant again (bet you didn’t see that coming-ha!). Oh well, at least I bought myself an extra six months this time.
As it is, I am almost 20 weeks along with child number four. I have my ultrasound later this week and will find out if this is, yet again, another boy. I admit, at this point, I’m hoping for a girl. But I won’t be crushed if I get another son–heck, I at least know what to do with them. A girl would be all new territory for me.