We Make Three

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’ve been married to Michael for nearly 20 years. This man saved me. I’m not kidding. And I will always love him for that.

I was only 20 when we got married. Even at that young age, I realized that I had everything to learn about life. We both understood that starting a family would wait while we developed ourselves, our careers, and focused on our marriage. We had nothing for our start together other than the china and crystal from our wedding registry. Not even a couch. It was a meager beginning, but still a heady time for us. We had nothing but each other and our independence. I love how we started our relationship, and I love that we sacrificed and made our way without any help.

Life happened to us. We bought our home, built our careers, and enjoyed our lives together. We got our dog, a little Yorkie I named Chester, who became the perfect vessel for my maternal outpourings. We talked about kids. A lot. Michael is very practical. Pragmatic. He looks at the facts and makes very accurate assessments. We discussed the commitment, sacrifice, and change in our lifestyle that having a family would require. We were ready.

Around year eight of marriage, we made the decision to start trying. Coming from a long line of extremely fertile women, I assumed that we would be pregnant right away. I have 5 siblings, my dad comes from a family of 15 kids, my mom from 10. And on Michael’s side, there are similar examples of proliferative child-bearing.

I had spent so many years trying not to get pregnant that it never occurred to me that it wouldn’t happen right away. The first six months passed. Nothing. I started reading. I bought the right books, and bought a basal thermometer. I started getting neurotic about becoming pregnant. I checked my temperature each morning before I got out of bed. I bought the $200 ovulation kit. I was in control, and if we had decided to be pregnant, it was going to happen.

But it didn’t.

Five years went by. In that time, we saw a fertility specialist. I had that horrible dye test that was so painful, I could barely drive myself home. The tests showed that I was fine. Michael was fine. But still nothing.

I always said that I didn’t want to turn into someone who couldn’t go to baby showers. So I gave up.

Maybe God was saying that I had enough. I really didn’t need anything more. I couldn’t ask for a happier marriage. Maybe we could just travel, enjoy each other, and grow old together. I decided to be fine with that.

Nearly six months passed. Michael had taken on the project of doubling the size of our home. After a couple years of blood, sweat and tears, the results had surpassed my expectations. We were thrilled and decided to have a party in November to kick off the holidays and celebrate our new home.

Then it was the beginning of December. Somehow the time had slipped through my fingers. Did November pass without my period? I’ll never forget that moment when it dawned on me, driving down the highway, that in all the excitement, I had forgotten to notice. “You better take a test” Michael said.

So I did.

All I can say is that it felt like an out of body experience when I watched that second line appear. I read the directions again. No. It couldn’t be. I stared at the stick in disbelief, blinked, and stared some more. I don’t remember exactly how I told Michael, or what I said. I was in a fog. But I do remember asking him to buy me another test to be sure. And then I sent him out for a third. After a call to my OBGYN who assured me that false positives are highly unlikely, I finally let myself start to believe.

I was giddy. In fact, I still am. I can’t believe I’m a mom. I savor it. During my pregnancy, I had two requests of Michael: I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, and I wanted to be the first to hold the baby for as long as I wanted after he/she was born.

I loved being pregnant. I was excited when I had morning sickness and read that it meant my hormone levels were healthy. I loved watching my belly grow huge. But most of all, I loved feeling the baby move. I was lying on the couch watching Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner when I saw the baby’s foot move across my stomach for the first time.

I loved my birth experience. I actually enjoyed labor (I had an epidural). I will never forget the adrenalin rush when our baby emerged into the world and the nurse exclaimed: “You got your Jacob!” Those words I will never forget. I play them over in my head.

There is nothing that could ever touch what I felt in that moment.

I could stumble into Warren Buffet money. But having this little boy is the windfall of my life.

Happy Birthday little Jake Man.

Tags: birth, infertility, kids, lfamily