When I was 31, I lay on the cold metal table impatiently waiting for the sonogram technician to finish. “Twins”, he said. “That’s so not funny.” You see, I was neither married, or pregnant. I had two large cysts, which turned out to be an indication of severe endometriosis. After surgery, my doctor recommended that I get pregnant as soon as possible, because the longer I waited, the less likely it would be that I could conceive. Well, I had my own set of statistics. I felt that my chances of spontaneously combusting, or better yet, winning the lottery, were exceptionally better than my getting married anytime soon.And so I did win the lottery in a way, in 1997, when I married my husband. I was 37. At my yearly gynecological appointment, my doctor tapped his watch and reminded me that I needed to “use it, or lose it.” Allrightythen. Let the games begin.
A little while after that we indeed got pregnant, only to miscarry at 12 weeks. I thought I’d never recover from that heartbreak. And then, about 8 months later, I found out I was pregnant with my Emme. The miracle was not that I had conceived, but that I discovered that I was pregnant while I was caring for my terminally ill mother. That pregnancy was a gift from God, to get me through all the pain and loss that I was about to endure. I thought I’d never recover from that heartbreak. I gave birth to my daughter when I was 39.
Exactly two years later, I had my sweet Cailey, when I was 41. Now we were a family of 4. That was a good even number. The inmates didn’t outnumber the guards. But then, when Cailey turned 2, I started to get those, you know, pangs. I wanted another baby.
I broached the subject with my husband. He wasn’t very receptive. I didn’t blame him. But still. I put my hands on my hips and dug my little size 7 heels into the carpet and said, “I’m just going to pray that God changes your mind!” He leveled his gaze at me saying quietly, “I’m going to pray that God restores your memory!” Good point. I’m not a very pleasant pregnant girl.
Eventually I got on the same page as my husband. I was even beginning to get my groove back. I got my braces off, lost 20 pounds, and was feeling better than I’d ever felt.
Well, you know what happens next.
I stared at the stick on the bathroom sink. Two lines. “Oh dear Lord, I’m pregnant. Again.” My emotions fluctuated wildly. Extreme fear. Extreme joy. Extreme fear. Extreme joy. Tom and I were like a pair of deer, standing in the middle of the road, staring at the headlights of the car careening towards us. Here we were, in our mid-40’s, with a 4 year old and a 2 year old. Are we insane?
I found myself once again, lying on a cold metal table. Impatiently waiting for the sonogram technician to finish. “It’s a boy.” I heard an audible sigh of relief from my husband. Followed closely by “are you sure?” “Have you ever made a mistake?” his voice slightly cracking. I was just grateful that the technician said “a” instead of “they.” Judging from the size of me, I could have been squirreling away 2 or 3 more.
At the age of 44, I gave birth to Jensen Christopher. “Jensen” is nordic for “God is gracious.” And indeed He is. We can’t imagine our lives without our precious boy.
And so, to answer the question today. “Am I through?” Oh, most certainly yes. I’m popping Tylenol after a day at the park, and reading Dr. Seuss with my bifocals. I would say I’m through. I’m even losing weight, and starting to get my groove back. I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time……….
Oh no.
A note to my husband: Just kidding honey. My memory is still intact! So far.
